14 Kimmy
I had barely finished the water when the burner phone started vibrating in my pocket—no ringtone, just a faint buzz, as if it were embarrassed to draw attention.
I fished it out, ignoring the large paper cup of something steaming with a disgusting amount of whipped cream and crushed nuts.
Paranoid a bit, I glanced around. No one in the coffee shop was looking at me.
The barista, halfway through making another foaming monstrosity for a drive-through customer, hummed along to whatever spilled from the ceiling speakers.
A guy in a button-down stared at his laptop, headphones welded to his skull.
For a second, I pictured the man from the grocery store, but there was no sign of him, just the vague aftertaste of his eyes on me. I wondered if he was the one who'd followed me today.
Finally, I answered the call.
"Don't turn around," the voice said. "Use the back exit."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, forced myself to breathe, and stood up, leaving my caffeinated drink on the table. "Where is it?" My legs felt boneless, and for a second I was sure they'd fail me. They didn't.
"Employees' area."
I shoved the paper bag with my meds into the pocket of my hoodie and walked past the pastry case, feigning casual, then skirted the counter. The barista didn't even look up. The door to the back was half open, exposing a sliver of linoleum and a mop bucket.
"Do you see the hallway?" Operative Seven asked, voice a few degrees above monotone.
"Yes," I whispered, ducking inside.
"Go. Fast. Second door to your right."
I hurried down the corridor, steps echoing off the walls. There fluorescents flickered overhead like a lie detector needle.
My pulse was thundering in my ears.
I think I was sort of trespassing.
Second door. I pressed my palm against it, expecting a lock, but it gave with a click, and I stumbled into a cramped employee restroom.
The kind that was all stainless and tile, with a mirror warped by years of bleach.
The smell was sharp—cheap soap and lemon disinfectant. I checked the corners. Empty.
"I don't think there's a back entrance," I whispered.
"There is."
"Well, the second door to my left isn't it."
"Right. Not left."
Shit.
Was I this nervous?
I took a deep breath and heard him say on the line, "Relax."
"Easy for you to say."
"Where are you?"
"Employee bathroom."
"Go back out," he instructed.
I did.
"Second door on the right," he said firmly.
I took a few steps back, glanced at the barista out front. The kid was still preoccupied. Then I looked to my right and headed over to the second door. "I don't think you know what you're doing," I supplied, staring at the red Emergency Exit Only sign above.
"I know exactly what I'm doing," he countered, then added, "Don't worry about the alarm. It's disabled."
"How do you know?"
"It's my job to know." He didn't even wait for me to argue. "Open it. Now."
Whatever, I thought to myself and pushed the bar. The door gave in with a squeak. Nothing happened. No, not even a beep.
I was suddenly outside, at the rear of the coffee shop.
The tiny parking lot was empty except for a trash bin, an old Nissan, and him—Operative Seven.
He sat astride a motorcycle—black on black, chrome minimal, the engine ticking heat into the air.
He wore a helmet that erased his face, a leather jacket zipped to the throat, gloves that looked like they could punch through a windshield.
Tight black pants. Every inch of skin was hidden.
He could have been anyone. A very fit anyone.
Now that he was up close, I could tell that he had the body of a person who used it like a weapon.
I tried to remember what he looked like at the Windhaven.
My heart pounded so hard in my chest, it hurt. But it wasn't because I was scared. It was adrenaline.
There must be something wrong with me, I caught myself on the thought as he held out a second helmet.
The gesture was so clean it felt rehearsed. Like he'd practiced this, standing there, waiting for the girl to crawl out of the crawlspace.
It felt a little like a déjà vu.
My eyes dropped to his boots. They were very similar to the ones I saw him wear the night of the gala. Military style, with buckles.
Then I took the helmet. The weight of it shocked me. Heavy, padded, faintly chemical. It reeked of new plastic and a whisper of scent that wasn't unpleasant. My hands shook. I told myself it was the endorphin dump, but there was something else, too.
I struggled with the strap, fingers numb and stupid. He watched. Or at least I figured he did. He was motionless, visor pointed at me like the barrel of a camera. No help. Just infinite patience, the patience of someone who could outlast the universe itself.
When I finally managed to secure the helmet, he tapped the space behind him with a gloved hand.
I looked at the bike, at the seat, at him.
I'd never been on a motorcycle before. But the scarier part was the idea of touching another person—of being that close.
It sent a voltage through my ribs. I hadn't let a man touch me in three years.
Having one stuck between my thighs suddenly terrified me.
For a second, I wanted to run. But the idea of someone following me was scarier than the idea of riding the bike.
I chose the Devil I knew.
I approached, heart in my throat, and swung a leg over. I sat down, careful not to let our bodies touch. The leather seat was high and a little slippery and my world was warped by the helmet's visor.
He revved the engine.
The whole bike vibrated under me, shaking my bones loose.
He shouted over the noise, "Hold tight."
I hesitated again, looked around. There was nothing to grab except for his torso.
He didn't speak, just pulled the throttle, and the bike bucked forward.
My hands instinctively grabbed his jacket, fingers curling into the thick leather at his waist. We moved and I fell forward, slid on the seat, erasing whatever space was still between us.
His back was a wall, warm and unyielding and rock-hard.
The smell of him—leather, aftershave, a memory of something safe—hit me and made my vision swim.
He drove like he did everything else—with surgical efficiency, no wasted motion, no show-off. The city bled past in a haze of bright lamps and smeared taillights. I pressed closer, not by choice, but because of inertia, because physics dictated it.
Something about it—the helplessness, the speed—should have triggered the worst parts of my brain. Instead, something else happened. I realized, with a jolt, that I wasn't afraid. Not really. Not of him, or the bike, or the city screaming past.
I felt…protected, and it made no sense.
He pulled to a stop in front of my building and flipped his visor. The engine was still idling. I didn't move at first. I couldn't. My body was still in shock from the ride, every muscle wound tight.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, emotionless.
"No. Sorry." I disengaged myself from his back, withdrew my hands.
My legs felt rubbery and unreliable when I was getting off the bike. I fumbled with the strap, took off the helmet, and handed it to him.
He took it without saying a single word. His head was angled just enough for me to catch sight of his eyes. They were gray and unsettling. The rest of his face wasn't visible.
"Thanks," I croaked.
"Go inside," he replied. "Turn on the light."
I wanted to ask why, but I didn't have the guts. Instead, I nodded and stepped away, but before I could get more than two feet, I turned around. "Thanks," I said, for the second time tonight.
His eyes found mine in the light spilling from the building. There was nothing soft in his expression, but there was something like understanding and it made my heart shrivel in my chest. Not in the bad way. More like an invisible hand reached out to touch it and it reacted.
I forced my feet to the door. It was glass, and in the reflection, I looked like a scared child—ponytailed, wide-eyed. The lock jammed, then gave, and I slipped inside.
The lobby was silent. I took the stairs, two at a time, ignoring the elevator. I was terrified to be in small spaces right now and I needed to get rid of all that pent-up anxiety. Exercising was perfect.
As I reached my floor and stood in front of my door, my hands started trembling more than usual, causing me to almost drop the key. Once inside, I quickly locked the deadbolt.
First thing I did was turn on the light like he'd asked. Not the overheads, just one of the lamps in the corner. Then I walked to the window facing the street and looked out.
It was hard to see because it was dark outside but his silhouette was there, still straddling the bike, staring up at my apartment. I wondered if knowing my address was also part of his job. Then, I wondered if I should wave.
I decided against it.
He did absolutely nothing. Just continued to look at my window for a few more seconds, then gunned the throttle and pulled away from the complex.
I watched him until I couldn't see or hear him, or even imagine the shape of his body against the bike.
I pressed a palm to my chest, questioning the rapid heartbeat, and catalogued all my thoughts from tonight. I thought that my earlier sentiments about safety were caused by adrenaline, but now that it was gone, I realized that it wasn't a momentary lapse of judgment.
For the first time in years, I felt almost safe.
But the weirdest thing?
That night I slept like a rock.