Page 58 of The Vagabond

I breathe in deep, steady, bitter. No. No, she’s mine. Even if she’s trying to forget me. Even if she’s trying to move on. I’ll let her think she can. For now.

It’safter midnight when I slip through the balcony door. Shealways forgets to lock it. It should piss me off. Usually, it does. But not tonight. Tonight, it’s my way back in.

Her apartment is dark and silent except for the soft hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of the city outside her windows. She’s asleep—I can hear the slow, even rhythm of her breathing in the bedroom.

I don’t go to her. Instead, I move through the living room like a thief in the night. The couch is still indented from where he sat. I lower myself into the exact spot, pressing my body into the cushions, into the fabric, into the air that still carries his scent. His cologne, although expensive, reeks of cheap arrogance. It clings to the upholstery like an insult. I sit there, motionless, for a long time. Breathing. Replacing him. Replacing everything. Then I reach for the wine bottle still sitting on the coffee table. It’s half-finished—of course it is. I unscrew the cap, pour myself a glass, and drink straight from it. It tastes like cheap red fruit and overcompensation. He probably thought it would impress her—some half-assed attempt at sophistication—but he doesn’t know Maxine Andrade. She’s not a girl you win over with grocery store wine and fake charm. And this? This isn’t even close to enough for her. I drink the cheap wine, anyway.

His wine. My mouth.

I leave the empty glass on the table. A message. A signature. She’ll know in the morning. She’ll know I was here.

I lean back, let my eyes wander the room, taking in everything. The faint scent of her shampoo. The pile of books on a side table. Her keys sitting beside them. And then I see it. Something small. Silver. Just under the edge of the sofa cushion. I lean forward and pick it up. It’s a vial. Tiny. Clear. Half full. No label. I turn it in the light and feel my stomach knot. I’ve been in this job long enough to recognize the shimmer of dissolved sedative. Date rape drug. High-grade. Discreet. No smell, no taste. Fast acting. Long memory loss window.

This is the kind of thing you don’t accidentally drop. The kind of thing you carry only if you have bad intentions. My hand clenches around it, shaking. He was going to drug her. He sat on her couch—my girl’s couch—made her drink his cheap wine, and carried this in his pocket. Like he had a plan he didn’t go through with. Maybe he was just waiting for her to trust him long enough to take what he wanted. Whether she wanted it or not.

A red mist crawls over my vision. I want to end him. Right here. Right now. Drag him out of his bed and make him explain why he thought he could touch her. Why he thought she was easy prey. Why he thought I wouldn’t find out. But I don’t move.

I slide the vial into my pocket. And my resolve hardens into something violent and final. The guy’s not just a bad idea. He’s a threat. And I’m going to rip his entire life apart piece by piece until he knows exactly what it feels like to be hunted.

Then I’ll bring him to her feet. And I’ll ask her if she still thinks I’m the monster.

25

MAXINE

Iwake up to quiet.

Something hums in the air, and it feels like someone was just here. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet. The edges of the sky are soft and gray, the city still stretching its limbs. I lie in bed for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake off the weight in my chest.

Then I smell it.

Not coffee.

Not my jasmine lotion.

Him.

Cedar and oud. It’s everywhere. That clean, masculine scent I used to breathe in when he was too close. The scent that clung to my pillows for weeks after he disappeared. My heart does something stupid and traitorous in my chest.

I push back the covers slowly, like moving too fast might scare the feeling away. Like if I breathe too loud, I’ll wake up from something that’s still happening.

When I walk into the living room, I know. The glass is there. Sitting on the coffee table, half full of red wine. I didn’t leave it. Zack didn’t either. It’shis. I stare at it, pulse thrumming in myears. I don’t touch it. Just stand there and look at it like it’s a message written in invisible ink.

He was here. He sat on my couch. He drank from that bottle. He watched me sleep. And I didn’t even stir. A chill rolls down my spine as I walk to the couch and lower myself into the cushion—the same spot where Zack sat last night. But the scent left behind isn’t Zack’s anymore. It’s been replaced. Overwritten.Claimed.Saxon was here, and now there’s no trace of anyone else.

It should make me angry. It should make me scream, slam things, call him and remind him that he is completely deranged. But I don’t. I just sit there and feel him. He never leaves me, even when he does. He lingers in the walls, in the shadows, in the pauses between heartbeats. And this? This glass? This smell? It’s a reminder. That I’ll never be free of him. No matter where I go, no matter who I let in—he’ll always be there. Watching. Waiting. Buried beneath my skin like a bad habit I don’t want to quit. And the worst part? I’m not even sad about it. Just… confused. Conflicted. Because a part of me hated waking up without him. And another part is terrified that I liked waking up to the idea that he was here.

The bellsover the coffee shop door jingle, soft and innocuous.

I don’t look up at first. I’m too busy pretending to be fine. Smiling at customers, wiping down counters, topping off whipped cream with automatic muscle memory. Everything hurts beneath the surface—like there’s a raw nerve under my skin, twitching every time the door swings open. I keep telling myself it’s fine. That I imagined the glass. That I imaginedhim.

But then I hear the voice. Not the one I’ve been waiting for. The one I’ve been trying to accept.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Zack purrs, leaning across the counter like I belong to him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes this morning.”

I tighten my grip around the paper cup in my hands and force a smile that takes too much effort.

“Hi, Zack,” I say, my voice flat, tired. “You want your usual?”

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