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“A sp-spy?” She loses it all over again, and I close my eyes, trying not to lose my shit. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m being serious. I’m undercover. I’ve been trailing an entire organization for three years.”
“Right, and I’m Lady Gaga—p-p-p-poker face.” Her obnoxious singing doesn’t stop for another minute, and I wait until it’s all out of her system.
“You done now?”
“Uh-huh. Don’t worry, little spy man, your secret is safe with me.” She raises an eyebrow. “So, tell me, what bank did you clear out? Or did you rob a gas station?”
I walk back over to the couch where the bullet that was in my side is lying and hand it to her. She stares at it rolling around in the palm of her hand. “I work for the FBI, or at least I try to. You took this out of my body today. I was made today by someone I get into contact with, and guess what, you were too, because they’ve been tailing me—since before our date, I’m guessing. So, now you’re compromised. I took care of the man who gave me this”—I point to my wound—“but that doesn’t mean more won’t come.”
Her face blanches, and a sick satisfaction that she’s finally taking this seriously fills me for a second before I give her an ultimatum.
“Either you stay here, enjoy your brief freedom before they find you and kill you, possibly kidnap and torture you to get to me—which, by the way, won’t work—or you come with me now and your chances of survival go up about, oh, I don’t know, one hundred percent.”
Between you and me, I wouldn’t let her die, not purposefully—I still like her—but sometimes fear does half the job for you.
“Oh God! I don’t want to die! I’ve never even held a gun! I need to know how to shoot a gun!” Her hysteria takes over and I rush her to her room, guiding her to grab a backpack and stuff it full of whatever she can fit before we take off. “Money!” she suddenly shouts then reaches underneath her bed and grabs a gold box. It looks like it was spray-painted years ago, and she pulls out a wad of bills—a big wad.
“The hell? Who keeps that kind of cash lying around?” I scold her.
She looks at me, and for the first time, she looks angry. She hasn’t shown me that look before now. “I don’t trust banks.”
Of course she doesn’t.
We start to make our way out of the apartment, and she stops suddenly at the doorway. “Wait.” I turn and impatiently wait for her to explain whatever it is she needs, but she just looks at me. “Will I never come back here?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I say, “Say goodbye to it or your life. It’s your choice, but I’ve gotta go.”
“Right. Perspective. Sorry.” She hustles past me and starts darting down the stairs. I shake my head and quickly get ahead of her, looking her in the eyes.
“Let me lead so you don’t get yourself killed. They could have followed us.”
“Oh.” Thankfully she doesn’t argue and lets me walk ahead. Some weird visions of being bumped around on these stairs assault me, but I just shake my head, clearing my mind and listening for any signs of a threat.
A door opens just as I’m walking past it and I whip around quickly, utilizing skills I’ve developed over the years to catch the assailant off guard. Before he knows what’s happening, I’ve clocked him in the Adam’s apple.
Unfortunately, it’s not who I thought it would be.
“Oh my God! Mr. Samson!” Margaret bends down to the old man who’s on his knees, gasping for air. She turns worried, accusing eyes my way and says, “Why did you do that?”
He starts coughing rather violently and shouts, “You’ll pay for that, young man!” At least that’s what I think he says, but it’s really hard to understand him. I grimace, feeling horrible.
“Are you okay?” Margaret asks as she helps the old man to his feet. Before he can get a look at my face, I grab Margaret’s hand and pull her down the next flight.
“I’m sorry, sir!” I call out.
It’s the best I can do for now. Even if I feel horrible, it’s too risky to hang out in the middle of a stairwell.
“Dan! You could have killed him! He’s old!” Margaret’s brown hair is flying behind her because we’re running so damn fast.
“He’ll be fine. I wasn’t intending to kill anyone. If I had been, he’d be dead.”
Her horrified look almost makes me feel bad. Almost. “You’re horrible!”
I look at her then and disregard her comment, noticing the way her hair shines and remembering running my hands through the silky strands. She snaps her fingers in front of my face.
“Your hair is too distracting. We need to fix that.”
