Page 10 of In Death's Hands
Isaiah stumbles slightly. “No! Our—our boss would throw a hissy fit if she knew Liv was working in her condition.” Turning to me while throwing worried glances at the stranger who has suddenly become way too concerned with my well-being, he insists, “Go home. We have everything under control.”
I sigh. Miawouldthrow a fit. She owns this coffee shop along with a few other businesses in London. She’s a bit rough around the edges but she cares deeply for her employees. Since I’ve been here longer than most, we’ve grown to have a strange relationship where she drops by once in a while to make sure I’m okay and comments on the way I live my life. She’s kind of a surrogate grandmother, if grandmothers were terrifying businesswomen.
“Fine.” I surrender. Isaiah’s relief is enough to make me feel bad for fighting them in the first place. But what am I gonna do back home? Normally I would curl up with a book, but today especially, I don’t want to be alone. “But I’ll take the Tube—I’ve been enough trouble.” I glance at Nathan, who’s frowning at me.
“No, I’ll take you.”
“Do you have a car?”
He frowns harder, as if needing to think this over. “No.”
“How did you come here?”
“The… Tube.”
Seriously? He lives in a penthouse; I didn’t think people with that kind of money took the Tube.
I notice that Isaiah had left when he comes back with a bag full of croissants and muffins that he hands to Nathan.
“Take a cab, and see her to her door,” says my increasingly overbearing co-worker, ignoring my wrathful gaze. “Please,” he adds suddenly, with a frown on his wrinkled face.
I open my mouth to reject the idea, but Nathan instantly agrees and turns expectantly to me.
I throw my hands up and go to get my things from the back room. I’m too tired and my head hurts too much to argue further. It’s fine. I’ll order some pizza, watch some horror movie or something. Who cares that twenty years ago today my life went up in flames when my body refused to give up and die, like it should have. Like my adoptive parents did.
We stand on the pavement outside The Muddied Waters, staring at each other.
“You really don’t have to accompany me, you know. You’ve already done more than enough,” I say, ignoring the part of me that’s rebelling against my own words. No matter how comfortable I find his presence, I don’t want to become a burden. More than I already am, that is.
He looks at me steadily, his gaze assessing, curious. I wonder what he sees. His eyes catch my attention and I’m struck again by how dark they are, although the most curious thing happens when a flicker of sunlight shines on us. His eyes catch fire. I suck in a breath and involuntarily step closer to examine the strange phenomenon. For the first time, I notice streaks of gold in his irises. Something scratches at my memory but refuses to fully step forward.
The shrill hooting of a car driving by makes me jump backwards. I feel my cheeks warm and focus on the busy street around us to try to gather my wits.
“I promised I would see you to your door. I keep my promises.”
When I turn back to him, his face is mostly blank, though I think I catch something in his eyes that is gone before I can analyse it.
I sigh, not knowing how I feel about having him follow me home, although the thought of being in my bed soon iscomforting enough that I put everything aside. “Fine. But if you want to get moving, you’ll have to hail a taxi.”
The blank look he gives me is enough to make me wonder if I’ve started talking gibberish. It does happen to concussion victims, although that is one side effect I’ve never had to claim for myself. When my eyebrows go up at his lack of response, he starts looking around, as if searching for something. I would say a taxi, but since two empty ones pass us with him still looking lost, I have to wonder if he’s instead looking for a way out of here. Maybe he’s scared of being in a car? He did say he came to the coffee shop via the Tube, and judging from his clothes and penthouse, saving money is not a priority for him.
Something warms in my chest at the thought that he, too, could be suffering from such a mundane thing. I got better. I can actually get into one now, something that wasn’t true five years ago. I still get the shakes whenever I’m in one, but at least I don’t puke anymore. Silver linings, right?
When I feel my body sway slightly, I take matters into my own hands. I’ve had enough of this guy catching me. My luck being what it is, it’s a few minutes before I see another available vehicle, but at least when I signal the lady driving, she immediately stops the car to let us in.
She hasn’t even pushed back into traffic before my heart tightens in my chest. I rattle off my address and start the box breathing exercise I’ve been taught. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for four. Breathe out for four and hold again for four. Apparently, it’s a technique taught to veterans around the world, and my therapist said it could help manage my PTSD.
The traffic is heavy this morning, the noise deafening.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Hold.
A yelp escapes my clenched teeth when the taxi drives over a pothole. I know I should look around, see for myself that everything is fine, but my eyes are shut, and I don’t think there’s anything in this world that could force them open.
In. Hold. Out. Hold.
My left hand is clenched around the “oh, shit!” handle while my right is in a fist so tight I can feel my nails carving little crescent moons in my skin. When something warm wraps around my hand, gently prying it open before wrapping itself around my fingers, I lose count of my breathing.
My eyes finally pry open, shock taking precedence over my fear for a moment. A big hand is entangled with mine, and I follow its path all the way to Nathan’s troubled face.
