They made love in the morning light; a soft, slow movement of hands and bodies. But a sense of desperation dogged at Diego’s heels. Impending doom was like a cloud on the horizon. He didn’t know what, but he knew things couldn’t stay the way they were. It was too good to be true.

They lay tangled in bed together, naked skin cooling.

“I have to leave,” he whispered to the ceiling, stroking Rosalyn’s hair.

“Now?” she asked drowsily, cuddling closer.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “No, but soon. I have to leave the city.”

Sudden alertness tensed her muscles and she propped herself up on her elbow to stare down at him. She studied his face intently. “When?” she asked.

“Soon. As soon as I can.”

“But why?”

He sighed. “It was always the plan. It’s why I fight—to earn enough money to leave America and start over somewhere new.”

“And…this plan hasn’t changed?” Her voice was hesitant. He knew what she was really asking—didn’t being with her change the plan?

He tangled his fingers in her hair as it hung down past her shoulder. “What choice do I have? I can’t fight forever. And I can’t work while I’m supposed to be dead.”

“But maybe you don’t have to be,” she suggested. She rested her head on her pillow, curling on her side to face him. He shifted so he mirrored her position. They weren’t quite touching, still naked, and oddly vulnerable.

“As far as I can tell, I’m still wanted for murder if I show up alive. Or if I’m not right now, me turning up a year later will surely make them suspicious enough to investigate. And even then, they aren’t the ones I have to worry about. Mickey alone—he’d be pissed I had anything to do with what happened to Victor. They were tight, and had been together a long time.”

“But if all that could be resolved—”

“Then I’m still an ex-con with no skills but criminal ones,” he finished for her. “Face it, Red. I’m not a good bet.”

“Plenty of ex-cons get jobs. I think you’re using that as an excuse.”

He frowned. “You think I want to leave? Go to some no-name hell-hole in the middle of nowhere and hide for the rest of my life?”

She tilted her head. “I think running is usually easier than fighting.”

He scowled and sat up. “What do you know about it?” he demanded.

“I’ve been through shit, too, remember? But rather than give up, become simply another statistic, I stayed and I fought for what I wanted. For the life I knew I deserved.”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? We all get what we deserve in the end.” He flopped back against the bed, anger holding his muscles tight. He was angry at her for saying these thing, but angry at himself most of all. Angry she might be right.

“You deserve better than you think, Diego. All you have to do is believe that.”

He snorted. “Easier said than done.”

She ran her palm over his bicep, studying him. He relaxed at even that slight touch of hers. “Okay,” she said eventually, voice wobbling. “If you want to go, I can’t stop you.”

God, and didn’t that just break his heart. She wanted him to fight for her. And worst of all, he almost wanted to himself. But that was a slippery slope to heartbreak.

She sighed, a sheen of tears gathering in her eyes. “So how long do you think we have?” she asked. “Months?”

He shook his head. “Weeks. Maybe three more fights and I’ll have enough. I’d rather more, but I don’t think I can risk it. I need to stay hidden that bit longer.”

She shifted closer. “Then I suppose we better make do with what time we have.” She pressed her lips against his and he lost himself in her again.

“Come with me?” he murmured against her lips. The words had bubbled up out of nowhere, born of his desperation, his loneliness, his fear. But also the soft temptation of her, the way she made him feel like he was a better man than he was.

She pulled back, staring down at him. “To where?” she asked, not immediately agreeing or disagreeing.

“I don’t know, forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“But, tell me, where will you go? What are your plans?”

He shrugged. “I’ll go by boat to Mexico, then go south from there. Stop somewhere when I find a place that I can rebuild a life, somewhere that won’t ask too many questions.”

“I can’t leave. I have a job. A calling.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have asked. It was stupid.”

He kissed her again to distract her. She resisted at first, but soon melted into his arms.

Later, though, as she slept with her head on his chest, he wondered if maybe she was right. Maybe he was running. But how could he stop?

 

 

Rosalyn worked on the update of her story as Diego did his own thing. She didn’t mention what she was writing. Their relationship was in a delicate place after the argument. He was raw and vulnerable after his confessions, and she didn’t want to risk what they’d built by telling him what she’d done so soon. She’d find the time later, once they were back on steadier ground. Hopefully the new article she came up with instead of her original submission would be much more to his taste, less full of personal details of his life, and a wider look at the economic problems that a certain class of society faced.

The guilt still sat heavy on her heart.

They sat in companionable silence as she rewrote large sections of her submission. She took out all the personal things Diego had told her of his childhood. Instead, she made it a hard-hitting condemnation of the way society failed certain people, and the lengths they had to go to in order to survive. She tied in pieces of information from the homeless people she’d encountered a few month previously for the article that never came to light. She kept in the criticism of the rich people that watched the fights, though. She felt no guilt about that.

She sent off her revisions a little after midday. Pleased with her changes, knowing they would hurt Diego less, and be more political besides, she took Diego out for lunch.

It took him a while to relax in the crowded café, but they soon fell into conversation about the little things in life that said so much about a person. Favourite films, music, TV shows. Diego didn’t read much, but he liked watching gritty HBO dramas and big budget comedy films. She preferred things with guaranteed happy endings. She’d been through enough horror in her life that she didn’t need misery in her fiction, too.

After lunch they walked around the city, hand-in-hand, until night fell and they took some takeaway dinner back to her apartment. They ate, they made love, they talked, and they hung out like a normal couple. But there was a strange, ephemeral quality to the day, as if they were living in a bubble or an alternate universe.

Like it wasn’t real life, and they’d soon wake up from the dream.

Thursday morning, a copy of the Journal was delivered while Diego was in the shower. And that’s when it all fell apart.

Anthony had printed the wrong article.

She called her boss immediately, keeping her ear on the bathroom to make sure Diego was still in the shower. The newspaper crinkled as she balled her hands into angry fists.

Anthony answered right before she thought it would click over into voice mail.

“You printed the wrong article,” she hissed.

“Hello to you, too,” he replied.

“Don’t be coy with me. Why would you do this?”

Anthony sighed. “Your first article was better. It had more human drama.”

Rosalyn growled. “But I asked you not to print it. And I disagree. The second one was better. It was hard-hitting and gritty.”

“No one reads hard-hitting and gritty. You know this. I’ve told you a hundred times. You sent me a good article, and I ran it, like I promised.”

Tears burned in her eyes. “This is a disaster.”

“Hardly. It’s just an article.”

“Just an article that exposes a man in hiding to the world.”

“Using a pseudonym,” Anthony added.

“Sure, but there are enough details in this article to identify him if people look. You may have ruined a man’s life.”

Anthony grunted. “You wrote the article, not me. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself.”

He hung up. Rosalyn let out a sob, then clapped her hand over her mouth to hold the rest back. Shit. Diego couldn’t find out. Not now. It would destroy him.

The shower shut off. Rosalyn glanced around her apartment desperately looking for a hiding place he’d never look. In the end, she shoved the paper in her desk drawer and arranged some files on top of it.

He walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Even in her panic, she couldn’t help but admire him. He really had a beautiful body, honed to perfection.

“Did the paper come?” he asked. “I thought you might want to do the crossword again.”

The slight hint of hope in his eyes broke her heart.

“I checked, it didn’t come yet. Must be running late.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “Never mind.”

“We should go out and do something. See the sites.” Her words tumbled out faster than usual and her heart fluttered in panic. He couldn’t know. Couldn’t find out. She simply had to keep him away from copies of the Journal all day. Distract him. Anything.

Simple.

And then she had to hope she hadn’t destroyed his life, and bring everything he’d fought so hard to escape straight onto his head.

Her impulsivity was getting her into so much trouble lately. But now it wasn’t only her. It was Diego, too, getting hurt by her actions. And her heart broke at the knowledge.

He’d been right—they were bad for each other. But neither had predicted it would be her, not him, that would ruin everything.