Page 35 of Reaper
“What are you doing? Are you really going for the antifreeze?”
“Beats being stuck in the car with your smart ass.”
He frowns, then eyes the approaching exit sign. “Actually, that’s a good idea. Take this exit. Then take a right once we get to the first intersection.”
“That isn’t the way to the gas station.”
“No, but it’s to somewhere better. Do you trust me?”
“That’s the thing; I don’t think I do.”
“Listen, I promise you: follow my directions and we’ll go somewhere where we can actually get some help. Somewhere useful that has nothing to do with drinking strange fluids, illegal gambling debts, or the Russian mob.”
“So what’s my incentive to go to this place? You just eliminated all the fun things.”
“Trust me. Please.”
I blink. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use that word before.Please.“Fine. But I feel you’re just setting me up to take me somewhere even weirder, and if that happens, I am going to kick your ass.”
We reach the intersection, and I take the right. That right leads to a left, then a right, and down a few side streets, past a grocery store, a pharmacy, an elementary school that looks like the best it can do is provide free lunches and childcare insteadof nourishing growing dreams. A few more turns take us deeper into a neighborhood where even those growing dreams are nothing more than memories.
I give a wary look at Reaper. There’s a rapt look on his face, and a new type of smile, like poignant, purposeful joy is bubbling within him, and the only way he can keep it contained within him is by tightly clenching his mouth. His eyes are wider, as if the joy might break out there, too. But for some reason, he has to keep it in. Why? Is it because he doesn’t trust me either? There’s a part of me that feels sad about that — a part that wants to know him more, to know what could make a man like him show emotions that I never would have thought him capable of feeling; there’s a part of me that’s glad he’s keeping those feelings to himself, because I worry that this misadventure to risk death to save his life, even if we both survive, could have dire consequences that I don’t even want to think about, consequences that would betray my sister’s memory.
“Take a right at the next intersection. We’re almost here.”
His voice is like a blanket. Warm. Comforting. And it terrifies me how quickly I imagine wrapping myself in that luxurious, forbidden warmth.
I take the turn and follow the thrust of his pointing finger to park next to a small building with an understated, black-and-white sign out front that says, simply, ‘Never Again.’
“Where are we?”
“It’s a shelter for victims of domestic violence. I used to come here sometimes when I was feeling really… alone.”
An intoxicating mix of lonely sadness and pride swirls within his eyes, and I want to reach for him, I want to touch him, I want to hold him and press him to me and give him some moment of relief from the deep pain that must smother his heart every moment of the day, a pain that echoes my own.
But I cannot let myself. I cannot let him in; I cannot take him in; I cannot share myself with him like that. It might help my grief, but it would be an insult to Vanessa.
“Why are we here?” I force my voice to be sharp and hope the cutting edge will be enough to make him keep his distance. “They might let me crash here, but you? It doesn’t matter how often you volunteer here; they’re not going to let you spend the night.”
He smiles, and I don a frown to keep my heart at bay. “No, we’re not crashing here. I wouldn’t do that to these women. They’re good people, and they don’t deserve to be put in danger with Volkov’s men. But we are stopping here. Follow me. Let me do the talking.”
Reaper doesn’t wait for me to answer; he exits the car and walks to the front door of ‘Never Again’ like a man coming home after a long time away. By the time I get out, he’s already knocking on the door and, as I’m halfway up the sidewalk, Reaper is already in a friendly hug with a woman on the older side of middle age, with enough gray in her voluminous, curly hair to tell me she’s been in this job for a long time. She’s short, plump, matronly, but the sharpness of her green eyes and the way they weigh me within a blink tells me she’s only made it this far doing the work she does because she’s damn good at it.
“Who is this, Ricky?” she says, pinching his cheek. “Is she a girlfriend, or someone who needs help? Or, knowing you, both?”
Reaper doesn’t fight her off. He grins, and for a span of moments, the pain in his eyes disappears. “Susan, this is Adriana.”
“We’re not dating,” I add, with a hasty look at Reaper —is that color in his cheeks? Is his smile warmer? —then I shake my head with all the vigor of someone who just took several big bumps of cocaine. “No. No way.”
Susan briefly raises an eyebrow at my vehemence, but otherwise shows nothing less than cunning hospitality. “Then you’re in trouble, Adriana?”
“We both are, Susan.”
“Oh, Ricky, what happened?” Her eyes, ever sharp, turn to Reaper, and that edge does not dull even though her smile burns brighter looking at him. “Talk to me.”
I cut in.“Wait a second. Before we go any further, how well do you know Rea—Ricky?”
I don’t care how kind this woman looks; I’ve known her for a minute, and while Reaper has saved my life and I want to save his, he also recently admitted to drinking antifreeze, so his judgment is suspect, at best.
