Page 44 of Mess With Me

My mind goes back to the nightmare I woke Sasha up with last night. It wasn’t an unfamiliar one. I had it on repeat for a full year.

It’s me, arriving a moment too late. Running through the warehouse door to the sound of shots fired.

Laura, on the ground, blood trailing from her open mouth, her eyes fixed on me, filled with that knowledge that she should have listened. The sorrow that it’s too late to change anything now.

Fuck.I pump my legs harder.

I can’t change the past. But maybe I can change the future. As I pass my own drive, I eye my house, which I can barely make out down the hill and through the trees. Of course it’s just as I left it. Door securely shut. Bike next to the garage.

I run hard, but I’m unable to escape the memory of Sasha, clinging to my waist on the bike. Sasha, wrapped around me in my bed, her sweet floral scent swirling around me like she went to bed wearing a wreath of flowers. Sasha, worried about me in the middle of the night, when it needs to be the other way around.

I thought I could keep my feelings out of this, but the very fact that I’ve created this job for myself makes it clear I’m failing hard at it.

I concentrate on running so hard my mind clears of any thoughts at all. I repeat my loop several times, pushing myself harder and faster each round. By the time I finally feel like I’ve had enough, I slow to a walk down my drive, pulling my phone out of my arm holder to glance at the stats. I don’t know if I should be surprised to see I beat my personal speed record.

I see there’s a message from Ford, too.

He saw Creelman and the goon at their usual breakfast place in Queens just now, and Creelman’s texted Sam Macklin about business in a way Ford feels confident indicates neither knows where she is.

Relief washes over me. I knew the goon hadn’t tailed us. I suspected Sasha might have lost him before I even got there, though I knew it was too much to hope he didn’t know Sasha had run from him at all. But knowing they’re completely in the dark, I finally allow myself to fully relax.

For now.

He’s not giving up. I know that much. And he’ll know something’s up when she doesn’t come home. I still don’t know what the fuck comes next, but for now, we’re good.

And I know I can’t go back to work for a bit.

I pause halfway down the drive, tapping out a call.

“Griffin. Where are you?” Lionel’s voice is groggy.

I’ve woken him up. I don’t care. I never tell him what I’m doing. It’s never been a problem, keeping my own hours, especially since I give all my hours to McCrae & Associates.

But Lionel’s been watching us more closely.

“I’m taking some time off,” I say, in a way that’s clear I’m not asking for permission.

There’s a long pause. “What are you doing?”

I need to keep things high level, at least until I have a plan. “I need time to think over a few things.”

“Everything okay?”

He thinks it’s about him, that awkward as fuck meeting.

“Not really. But it will be. I always figure it out.”

Pause. “That you do, son.”

My stomach lurches. It’s been a minute since he’s called me that.

I shake my head of the latent feelings that brings up. “Lionel, I need to tell you one more time how important it is that we continue to monitor Vincent Creelman. Especially while I’m away.”

I practically hear what little warmth that’s gathered up between us frost over. “I thought I made myself clear on that matter.”

“There’ve been new developments.”

“What new developments? Related to Smith?” Smith is our client—the construction exec who’s going to make quite a few heavy hitters very upset once we help him go public.

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