Page 89 of Eternal
I forced myself to focus on the peacefulness of the street instead, the quiet life around me at this hour.
I lied when I said it was noisy. It’s actually calm here, in this part of the city. I like it, I always liked it. My family used to come here all the time, we always ate here.
If I’m being honest, I hate going inside. There's always that nagging feeling, the fear that someone might recognize me. The small, happy girl who used to come here with her mother. Not that I doubt how much I've changed, I'm a monster now, one the little me would've feared. But it's easier to pretend I don't like crowds.
How else am I supposed to explain that walking back inside here makes me more anxious than killing people?
I guess you can’t.
When he returned, the smell of burritos hit me before he did. He tossed the bag onto the bike, and I grabbed it immediately.
“Good?” I asked, even though I weirdly knew he wouldn’t mess it up.
He shrugged. “Yeah, I got you.” Then, with that cold, detached tone of his, he added, “Now let’s eat.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t do dates.”
He smirked as he pulled his helmet back on. “Good. Because this isn’t a date. Just two partners grabbing food. Completely platonic.”
“Right. Totally normal.”
“Exactly.” He climbed onto the bike. “Let’s go. I know a spot.”
I got on behind him, ignoring the way my stomach fluttered as I adjusted my grip. The warmth of his back seeped through his jacket, grounding me as we sped off again.
It wasn’t hunger, it wasn’t the ride. The damn butterflies were back.
I blamed the injury. It had to be the injury.
Or maybe it’s because he looks hot taking care of me like that? I don’t know and it’s messing with my head.
We reached our destination twenty minutes later. Damir turned off the engine, and I slid off the bike, a little too fast, a little too eager. My hand brushed his arm, a tiny stupid little touch, as I reached for the burritos. I pretended I didn’t notice, but I knew he felt it.
And I hated myself for wanting him to.
26
DAMIR
“Wicked Game” by Chris Isaac
Present
Sometimes, she feels like someone else.
She said she could get off the bike on her own when I reached out to help, but she still let me grab her hand.
Why am I even bothering?
I was pissed about her injury, I should’ve stayed focused on the job, but all I could think about was making sure she didn’t get worse.
She’s a mission. Always will be.
But when she looked at me on that bench, the city sprawled beneath us, something shifted.
I burned their bodies. They were already dead, but when I saw the blood on her cheek, it didn’t feel finished.
She’s a mission. But she’s starting to feel like more than that.
