SIXTY-ONE
Gigi
Tired. I’m so unbelievably tired.
It’s been a week since the incident at Chequers, and I still feel drunk.
The barricades I’ve erected to protect myself are crumbling. I’ve become so repeatedly beaten with inner verbal abuse I’ve been too weak to rebuild.
In what now feels like a different lifetime, Richard warned me to cut contact with Mia. As if all warnings have gone amiss, I’ve tried desperately to get hold of her. But she hasn’t entertained my pleas to talk. The first phone call cut off halfway through, and all attempts since have gone straight to voicemail.
Tears fill my eyes at the thought, and I bury my face in my hands.
Adding to the mix, Jack is a sour reminder of the poor decisions I continue to make. He’s become such a burden that I’m refusing sleep until my body gives out. The edges of my vision are practically black now, and my body aches to shut down completely.
Sliding my palms upwards, I run my hands through the birds’ nest on top of my head, my eyes threatening to close in endless sleep.
It’s a feeling I can only describe as being drugged.
My movements are slow, sluggish.
Like a damn snail.
As I sit slumped in one of the chairs in the boardroom, Richard beckons orders for the latest department-store robbery. Steal some cash. Art. Whatever keeps our numbers up. It’s all petty work, and we’re awaiting the news we really want to hear.
“Boss?” Whizz Tech Dan asks, slightly stunned.
“Yeah?” I respond on instinct.
Silence fills the room, my eyes heavy as I see the awkward smile stretching over Dan’s features. He clearly wasn’t referring to me.
As if the thought spurred his anger to the surface, Richard trudges over to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room, retrieves a bottle of water, and offers it to me. “Drink,” he demands in annoyance.
I unscrew the lid, taking a heavy mouthful as he speaks.
“Go on. What is it, Dan?”
The door to the boardroom opens, giving way to the large figure in the entryway. My gaze clashes with Harry’s, green eyes pinning me to my seat. For a moment I think I see his brow creasing with worry, but the expression disappears as quickly as it registers. He must think I look like death.
I fist the plastic bottle in my hands, the sound crinkling across the room packed with office chairs, paperwork, and surveillance screens.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Harry since the nightclub. I thought he’d be riddled with hatred, but something else swarms him.
He walks into the room, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his black jeans as he takes long strides to one of the unoccupied chairs.
“We’ve fucking found him,” Dan says.
My eyes snap up. “You’re joking.”
He laughs hysterically, in utter disbelief. “We’ve found the fucker. He’s been captured by one of our surveillance cameras in West London entering some billionaire mansion.”
Richard bows his head between his shoulders, shaking it. “Paolo fucking Ricci. ”
This could be the most detrimental heist we’ve ever seen.
And normally, I’d willingly drown in the feeling.
But all I feel is fucking tired.
“You’re weak,” that harrowing voice says. “You’re not an asset to the Circle.”
I groan inwardly at the dull recognition of Jack’s voice. My body is failing to keep up with the repercussions of everyday life, let alone the torment of my lucid state.
I’m mentally exhausted; utterly drained.
“Not you again,” I groan, my breath shallow. “I can’t cope with this anymore. Please, just leave me alone.”
“Have you thought about why that is?” he deadpans. “Considered this is karma coming to bite you—?”
“ENOUGH!”
It wakes me with a start.
Rain pounds ferociously against the window. A flash sparks through the room as lightning strikes. Eyes threatening to deceive me, I see a hunched figure perched on the end of my bed.
Movements slow, I press the heels of my palms into my eyes until I start to see weird shapes. I pull them back slowly, seeing the intimidatingly tall, black-clad human. His hair is drenched, soaked to the root and dripping water unforgivingly onto the floorboards.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I imagine it’s water, but as my eyes drop to the white silk sheets I notice splatters of scarlet .
“Painkillers. Water bottle sealed ,” Harry says with quiet emphasis.
Turning to the side, I see the box on the counter alongside the unopened bottle.
I rub my eyes, tired. “What are you doing here?”
Fuck, my head is pounding.
“Tablets,” he demands, a possessive desperation in his voice.
I lean over onto the counter, take a hefty drink of the water, and retrieve two painkillers to swallow. After I’ve placed them back on the side Harry turns his head over his shoulder slowly.
As our eyes meet a shock runs through me.
I barely recognise him. Even through the strip of moonlight his eyes look a shade no lighter than black. Features stern, skin tainted with blood, he looks paranormal. My eyes flicker over to my Glock in awareness, and panic strums my pulse at the realisation it’s missing. As Harry edges closer, forcing my body back into the mattress, I find the weapon concealed in his palm, and another flash of lightning strikes.
He cocks the gun slowly, pressing the barrel against my forehead. My throat tightens, barely recognising the man above me or the tears crowding his eyelids.
“I could kill you for what you do to me,” he says, voice shattering.
The last time he issued this threat it left little bite, but as he clicks off the safety with his thumb panic strikes me stiff. He presses the barrel harder against my forehead than before. And when the lightning flashes again I screw my eyes shut tight.
Tears leak from the edges of my eyes.
I’m nothing without my Glock.
I feel weak. Pathetic.
I—
“Do it,” I say.
“I should.” He pauses. “I will. ”
A minute passes without so much as a breath from him, and when I find the courage to flutter my eyes open I’m met with a raw, intense stare that entices a sob from my chest. There’s a war raging inside him. I double-take the water crowding Harry’s eyes.
He winds his free hand into the back of my hair, bringing his mouth so dangerously close to mine that it threatens to pull me under. My chest rumbles with a weak cry as he eases closer, just enough that I can feel the heat of his breath against my mouth, the warmth of the blood coating his hair now staining my neck.
With his lips brushing the skin of mine, he decreases the distance, and our chests press tight together as he speaks against my mouth. “But I won’t.” He breathes slowly. “Because I’m a fucking coward.”
He thrusts me away from him, and I sink further into the pillow as he throws the gun to the bed. I flinch as it lands.
When I tear my eyes upwards Harry has already departed the room, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
The next night, Harry sits in an identical position at the edge of my bed. His broad back and shoulders face me, his head ducked. Shallow breathing causes the muscles in his back to twitch.
My Glock sits untouched on my bedside table, yet he’s still here anyway.
With a soft curse, he stretches his arms above his head as if he’s been in the same position for hours. Harry leaves without another word.
When he exits the room I notice a note where he was sitting.
Please look after yourself.
Days pass – and I don’t.