Roma
I am showing Felicity a side of myself I never wanted her to see. As we drive, clambering down the hill, bumping in the seatbeltless seats, I look out of the corner my eye at her. She stares straight ahead and you wouldn’t know she’s scared except for the way her lips tremble, like she’s just seen a ghost. Or a madman hitman, or a psychopath.
I think of our sex on the hill—sex! It’s such a damn small word for what we shared. Women have normally been tools for me. Willing tools, make no mistake, but tools all the same. They see me, with my muscles and my killer’s eyes, and they want a piece of me. And I’m more than willing to let them if it means I get a few hours of release. But with Felicity it was much more than that. We weren’t just fucking. It wasn’t just sex. Strange, but I feel like I know her better after what we shared. You’re beginning to sound like a woman, a voice whispers. I ignore it. I don’t care.
And Bear . . .
I grip the steering wheel harder, feeling the scabs on my knuckles stretch and tear. Bits of bark and wood cling to my bloodied knuckles like tiny pieces of shrapnel. Bear is back there, burning to death—probably already dead—and I’m driving away from him as fast as this old beat-up can will allow. I think of Bear’s smiling face as he hands me a beer or pats me on the back or laughs without reserve. I think of his strong hands as he reaches toward me with a jab whilst sparring. Bear was the only man I ever knew who I could call Father. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t.
I want to stop the truck and explain everything to Felicity. But I feel like there’s something between us that wasn’t there before. It isn’t until now, when the air is tinged with awkwardness, that I truly appreciate how easy it’s been with us, how few games we’ve had to play, how we immediately sunk into kindness and affection in a way I never thought was possible outside the movies. I glance across at her. I see her look at me with her bright green eyes, a tiny motion, and then she faces the front mirror again.
I sigh and we bump ahead in excruciating silence.
Punching the tree was stupid. It’s the sort of thing a rookie does, losing his cool like that. It’s not the sort of thing a trained killer like me is supposed to do. I’m meant to be ice. I’m meant to be carved from something hard and grisly. I’m supposed to be a blank sheet of rock which nothing can touch. I’ve never lost sleep and I never dreamed I’d lose sleep. I could put a bullet in a man’s head and then sleep like a baby half an hour later. But now . . . Felicity, Bear, all of it, the roiling madness. She has opened up something inside of me and I can’t close it. Years of suppressed rage and sadness pour from me.
Okay. Just think this thing out. Stop with the emotional bullshit.
With an effort, I thrust the emotions aside. I can’t get rid of them completely, not like I used to, but I can push them to the periphery of my mind. Mr. Black and the agency, it is clear, are tracking my movements. They’ve been tracking my movements this entire time. There are a few reasons why Mr. Black might do this. Perhaps he doesn’t trust my abilities. I doubt this; I’ve done enough killing for him, but it’s difficult to know when it comes to the shadow-coated Black. Another possibility is that this contract is so important he needed to monitor it. Perhaps his allies—whoever they are—wanted updates about how it was going. Or, and when this idea enters my mind I feel like roaring in rage, Mr. Black knew that Bear was somewhere in this area of France, but didn’t know exactly where. Maybe he thought there was a chance I would sneak off to see him, and when I did—
Which means he used me as a goddamn pawn to get to Bear. Which means Bear’s death is my fault.
But if they think they’ll hurt Felicity, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ll kill every fucking man who tries to lay a finger on her.
“Roma.”
Felicity’s voice is soft.
I stop the car just outside the village. A rain-and wind-battered sign reads off the name of the village, a jumble of letters which mean nothing to me. The sun is rising higher and I see a few people leaving their houses wearing bright, colorful flowing dresses and robes. From within the village somebody blows on a trumpet.
I turn to her, praying not to see shame and resentment in her eyes. There is neither, just confusion.
“Yes,” I say. My voice is strained.
Slowly, like a person reaching toward a skittish animal, Felicity moves her hand toward my face. She touches my cheek, strokes my skin, and looks deep into my eyes. Her hand is so soft, too soft for a face as hard as mine.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Everything is going to be okay. We have each other.”
We have each other. She has no clue how hard that hits me, a buckshot straight into my face. I’ve never had a woman before, not like that. I never imagined I could.
I reach up and trace her fingers with my hand, caressing them.
“We have each other,” I repeat, staring into her eyes. And then: “Felicity, don’t be scared of me. You never have to be scared of me.”
She swallows, and then nods. “I’m not scared of you,” she says. “I trust you.”
I take her hand, bring it to my lips, kiss her palm. “We’ll find a store and get some supplies, and then we’ll get you Stateside. We’ll get you safe.”
Another trumpet sounds from within the village.
“I think there’s a festival or something going on,” Felicity says.