Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BAD AUGUST
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
Okay, so I’m not good at breakups.
And it’s not like he’s my boyfriend anyway.
Boyfriend.
What a small word that is to describe what he is to me.
Someone who understands my every thought and feeling by instinct.
Someone who has solidarity of pain and heartbreak, who knows when to say something, when to never say something.
Someone who reminds me of the person I used to be, years ago.
Back when I was hopeful, when I thought I might make something of myself, be someone important in this world.
He’s a man who sees the aching beauty of the universe even now, after everything he’s been through…
He’s really sexy too. Christ, the way he made me come without even touching myself last night. The sounds of his orgasm, the thought of him doing that…
August is a comfort I crave, in every meaning of the word. I cannot get enough of him.
And now I’m on my way to break up with him. Properly. Whatever you want to call it. On my way to put an end to the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I know August’s not in danger—not directly. My killer’s after me and me alone. He’s here to try to undo the same mess I’m trying to undo, just in a bloodier way. But August could get caught in the crossfire, like he almost did last night. And I can’t allow that to happen.
Then there’s Shashi’s threat hanging over me. I want to go see her to figure out how she knows so much, but I have no idea how to get in touch with her without asking August. And August…
We’re through.
I’ll let him down as gently as possible, break my heart in the process, and call it a day. I think the easiest way, naturally, is to lie. Tell him, it was nice knowing you, thanks for turning my life upside down, sorry I did the same to yours, and I’m off to another universe now.
So long, and thanks for all the coffee.
His work is probably the worst place to do this.
But I don’t think it’s smart to go by his house, drop that on him, and leave him there by himself.
He’s got an appointment after work, so if I can just time it right, I’ll make the break, we’ll part ways, and he’ll have an hour or two of driving the old lady around to adjust.
I don’t know what I’m even worrying about. It’s not like he thinks I’m the great love of his life or something. Sounds like he’s spent half of the last decade sleeping with groupies in hotels all over the world, so I’m easily replaceable.
That same twinge of jealousy propels me forward a little faster towards his karate school. It’s as though my body imagines I can outrun this twisting, anxious stabbing in my gut. That and the sadness. In another lifetime, what might August and I have been to one another?
What other lifetime?
If only I could find the right one…
His workplace is upon me the second I turn the corner. It’s floor-to-ceiling glass, like a regular gym, and August’s the first person I lay eyes on. I skitter back around the corner so I can peek out at him like a proper stalker.
He looks handsome in his uniform. It’s black, which looks great with his complexion. His belt’s black too, and I guess I hadn’t thought about that too much, but it adds a layer to my understanding of him. And his general hotness.
He’s demonstrating some move to the class, and the August I saw last night, tipsy, dancing in that tight shirt, soft and pliable, is the polar opposite of this man. His movements are sharp, his fists large and strong and also kind of scary.
More hotness.
Then he pauses in the middle of his demonstration, turning his beautiful head with the loveliest smile.
His whole frame drops back to the August I adore—easy, relaxed.
He makes his way over to… Oh my god. They’re kids.
They’re just little kids. I hadn’t even noticed the whole time I’d been staring at him.
He walks over to this little girl, a mess of unbrushed hair in her red face, and I can see she’s crying.
He drops down to his knees, leans in and says something.
What I’d give to be able to lip read right now.
But she eventually nods, says something back, then he holds out his hand.
She reaches her arm out, and he closes her fingers into a fist. His other hand presses into her elbow to loosen her stance a little.
He holds up his hand, nods, and she lands a punch against his palm.
A raise of his chin, and she does it again. Again. Again. Faster, faster, until she’s flinging punches at his palm with ridiculous speed, smiles on both their faces, then he catches her underarm with a tickle, and her laugh is so loud it makes its way across the street to me.
August climbs to his feet, recommences the movements he was demonstrating for the class before, but this time he does it next to the girl, commanding the entire group from there, like he’s one of them.
When she gets caught up again, he barely breaks his stance, reaches over casually and rearranges her arms, then carries on.
No more tears. She’s focused now, determined, and throwing decent punches too.
It’s only then it occurs to me he’s had full care of about twenty kids for the whole class. And for every other class, all day, by himself, on very little sleep. And even now, at almost two o’clock, he’s so patient.
My heart feels like it’s gone twenty rounds with him in the short time I’ve been here.
What I’d have given for someone like him growing up.
Some caring adult who’d shown up for me, no matter how tired they were feeling.
Someone who’d have taught me how to make a fist, and not given up on me when things got hard.
Maybe if I’d had someone like him in my life, things would have turned out differently.
I must be mad to break it off with him.
But it’s not as though I have a choice.
The thought of it roils in my gut as I wait for the class to end. They eventually start some kind of ballgame, and that’s around the time parents start wandering in to pick their kids up. August says his goodbyes, notably making extra time for that little girl to go over those punches again.
It’s nauseating to think how my words could affect his confidence.
It’s already rock bottom, and it’s awful.
He’s the perfect catch, and his ex knows that.
That’s exactly why he’s spent years running him down.
Anyone can see that from a mile away. Anyone but August. If August had any idea how incredible he is, he wouldn’t waste two minutes on that guy.
Or on me.
All the more reason to end this.
The door clangs shut, August clicks the lock, and this is it. My chance to end it decently, respectfully, and with as much heart as I can manage.
I push myself forward, turn the corner, then gasp in a sharp breath as the butt of the gun lands directly between my ribs.
Ski mask. Sunglasses. Black hoodie.
It’s him.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a gun, yet something primal takes over with the press of it. I’m frozen, looking at my reflection in the black glass covering his eyes, wondering who the hell is behind it.
I can barely even make a full sentence, panic scrambling my words and my thoughts. “There are kids. Not here.”
He hasn’t shot me yet, hasn’t splattered me all over this wall for their young eyes to relive again and again late at night. Perhaps there’s some humanity in there after all.
“Why are you doing this?”
The metal digs into my skin as he directs me with a shove. I guess I’m supposed to turn around and… go to a second location.
Not a good idea.
No one ever comes back from the second location.
But I can hardly disobey.
I turn around and start a slow walk, scanning for an escape route. It’s clear he doesn’t want to shoot me here in front of everyone. Yet the memory of the shots rings in my ears from last night. He didn’t hit anyone, as far as I know. Would they have made a sound if he did, frozen like that?
There was zero news about it this morning.
A few reviews online said the band was late, that they walked off abruptly after the encore, but that by all accounts they were incredible.
No talk of bullet holes in doors, of amps being blown up.
Nothing about a gunman. Certainly nothing about a frozen audience and a night of sheer terror.
I had assumed, like August suggested, that it was somehow our fault—some shift in stability caused by me kissing him. But now I’m not so sure.
“Did you do that? Pause those people last night?”
He doesn’t make a sound, only walks on behind me, both his gun and his eyes hot on my back.
“The least you could do is tell me who you are.”
No response. We walk on.
“I’m August Blackthorne,” I tell him. “I’m guessing you know that. But you should also know I’m a very nice person. And… there are people who care about me. I’m even seeing someone, and this would be really upsetting for him.”
An obnoxious snort-laugh breaks from him.
Clearly no respect for emotional ties. Let’s try a different tack.
“I think I know why you’re here. You want to put a stop to it. My universe-hopping. Is that right?”
My shoulder rings painfully with the slap of his open palm. I assume he’s telling me to turn down this alley. And fuck that for a joke.
“You don’t need to do this. I’ve got a plan. I’m really close to figuring this—”
One of my feet stumbles beneath the other with the violence of his next shove, and my arm scrapes against the wall, mossy red brick biting deep into my skin. I swivel around, regaining balance with the thump of my other shoulder into the same wall.
“I’m not fucking going down there,” I snap at him. “So if you want to kill me, then you’re just going to have to do it right here, in the main street, in front of all these little kids, and families, and…”
The air evaporates from my lungs when he raises the gun right to the centre of my forehead.
This is it. This is how I die.