Roma
The sun rises as we step onto the rocky beach, the stones cutting into my feet. I’m panting and salty water slides from my body. Felicity steps out after me, shaking water from her hair. She’s shivering, but her lips are not blue or cracked, and she doesn’t seem to be moving with any sluggishness. I go to her and take her by the hand, giving her what little warmth I can.
“Now what?” she says, looking out over the French countryside.
The beach extends for a quarter-mile before meeting a long, flat stretch of green, dotted here and there with stone-built cottages as far as the eye can see. In the distance, green hills rise. I spot the cottage about seven miles away, a hazy thing at this distance, only visible because of the flatness of the plains.
“Now,” I tell her, “we walk. I know a place.”
We walk down the beach, hand in hand, being careful not to step on any sharp stones. Felicity shakes her head again, water splashing me. Her ponytail, soaked, flips around and slaps her in the face. She giggles. It’s a beautiful sound, a sound so alien to the usual course of my life than I can’t help but smile. I’m in deep shit, make no mistake, but with Felicity’s hand in mine, the shit doesn’t seem so deep.
Soon, we’re off the rocks and on grass. The day is hot and our skin dries quickly. I try to see us as we would look from far away, a half-naked man and woman walking through the grass under the stark rays of the sun. We must look like nudists, I decide, but nudists who haven’t got the balls to go the whole hog. Amateur nudists.
After an hour of slow walking—she is fit, but I can tell Felicity is aching from the swim and lack of sleep—we come to a small cottage. As luck would have it, a clothesline spreads across the front of the house, clothes whipping from it. We crouch down low behind a rock and watch the cottage for a few minutes.
“Are we really going to steal clothes?” Felicity says.
“Of course.”
Felicity shrugs. After what she’s been through, stealing clothes must seem like nothing. Anyway, we can’t approach our destination naked. I reckon my reception is going to be frosty enough without adding that into the mix.
“Wait here,” I say, rising from the rock.
The cottage is empty. I creep up to the clothesline and snatch two pairs of pants and two shirts. I return as quickly as I can and hand a shirt and pants to Felicity. She pulls it over her head and pulls the pants on. I can’t help but laugh. She looks tiny in the oversized shirt and the MC Hammer pants.
“They keep falling down,” she says, ignoring my laughter, tugging at the pants with her hand.
“Hang on.” I go to the washing line, find a woman’s scarf, and return to the rock. I fold it over and then wave to Felicity. “Come here.”
She stands up next to me. I loop the folded scarf through the belt holes and then tie it tightly around her waist. Then I lean down and fold up the pant legs around her ankles.
“Better than naked,” I say.
“Barely.” But she’s smiling. Despite everything, she’s smiling.
“Let’s get out of here before trouble starts,” I say.
We leave the cottage behind and make toward our destination: the cottage at the foot of the hill.
He couldn’t have picked a better place for leaving the life, that’s for sure. It’s in the middle of nowhere. No, it’s even more hidden than that. It’s like the Middle of Nowhere had a baby with Where the Hell Are We and spawned this stretch of French countryside. When I boarded the yacht, I knew we’d be coming close to this part of the shore. I guess fate or luck or God wanted us to meet again.
“Do you have a plan?” Felicity asks me, when the sun is almost at midmorning point, slanting down its relentless light.
I turn to her with a wry smile. “I had a plan,” I say. “My plan was to play our roles until the yacht landed and take you back to the States without any suspicion whatsoever. That fat idiot Barinov ruined that. Now I have a new plan. A backup plan of sorts. But I’m not sure how well it’s going to go.”
She touches my arm. “You saved my life, Roma.”
“I did.” I don’t look at her. I stare straight ahead. I don’t do too well with affection, never have.
She moves her hand from my arm and touches my face, turns my gaze to hers. Without discussing it, we stop walking. She looks so damn cute in her massive clothes, like it’s the morning after and she’s wearing my clothes, like we’re not out here but back home, in my apartment, and she’s about to ask me how many rashers of bacon I’d like.
“What?” I ask.
My voice comes out snappish. I don’t mean it to. But being this close to a woman is so far out of my comfort zone I never dreamed it’d ever happen. I’d never let it happen. Quick, hungry embraces, sure . . . animal rutting . . . but this (whatever this is) . . . hell, no.
“You saved my life,” she repeats. “If not for you . . .” Her shoulders tremble.
Without thinking—if I think about it, I’ll freeze—I open my arms and embrace her, bringing her close to my chest. Remember who you are, remember who she is. Mr. Black’s voice again, chiding me. I ignore him and hold Felicity close to me, her cheek resting against my chest. She grips my back with desperate hands, digging her fingernails in, as if she’s scared I’ll float away. After all, I’m her only lifeline against the Russians. I feel something I haven’t felt for as long as I can remember: guilt. Hot, stabbing guilt. Guilt that I’m misleading her. But it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it? If I really only cared about the job, I would’ve let Barinov rape her. I wouldn’t have questioned it. But I couldn’t. And not because of the job; it had nothing to do with the job. It was simply because I couldn’t bear the thought. Without even realizing it, I’ve started to think of Felicity as my woman. But not in the twisted, sickening way the men on the yacht think of their purchases as their women. No, it’s something else, something deeper. I think again of the kiss and my lips tingle with hunger for another.
Felicity twists her head up. “Is something wrong?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Surprisingly, everything’s right. How about we buy one of these cottages and stay here forever?”
She giggles. “Now, there’s an idea.”
I release her and we continue on our way.
Soon, we reach the cottage. It looks the same as all the others, a two-story squat brick-built building, the chief difference being the garden. Where the others are well-tended, this is overgrown, creepers and flowers and weeds spreading over the floor and the fence, ivy twisting up the brick of the house.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. I’m nervous, I realize with a shock. Bona fide nervous. “You need to hide.” I point to the side of the fence, where a huge bush will obscure her from view. “There.”
“Why?” Felicity asks. “Who’s in there?”
“Someone who will either be very happy or very angry to see me. I can’t risk you being caught in the crossfire if it’s the latter.”
“Are we in danger?” Felicity asks.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “From the Russians, and . . .” From Mr. Black if he finds out what happened and maybe from the man who owns this cottage. “. . . and from everything else,” I finish vaguely.
Felicity nods. “I’ll hide,” she says. “But if you need help, I won’t stay hidden.”
She’s so fiery, I think, a fresh wave of admiration and affection washing over me.
“Okay.” I nod.
She jogs to the bush and crouches down. I walk to the fence, heart pounding like a war drum in my mouth. I haven’t seen him since he quit the life, since he bowed out of bloodshed and murder and all the filth that goes along with that.
I open the gate and navigate the overgrown garden, stepping over and around as though I’m walking through a jungle.
When I knock on the door, my fist is trembling. Knock, knock, knock. No answer.
I knock again, the door opens, and the barrel of a shotgun is aimed right at me.
“Roma. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Bear,” I say, looking at the snowy-haired man, his thick beard and his gargantuan muscles. One of his eyes is missing, a pink mass of scars and flesh, and both his pinkies are severed at the knuckle. He’s as beat-up and grizzled as I remember him. “I need help.”
“Hmm,” Bear grunts. He doesn’t lower the shotgun.