Constance thought she could finally stop looking over her shoulder. She has a steady job as a hairstylist, rents a small apartment next door to her best friend, and keeps a routine that distracts her just enough to not have to dwell on her past.
All...
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I should have kissed her. I should have pulled her against me and covered her in affection.
She's completely right.
I can't kiss her and not feel everything. Warmth, compassion, hope and love all flood me with one touch of her lips. My fingers begged to be weaved in her long dark hair, to pull her closer and to never ever let go. I should have listened to my heart that beats for her and only her because now it's to late.
Here I am, sitting naked in a car with six grown men and my only thoughts are about not kissing Scissors.
"You're a hard one to find." One of the guards speaks up through the silence.
The driver reaches over and smacks his comrades arm, "We're not supposed to engage the prisoner, this mornings briefing was clear."
He shrugs, "So what? I hear we may get to see his execution happen if we stick around."
They all look at me, even the driver angles his mirror to see my reaction but my face is neutral. They want a reason to beat on me before we get to wherever we're going but they won't get a rise out of me.
I've been trained for this.
"Yeah," someone from behind speaks up, "but speaking of hard, did you see that girl he had with him?"
My shoulders stiffen at him mentioning Scissors. She should be free and on her way back home. The news painted me as a monster, a real criminal and her the victim of my machinations. The team of men sent in didn't point their guns at her or even touch her. She's free.
Scissors is free.
She has to be.
"Yeah, I hope I get to interview her." The backseat guy says.
Then the passenger turns around, looks at me and says, "and then get to view yourself in her."
The six men all laugh at his crude words. They chuckle and tell him he's funny. The guard next to me claps him on the shoulder and the guy on the other side of me slaps his leg.
But all I can think is: Dead.
They're all dead.
Passenger seat guy keeps his eyes on me, checking for a reaction. "Hey ugly, can you speak?"
"I heard he's a mute."
"No, he's deaf. I'm pretty sure that's what Director Handle said."
The whole SUV is full of chattering men debating if I can speak or hear while I'm patiently counting.
I watch the road and guess the speed. With my hands in front, I tap the mile markers on the road while counting seconds. Forty miles per hour.
