My composure is waning. My stomach turns and threatens to offer back the trauma I have inflicted upon it. It's not booze, I don't really drink much. It's a solid knot in my gut that used to be my organs. It's all the scars I've accumulated over the years that feel like they've reopened.
Dried blood is starting to make me itch.
I make a shady check of the scene. Joshua is haplessly scooting tables away from the epicenter of destruction to be cleaned and sanitized. Every few minutes, his eyes drag toward the kitchen doors, the same doors behind which Maria disappeared half an hour ago. Still, after everything he's seen, he wants to go to her and be her white knight. He’s the only one who doesn’t realize that any knight by her side would never be dressed in white. We all know it, but Jack didn't leave much room for argument when he handed out directives.
Isaiah hasn't spoken since I pulled the trigger. He's pushing a mop by the bar, lost in his own thoughts, smoking.
I throw a sharp look toward Noah, who's noticed my surveillance. The clown in him has exhausted its stamina. Now he's merely another guard, like me. He gives me a small shrug as he pushes the can out of his way. I feel an off-putting flash of camaraderie. For once, I forget my highly guarded distrust of kindness, and I flick him a nod in return then split for the back. I even manage to pretend that no one notices my silent retreat, except Josh. I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I go.
My bravado melts completely as I slip through the swinging kitchen doors. My frame shakes and I find myself creeping into the silence. I fight the urge to draw a weapon, a cold habit, and well-formed. I have lived this game for too long. My steps are always haunted.
I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim kitchen area. It looks like some metal-tinted dreamland in the one light in the corner. The equipment is still and cool, just waiting to rise and wake with the next day's work, not so long from now. It looks like a gleaming den of phantoms. The permanent smell of the guys' Cajun-influenced childhoods wraps me like a nap in the afternoon. I hear the sound of tears deeper inside.
I find her huddled behind a stainless steel table, sitting on a non-slip mat, head in hands. Her knees are drawn against her and she too is shaking. Honestly, I'm impressed at the composure she has maintained tonight.
She snaps into an upright position when she hears my approach. It's only then that I realize she still has that big fucking gun in her hand, and that in seconds it will be aimed at me, the same fight-or-flight instinct that had risen in me.
She calms when she recognizes me. For a long moment, we just stare at each other. For the first time tonight, I don't feel like some tolerated outsider for all the death and deceit I've already seen. I assess her state, considering that it might be better if I leave her alone. But she doesn't tell me to go away, and there's blood on her skin, too. She looks to the floor.
My movements are mechanical as I free a bar cloth from a bag on the table. It's not easy for me to show any emotion but cold, especially compassion. I'd rather let people believe I don't feel anything so they don't get close.
She's never been one of the majority. How many conversations have we had that lasted well into morning hours? How many times has she seen through my façades? She may be staring at nothing, but I know she feels me stealing to the sink to dampen the cloth. It's stark white in the half-light. Like all things, it will soon be tainted.
Then I hit the deck beside her to wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders. She shudders violently at first, like maybe contact reminds her that she is human, but the pressure calms her quickly. She goes almost slack in my keep. Who else could understand that what she needs at this moment is someone who doesn't need anything from her? She's always known that I'm not the type to need anyone.
Maybe I have an unfair advantage. I'm the least emotionally entwined in this sudden war. I've seen this sort of shit before. I've been her, in a sense, and I have been in Joshua's stead. I've had my heart torn out brutally and passed among the hands that steered my actions. I stitched up that hole a long time ago, and never tried to find what became of the heart.
“Don't cry, chica,” I hum in Spanish, and her breath evens almost immediately.
Sometimes I think my emotions are broken. I don't react like most people would. I don't feel anything for long stretches. Then, she can always make me feel something. It was a fact I tried to dodge when I first met her, but she was intrigued by me, the epitome of a bad boy raised on a hard life. Someone like her.
Of course, she conquered my entire defense system, drew me to her. Who could resist her? I followed her here and now there’s no other direction than the one she's going. She sniffs, swipes at her eyes. I can see the blood smeared across her face in the pale and surreal lighting. She's tragic and beautiful. I kiss the top of her head. I can smell booze and smoke and sweat.
“You're so hot when you're a mean bitch,” I whisper so that she can barely feel my lips move against her hair.
She makes a
