Page 105 of Reaper
I turn away from the screen and face him fully. He has kind eyes, probably saved lives overseas, and probably deserves better than being used as a distraction by a woman who can't let go of the man who destroyed her family.
I lean forward and kiss him. Light, testing. His lips are warm, and he tastes like beer and peppermint gum. He responds immediately, one hand coming up to cup my jaw.
But it feels like nothing; worse than nothing — it feels wrong, like I'm betraying something I don't want to name.
I pull back and drain my glass in one burning gulp. It is bitter, ashen, betrayal.
The camera pans across the scene again, and I see a familiar face in the background. Tear-streaked, red-cheeked, eyes disturbingly kind and innocent for a woman who birthed and raised a monster — Mrs. Eng.
The reporter approaches her.
“Turn the fucking sound on,” I say.
The bartender shrugs, doesn’t move, except to go about mixing up a fucking Tom Collins for some asshole at the other end of the bar who looks like he needs a good kick to the face.
The Marine looks at me, concern shining in his eyes. Fuck, I wish I could want him. He seems decent. Kind. Like a real human being who won’t get your little sister hooked on drugs or murdered.
Such a high fucking bar I have.
The Marine raises his voice at the bartender. “Turn the sound on, buddy. This is important.”
The bartender blinks, snatches the remote from under the counter, flips on the sound, then resumes mixing the drink.
The unmistakable voice of Mrs. Eng floods through the speakers. It’s garbled, panicky, the same shock and terror I’ve heard countless times over while interviewing victims of unspeakable crimes. Yet despite the fear, every few words her voice drifts into an almost melodious song, as if the remnants of karaoke night still burn in her blood.
The report looks absolutely flummoxed, and simply holds the microphone out to her, like she’s nothing more than furniture in a pantsuit.
“It was horrible. So horrible. And I’m so disappointed in my…” Mrs. Eng says, then stops, realizing that she’s talking on TV and her Triad son probably wouldn’t appreciate having his mother rat him out to the city. “I’m disappointed. It was scary. There was shooting. And screaming. And people dying. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Reaper…”
The reporter blinks, comes out of her stupor and realizes she has a job. “Reaper? Do you mean you saw the Grim Reaper?"
“No, this was… a man…” Mrs. Eng pauses, swallows, her Adam’s apple working overtime. Tears brim at the corners of her eyes… “He came back for me. I was trapped, but he got me out, but he… but they… they shot him… they shot him and they took him.”
I freeze, glass shaking in my hands.
He risked his life. That selfish, sister-killing bastard risked his own damn life for Mrs. Eng, a woman who tested his patience and his eardrums.
“Are you okay?” Marine says.
I shoot him a blurry death glare that clearly communicates he should shut his mouth if he wants to keep the full set of teeth — shocking for a man who served multiple tours — that sit in his kissably un-kissable mouth. Then I blink, once, twice, and his blurry features become clear for a moment, then blurry again, as I realize my cheeks are wet with the tears that are streaming from my eyes.
Fuck you, Reaper. Fuck you. Why the fuck did you have to do that?
Why did you have to act like you have a heart?
Why did you have to save her life?
Why is it that I can’t let you go?
Mrs. Eng swallows, puts her hands over her eyes to hide her tears. “They shot him. They shot him, and they took him.”
I turn away, try to swallow, and realize it’s impossible with my heart in my throat. I gesture at the bartender several times until he realizes I want him to mute the damn thing. I want to scream in agony, in a rage at the helpless feelings flowing through me; I’ve never felt this way before. In every case, every time I’ve faced into the darkness of what human beings are capable of, I’ve felt a strength burning within me that lit the way forward. But now?
I feel so alone.
With every tear that traces its way down my cheek, I feel in its wake his lips, his touch, his kiss. I feel his love. It’s still there. It’ll always be there, burned and etched into the hardened contours of my heart.
Fuck him.
