Page 32 of H E R

Noah is a calm river while Dylan is an ocean, raptured by the fucking storm of the century. I don’t know if I want to be in the eye of that storm. And at what cost? Hurting Noah? Never. I could never betray him. I’d fight against my feelings toward Dylan to the death if it meant sparing Noah’s heart.

I’m glad that I hadn’t heard from Dylan since the night he dropped me off. It was difficult enough to try to understand my feelings for Noah, and I didn’t need Dylan around to confuse me any further.

I shake my head and grunt out loud. To hell with both of them. I prefer solitude, anyway. I fling my backpack and dig out my camera. I click through it and adjust the settings. About fucking time I get somerealwork done.El cerro’scase is sitting on my imaginary desk, weighing it down with each passing minute. I haven’t seen him atNym-Pho,but he’s bound to show up. It’s the perfect place to make dark fantasies a reality. And if I don’t spot him, I’ll go to his fucking office or house. Whatever it takes.

I’d spent an adequate amount of time blubbering interiorly, and not enough time out scoping the city. After a few hours of walking up and down the city streets, interviewing people, and snapping a few photos of vandalism, or stores that had been recently broken into, I walked into a convenience store and bought myself a bag of potato chips and a bottle of water.

I hated spending money, but I felt like I was going to fucking faint. I finish the bag and toss it in the trash when a long and raspytskstops me. A discordant voice is saying my name. I think the harsh whisper is coming from the abandoned, three-story building across the street.

I creep toward it as inconspicuously as I can manage, my eyes down, and keep up a casual stride.I think. If someone is whispering and trying to keep hidden, it’s for a reason.

I’m pretty used to this. Usually, if people had a feed, a clue, or information, they would pass it on discreetly. Jule hates it, Noah even more so. It’s dangerous, but it’s the way I’ve always worked. It’s an occupational hazard.

Once inside, the stench hits me. It reeks of recently run over skunk, swampy mud, and spoiled apples. The mixture of those three isn’t something I want floating inside my nostrils, so I cover them up and hold back a gag, threatening to heave the little food I ate before falling asleep. It’s dark and muggy inside, the only sound coming from the loud flapping of the construction plastic poorly stapled over the broken windows. The black graffiti stippled alongside the brick walls calls my attention, and as I’m trying to decipher it, a light-brown haired man in his late twenties appears from behind an aged and molding sheet hanging from a low banister.

He looks behind and around me, untrusting the situation. As if to reassure him, I lower my hands in a gesture of peace. “You called?”

“Anyone else here?” He’s a tall and muscled man. Light skin, eyes, and hair. Handsome, but fucking deadly looking. I notice a cigarette burning bright between his fingers. I also notice a rippled scar on his cheek that travels down past his jawline.

“Not from my end. You?”

“Of course not,” he snaps.

I have the sudden urge to roll my eyes, but when he lifts the cigarette to his lips and sucks in a lungful of its deadly gas, I shrink back. If looks could kill, I’d be seven feet underground. He doesn’t look like a cop, not in the least, but something about him gives off soldierly vibes. I’m immediately uncomfortable, and although I have a feeling that what he’s about to say is definitely good, I still want to turn around and run the fuck out.

I swallow back my fear and clear my throat. “You have information or something you’d like to share with me?”

“Not really. This is different.”

My face scrunches.What?“Okay…” He’s going to fucking murder me. I knew it.

The handsome killing machine takes another deep puff and slowly moves toward me, then exhales. He’s fidgety, and it’s unnerving. His left hand comes up, and he gropes at his bottom lip. “I can’t tell you here.”

“Then why call mehere?”

“I didn’t know another way. I didn’t want to go to your trailer. I’ve been waiting for fuckingdays.”

Days?Here? How many days? And why? I look around, and for the first time, notice a backpack leaning on the wall to my right.

“There isn’t time for fucking chit chat. We need you to go to the Ink Tavern on Crevice Corner. Be there at exactly six-thirty.”

“Why not six-thirty-five, or six-forty-five?”

He eyes me. “Is that your idea of a joke? Fuck, I knew this was a mistake.”

A mistake? He doesn’t want to be here–someone sent him. “Who’swe?”

I think he smiles, but I’m not sure. “You’ll see.” Mr. No-Humor-and-all-Mysterious turns, tosses the backpack over his shoulder, then disappears into the flapping plastic toward the rear of the building.

“So, where are we headed?”

I normally don’t bring Jule along on these missions, but he insisted, since the cryptic and vagueness of the humorless man tugged at his macho need to protect his sister.

“That old bar by Crevice Corner, the one that looks like it’s about to crumble on top of whoever’s inside.”

I’m glad we left Jasmin at home. She pulled a double, and after working with her, I now realize how draining her job is. Not only physically, those fucking pumps she wears are a hazard, but mentally, as well. It truly takes a toll to completely shut down and put on a mask. Both a physical and mental mask, at that.

She has to put her entire personality in a box and pretend for hours to be someone she most definitely is not. I have no idea how she does it, but I have a higher dose of respect for her. And I can’t stand her right now. She’s the only one who knows I have feelings for two guys and that I don’t know what the hell to do about it. It’s easier to pretend when she isn’t around.

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