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After all, we’re not promised a tomorrow.
I turn around, a smaller box in tow.
“Cigars?” He asks, eyeing the box with hyper focus.
I laugh as soon as he grabs one and smells it, leaning his head back in euphoria. “Columbian…”
I smirk. “These things cost me an arm and a leg; I could’ve gotten a blood diamond for cheaper.”
He laughs.
“Maybe I should just muzzle myself..” He says. “There are no words …”
I smirk. “Thank you is plenty…”
He pulls me into a hug. “Thank you…” he whispers in my ear.
I feel a gaze on me, and I look at him. I don’t want to leave him in this state. But I don’t know what I can do to help. I’m not the type to coddle.
I feel powerless.
I look at him and he nods. “We’ll be there…”
Frankie emerges through the door with a metal object in his hand. He hands it to Luigi and they both look at me like I’m supposed to know what the hell it is. I look at them, puzzled. Frankie flashes a half smile and leaves… without a single word.
I was witnessing all of this with a heavy heart. I didn’t enjoy seeing anyone hurting. Not really. I’m good at the facade. I’m good at make-believe. I have to be. I can’t show weakness. I don’t have the luxury.
I can’t trust them.
None of them.
Luigi lifts his eyes to meet me.
“Aria…” he says quietly. There’s a panic in his voice.
Suddenly, there’s a rustling sound at the closet door inside the room. Both of our hands snap toward it, and we draw our guns at the noise. Someone’s in there. Someone’s watching.
He holds his index finger up and lightly steps toward the door. His gun was ready, his finger softly hovering over the trigger. He takes a deep breath, and I stand behind him, my own gun on the door. His hand reaches for the knob, and he yanks it open as quickly as he can.
“Fuck!” Luigi screams, jumping back.
Sketchy Reggie.
Luigi lunges his hand onto the collar of the man’s shirt and yanks him out of the closet. “What the hell are you doing!?”
He doesn’t fight back. He seems shocked, even, that we’ve caught him.
“You smell like piss…” Luigi says, throwing him into the blue arm chair in the center of the room he’d just sat on moments before.
Reggie grunts as he struggles to sit. He’s trembling.
“What the hell were you doing in there, Reggie?!” I demand, rounding on him, my gun still pointed directly at his face. He’s still shaking, and struggling to sit up. His expression is stone, except he was biting his lip.
I wonder why….and by the look of him, I wonder how long he’s been in there.
He stinks like piss and shit. His hair is long and greasy and his beard is overgrown and ragged. He looks like an absolute mess.
“I’m hiding…” he quivers.
