Page 63 of Hero Hair

The lights flicker in the studio. Fuck. The power plant. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This isn’t good. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Mom!” she screams. “Are you okay? I’m fine. I’m fine,” she says, responding to her mother’s harried shouts.

I stand by the glass and try to tune out Teala’s voice because hearing the pain that resides there makes me feel sick. I can’t do anything about it and I surely can’t fix it. My hand automatically slides down to caress my weapon. Yes. There’s one thing I can do about this situation.

I stretch my arms over my head as I eye everything taking place in the parking lot. The lights flicker again, and then go out completely. Teala’s apartment won’t be safe. Not in the city, that high up, with a parking garage. That won’t do. My house is in a neighborhood too clustered. Maybe her mom’s out of the city would be the best place to stash her while I’m gone. I pull another cell phone from my back pocket. It’s slow, but I’m able to stay abreast on the attacks as they’re reported. By this time the news is about an hour behind. I see every gruesome target before anyone else knows and I’m helpless.

“It’s not even over yet,” I whisper. “How in the fuck did we not know?”

“What did they say at work, Macs? Are you leaving?” Teala asks, the phone pressed to her ear, but eyes trained on me.

I nod. “I’ll have to go. The primary focus will be securing the US, but I’m not sure where they’ll send me first.”

I skip the logistics part because she doesn’t want to know what I’ll be doing. No one does until it’s finished and over. Then the news eats it up for breakfast and misrepresents everything. People will write books about this and they won’t have to make up any details because this is larger than life all by itself. With my thumb I wipe at a tear on her cheek, right on top of her beauty mark.

“You should go to your mom’s. I’ll drive you.”

“I need to get my stuff,” she says.

Shaking my head, I squash that thought before it goes any further.

“Mom, I’ll see you soon. Please stay safe,” Teala says. “I love you, too. I love you,” she says, but she’s looking directly into my eyes.

It’s too much. I look away.

“I don’t have anything with me,” she says.

She trusts me so implicitly she doesn’t ask questions. Maybe she doesn’t want to know, but she doesn’t strike me as a woman who wants to live in the dark for sake of her feelings. She’s the type of woman who wants to know everything and stand among the devastation proudly. I nod to the rack of clothing she has for sale on the wall.

Without another thought, she pulls all of it off and shoves it into a tote bag with her studio logo on it. She goes under her desk and hunts out the zipped cash envelope. “What else?” she asks, meeting my eyes.

“The computer,” I reply, glancing around. My gaze lands on her plants. “And anything you don’t want to die.”

She looks at me. “Then you’re going to stay at my mom’s, too? You’re the one thing I want to keep breathing.” Her eyes turn down in the corner and it breaks my heart into a million pieces—a feat I would have laughed at if you’d told me it would happen only several months ago.

“I’m too stubborn to die,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. Death isn’t something anyone wants to talk about, but in my line of work it’s a reality, and with what’s happening right outside this door, I don’t see a need to beat around the bush. “I’m always safe. Okay?”

She frowns, nods, and throws herself into my arms. It forces me to take a step backward. “My car is fine here?”

She can’t see my face because she’s wrapped around my body, which is good. “Take whatever you want out of it.”

She inhales deeply and my eyes flutter closed at the intense longing I feel at the simple gesture. I want to fuck her until there’s no doubt in her mind that I’m coming back for her. She’s mine. Nothing is taking her from me. Not my own ego, or what my brothers think of my reformed ways, and definitely not some fucking terrorists who want to steal everything. No one is touching her. The first thing I thought of when I watched a split screen of the conferences confirming this nightmare was her. I realize what that means.

I swallow down my flailing emotions and whisper, “Let’s go.”

Directing her to stand behind me feels odd. I’m in uniform, which usually gains respect, but right now it puts a target on our backs. As we exit her studio, a woman runs directly into me in a blind frenzy of tears and screams.

“They killed him!” she says, her eyes red-rimmed and wide. “They killed him!” the woman repeats and then runs off.

Teala clutches my back, and I’m made aware she’s sobbing. I can’t afford to comfort her right now. I may never be able to comfort her properly, but I’ll keep her alive.

She told me before we locked the door she didn’t have anything in her car she wanted. Teala is holding two bags with everything she collected from inside. I open the passenger side of my car and push her inside a little more roughly than I mean to. Teala doesn’t say anything else, but she does whimper before I shut the door.

My phone rings when I take my seat behind the wheel. The doors are locked and we’re safely stowed away, so I’m confident enough to answer the call from my friend. “I have her,” I tell Tahoe before he can ask.

Teala peers at me with an indiscernible look of frantic love. It hits me so hard I take her hand in mine and rub my fingers over her knuckles. She soothes under my touch and her bravado returns. I hand her a water bottle from the back seat and return my hand to hers. I reply to Tahoe at the appropriate times and try not to belie my true feelings. This is worse than anyone thought. I end the call.

This is WWIII.

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