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| [Persistence] |
12. Temple Rubato
She saw the flash before she heard the pop. A man glided out of the alley with purpose, adjusting his pants as he tucked a gun into the waistband. Head swimming, nausea threatening, she sunk into the bucket seat and waited for it to pass, for him to pass.
Methodical footsteps scratched closer. This was it, she thought. This was how she was going to die: in plain sight, having played cloak and dagger with the wrong people. He whistled, shoes clacking in time to the callously up-tempo tune as he passed. The car eased away from the curb without haste, its casual pace matching the gunman’s gate moments before.
She panted, her hands trembled and her eyes tried to maintain contact with the Mercedes creeping down the street. But she didn’t move. Movement would attract attention—they were easing away from the crime scene not to avoid suspicion, rather to look for witnesses.
She pawed at the glove compartment, eyes still locked on the receding glow of the getaway car. When it slammed open she scrounged for a pen, scribbled the plate number onto a napkin and tucked it into her pocket.
Hand on the door handle, she filled her lungs again—the toxicity of freedom. The gun was heavy. No matter how many times she’d carried it, it weighed her down. The burden of what she had become. She crossed the street quickly.
“Miranda?” she whispered into the dim alley.
Plastic crinkled and she crept closer, squeezing the waffle-grip tighter. A stray cat protecting its meal growled as she passed the dumpster. Attention drawn away briefly, she stumbled over a garbage bag. A can skittered down the alley, spinning like a top in an inky puddle.
“Mir?”
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The stain on the ceiling gave her pause. She’d spent entirely too much time contemplating its origins, each theory more repellant than the last.
Olivia sighed. An expulsion of air, an abbreviated hum, a sound of complete contentment—God, she sounded good.
Sleep eluded her. The bed was too soft, Olivia’s breathing too loud. Years ago it was the measure of a lover’s breathing that was the harbinger of blissful repose. Ironic, considering she’d spent the better part of two years sleeping in her car.
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A hand, its fingers curling, reaching out, lie palm up beckoning her closer. Lifeless and stiff, the gesture was hopeful and by that made more tragic.
Alex employed far less caution approaching the body of Miranda Inez than she had entering the dark alley. Tears fell uncontested as Alex crumpled amongst the smelly debris and wept openly.
Blood everywhere, Miranda Inez’s lifeless gaze a silent indictment of what Alex had become. There wasn’t much left, she feared, that separated her from the villains.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Heart racing, Alex turned off her emotions. She detached from angry copper stench suffusing the air, the hot blood cooling on her knees, the dark eyes' blank stare growing paler as each minute passed.
Survival was paramount.
“Where is it?” she asked, frantic.
The body jerked as Alex searched its pockets, rolling it from side to side, finding nothing in its jacket or jeans. But she didn’t stop there, reaching into the low-cut top Alex searched Miranda’s bra. Gentler was her exploration, still the invasion cost not only a dead woman her dignity but Alex hers as well.
Slipping beneath Miranda’s left breast something cleaved her finger. Pinching the card stock between her fingers, Alex withdrew.
“I’m sorry.” She cupped the Miranda’s cheek and drifted away into the night.
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Olivia lay as she always had: on her back in the middle of the bed, both arms tucked behind her head; confident even in slumber.
Foreign to her now, Olivia’s breathing was a painful reminder of all that which was lost. The longing, the unspoken, their fragile union mystified her still. Even if they could get back what they had, where did that leave them?
Alex turned on her side and watched Olivia bathed in tempered neon. She focused on the shoulder she’d laid her head on and the hip she’d draped her arm across so many times before and the distance disappeared.
She fit neatly in Olivia’s curves. A paradisiacal mix of soft and hard, her body gave way to Alex’s in all the right places. Olivia’s heart pumped against her ear and it was then that Alex finally found the metronome by which her sleep was driven.
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Part Thirteen
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