Rose
Abel doesn’t take us home. Or, to the motel, rather.
He parks the car and faces me with a look so intense, I’m afraid to react at all.
“Are you okay?” he asks as his hands conduct their own search, in spite of my nodding. “He didn’t hurt you? I didn’t hurt you?”
“No, of course not.”
He sits back heavily, so heavy it rocks the car. And then he hits the steering wheel.
I don’t know this Abel. I’m unsure of what comes next.
He opens the driver’s side door and steps out. I glance around and notice a diner just across the street. Its lights are on and there are a handful of people inside.
All while Abel paces around outside, I watch the people inside, wondering if I’ll ever be like them.
Or if I’ll only ever be a slave.
To my love.
To my violence.
To my rage.
My door opens and Abel yanks me out.
“Come on,” he says as he starts walking.
“Where are we going?” I call out from behind him as he drags me by my arm. It doesn’t hurt. He’d never hurt me. But there’s a small flare inside my chest that I have to swallow down.
I am, after all, coming down from an extremely violent high. If I fall back into it, it’s unlikely I’ll be able to smother that flame again.
“We’re getting breakfast,” he tosses over his shoulder as we head to the diner. I notice that at some point, he pulled off his ski mask, and his disheveled hair is now blowing in the wind as we rush toward the diner.
It’s cold and I regret not bringing a change of clothes with me. I regret it even more when we walk inside and one of the older waitresses squints at the look of us. Abel pulls off his leather jacket and places it over my shoulder as the waitress tells us to seat ourselves.
We sit in the nearest booth and I look around, taking in the rundown place.
When my eyes reach Abel again, he frowns before licking the end of one of the napkins on the table and wipes at my face.
Blood.
Victory’s nectar.
“Thank you.”
He folds the napkin up and places it in his pocket. “You’re beautiful, mi amor. ”
I warm under his compliment, a smile spreading on my heated cheeks.
“What’ll you be having?” the waitress asks, foregoing any pleasantries.
Abel orders our food and I tuck my feet under my thighs.
I can feel her stare. It reminds me so much of the eyes at Silverwing. The ones that could touch you.
She walks away, and Abel grabs my hand, stroking my fingers with the tips of his. “Where should we go next?”
“I never imagined myself anywhere other than Silverwing,” I confess, unsure of what’s next for us.
“I like the idea of getting out of America,” he announces. “Maybe somewhere warm.”
I smile at our joined hands, at the possibilities. “That is likely the smartest idea,” I respond.
He drops my hand and stands.
I wonder what’s going on for a moment but then he slides in the booth next to me.
Empty hands reach for me like I was meant to fill his empties with my brimming ways.
“What does it feel like?” he asks. There’s a tremor in his voice. It’s nearly undetectable, hanging on the ends of his words like an unwanted tag-along.
“To take someone’s life?” I feel the need to uncover the moment for what it is: Abel becoming less and less repulsed by the things I do and more curious.
As if he knows I’m forcing him to face the question for what it is, he nods once, swiftly and easily missed by someone who doesn’t watch him like they exist to do so.
I sit back but turn my head. I need to see his face as I describe this, even if just his profile. “There’s this anticipation. I can hardly explain it other than to say there’s such a thrill in the hunt. The moments leading up are like…” I trail off, unable to find the correct verbiage.
“Foreplay?” he asks as he places his hand on my bare thigh.
“I can’t relate,” I answer and the tremor that’d plagued Abel’s words find mine.
“I know you could, espinita ,” he tells me and that hand slides higher. “I know you could.”
My mind blanks just as I part my lips and let out a sigh. His fingers are pressed against my sex and moving in a way that makes it impossible to think.
“Nothing feels like this,” I whisper. The truth comes easily when coaxed by such talented fingers. I slide toward him and press my face into his neck.
“Nothing?”
I gasp as he pinches me before rubbing those dangerous circles again. He does it once more and I shake my head, quick jabs of movement that punctuate the moments of high ecstasy.
“What if we did this every day instead of chasing that thrill?” he asks.
My arms move to push myself away from him but he’s ready for the reaction, holding me against him, arms banded around me.
“Calm down, .”
He whispers the words into my hair as I jerk away from him, only for him to hold me tighter.
“Come on, mi espinita .”
He taints that nickname with his false acceptance.
I give one more good push and give up when he doesn’t budge. I could bite him. I could bash my head into his. I could keep fighting. But I can’t do any of these things.
In my love, I am weak.
“Damn it, . Listen to me!”
I’m writhing in his arms and by the time I stop, we’re both out of breath.
“If you continue killing, we’ll get caught,” he rushes out, his eyes boring into mine. “And then there’s no way in hell we could ever be together.”
“I’d never get us caught.”
“You killed a fucking cop,” he hisses.
“I knew you were still upset about that.”
“It’s not about?—”
“Then why bring it up?” I’m still raw from that night; still feeling the cool metal of the gun against my temple.
“Because you aren’t as careful as you think you are.” He looks past me at the muted television.
And I look, just in time to see the cop car being pulled from the water, a reporter saying words I can’t hear. But I don’t need to hear her to know that our situation just got a little shaken up.
“Your food’s ready,” the waitress announces as she sets plates down in front of us.
Abel thanks her and slides back in the booth, opposite me.
And that may be all. That could’ve been the end of it, but I see the waitress watching us.
“She’s figuring something out,” I whisper before taking a bite of my omelet.
Abel, still chewing, looks back at her, only for her to look away and pretend to wipe something. “You’re being paranoid. She probably just thinks we’re gonna bail on the bill.”
“And if we have to kill her?” I ask.
“ Ay Dios mío , . This isn’t some fucking game. Some murderous fucking adventure. This is my life, . Mi vida . And I offered it to you, no questions asked.” He punctuates his words with his fork, aimed at me.
“You think life on the run is meant to be some sort of fairytale, Abel. And that seems to be the problem here because I’ve never offered you anything other than what I am. So if you can’t do this anymore, walk away.” I stab at my eggs in frustration, an emotion I have no patience for. “Because I can’t take you expecting me to change and then you being disappointed when I don’t.”
I don’t look at him. I don’t let him know that if he left me, I’d be right back to counting the rest of my days away in a cell.
Abel is my last bit of humanity.
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He sets his fork down with a clink and leans forward to stop my hands from their angry movements. “I’m sorry and I love you.”