The Hitman
Lia
Warmth seeped into my fingertips, fighting against the frigid cold that clenched my soul. It dove deep, seeking, driving out the demons that have lived there the past few years. Demons I’d been chasing away with little to no effect.
Red clouded my vision, my eyelids closed to the horrors I wished were behind me. But I knew. These horrors would always be with me. Even this warmth, foreign but hardly benign, couldn’t make them disappear.
It was a reminder. Of just how far I’d come, but that I could never truly escape.
I curled my fingers, clutching at the comfort as a whimper broke loose from my throat. Red reminders flashed, the warmth like blood trickling over my skin. An uneasy pattern traced down the back of my head and another whimper shook loose. A tender hand gripped the back of my neck.
I froze, fingers digging into warmth, the dry, soft cloth confusing me. The grip on my neck tightened a fraction before loosening, that same uneasy pattern continuing down my back.
I waited for the pain, but it was only inside me.
A quiet “shh” whispered across the top of my head, bristling the hair on my forehead. Another hand gentled against my arm, tugging me into a crooked embrace. My spine twisted, aching muscles cried out against the bite of hard plastic at my side, and that quiet breath tried to soothe.
I felt like a foreigner in a strange land. Gentle was not a word in my vocabulary the past few years. And this? The warmth? The quiet caress? It had me reeling.
My eyes flickered open, finding dim light seeping through the sleepy eyelids of the airplane’s cabin windows. The soft black fabric beneath my head, crushed in my fists, was strangely inviting. My fingers clutched tighter and a hiss brushed across my hair.
Startled, I lifted my head, my eyes finding warmth and gentleness, kindness as alien as the honey-brown eyes staring back at me. All that gentleness wrapped up in an inviting half-smile.
My eyes roamed, searching for an explanation to the man beneath my fists.
Finding not an explanation but a dream. Those eyes searched mine with something like concern.
His brow furrowed, a tiny crease deepened by the slash of a faint scar.
Long, dark eyelashes fluttered across tanned cheeks, licking at the flop of unruly brown hair dangling down his face.
And his jaw, strong but hidden beneath thick, dark hair.
His full pink lips met with the dart of his tongue.
“Are you okay?” The words tumbled out with a slight accent across those full, wet lips. My hands clenched, grabbing fistfuls of soft, black cotton shirt. He flinched and hissed once more, and my eyes dropped to his chest.
Dark hair, the same as on his head and jaw, peeked out above the open neckline of his Henley. His grimace fell from his face as I released my grip, and his hand rubbed gently at my arm.
“Who are you?” I asked, my throat still tight with restless sleep.
The right side of his lips twitched up into a smile. His thumb rubbed across my cheek as he lulled softly, “Just the man who protected you from your nightmare.” My eyes caught the smudge of black clinging to the pad of his thumb. “And you are?”
I sat back, pulling away from the warmth of this man, this protector, who unknowingly slayed more demons than he could ever imagine with just his simple touch. A touch that lingered across my back as I righted myself in my own chair.
“Apparently the girl who molests unsuspecting men in her sleep,” I mumbled, rubbing at the crick in my side while dabbing at my dampened cheeks.
Quiet laughter rumbled from deep in his chest and my empty stomach fluttered.
“You’re only making it worse.” He grabbed the edge of his shirt and brought it to my face, chasing away my tears on a wave of cedar and spice.
Shocked, I pulled back from his touch and the warmth it offered. It was foreign, unfamiliar in its restraint and compassion. It was nothing I had come to expect over the past few years, and I fought to suppress the shudder that threatened to overtake me.
Those honey-brown eyes narrowed imperceptibly as he pulled his hands away from me. His head tilted to one side as he sat with his shirt still held in his hand, watching me with unwarranted concern.
“I, um…” I felt flustered, thrown by the man next to me. Grabbing my purse from beneath the seat, I tossed the thin red blanket off my lap and pushed to my feet. “I need to go clean up.”
He stood, his long legs unfolding and pushing back against his seat. I squeezed past, careful not to touch him as I exited our row.
I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I rushed down the darkened cabin toward the restroom at the back of the plane.
He didn’t bother trying to hide it, had yet to turn around as I risked a glance back at him before I could disappear into the safety of that tiny restroom.
His eyes locked with mine and I ducked my head to avoid his gaze.
The dingy mirror held the horror of my face.
Black streaked across my cheeks, the smudges like the remnants of war paint after a lengthy battle.
A battle too real, the fight for my life.
Each casualty could be found staring back at me through dark blue eyes.
Haunted. Hated. The residue of my fear on full display, even in the dull lighting shining down from above.
I scrubbed my face, trying to wash some semblance of peace across my features.
Applied my mask in blacks and subtle browns, a swipe of pale pink to coat my counterfeit smile.
I tugged my white-blonde hair back into a ponytail but released it again to fall in a quiet wave around my shoulders.
I felt too exposed with it up, the skin of my neck bared like my soul.
I shivered with the reminder of his touch across the back of my neck, this man I didn’t know. This man who had shown more compassion toward me in five minutes than I’d known for far too many years.
Long minutes passed in that tiny room as I tried to compose myself. My mind searched for some semblance of the strength I once had. Strength that was once ripped from my bare hands. Strength I thought I’d regained, but now felt as if it were slipping from my grasp.
All because of a touch from a man who promised without words to be the strength I was lacking.
The quiet aisle of the plane was bare of his gaze as I returned to my seat.
But he sat there, eyes appraising, as I slid past him into my seat.
My foot caught his as I turned to sit. My hands splayed, ready to brace myself against my fall into the lap of my fellow passenger.
Instead, strong, warm hands grasped my hips, catching me so I could right myself.
I turned to him and the corners of my lips twisted into a shaky, tentative smile. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before they slipped away, the heat from his touch diminishing slowly.
“Thank you,” I said as I took my seat.
“My pleasure,” his rough voice grumbled back, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine.
A quiet moment passed as I averted my gaze from the handsome stranger. But like a bee, my eyes were drawn to the honeycomb tones that searched my face. I offered a self-conscious smile, about to turn away when his voice stopped me.
“Yanny.”
“Pardon?”
“My name,” he clarified as he extended his hand to me. The corner of his mouth tugged up as his tongue darted across his bottom lip. “Yanny Perez, protector of beautiful women from their horrible nightmares.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks as his large hand closed around mine. My heart hammered in my chest even as my body relaxed at his touch.
“Lia,” I told him, swallowing hard before spitting out, “Lia Bryant.” The lie tasted like copper on my tongue, the familiar flavor tensing my muscles with a rash of bad memories. I shook my head to rid my mind of that pain. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually…”
“Climb into the arms of unwitting travelers?” he finished for me, his smile growing wider. “So I’m the lucky one?”
I pulled back from his grasp, my hand tangling in my hair before I forced it back to my lap. And Yanny, he missed nothing. His eyes followed the movement, reading my insecurities as if they were spoken out loud.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” I said, stopping him. “It’s not you, it’s—”
“You mean I’m not the only one?” His quiet laughter rumbled deep in his chest.
My cheeks burned and I wanted to bury myself deep in my seat and hide under my blanket like a child. I took a deep, calming breath, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it.
So quiet I barely caught it, the word “pity” was murmured across his lips.
Confusion swirled around me at the word.
I was torn between wanting to yell, “I don’t need your pity,” and hoping he wanted to be the only one whose arms I climbed into.
Shaken, I grabbed my airline blanket off the floor by my feet and wrapped it around myself once again.
I pulled it up over one shoulder, then the other, only to have the first side fall off.
Yanny noticed my struggle. He turned to me and tucked the blanket behind my shoulder.
His fingers glided across the bare skin of my neck, his eyes narrowed minutely at my flinch.
He sat back, though I felt as if he were wrapped around me, that scent of his invading my senses.
“Whenever I travel, I always have nightmares.” He spoke in a quiet, calming tone, as if his words were a secret only for me.
I turned my face to the front of the plane, both wanting him to go on and to leave me alone.
Nightmares like mine were horrible because they were real, they happened, and I lived with the fear they could happen again.
When I didn’t respond, Yanny continued. “I always dream I’ve missed my flight. It’s terrifying.”
“How so?” I asked, struggling to find a place for my eyes to rest. Not wanting to watch him, not wanting to look away.
“You know those dreams back in school, where you’re standing in front of the class without any clothes on?”