Page 77 of Hit Man

Nothing good.

“Pull over. Now.”

I shake my head and tighten my grip on the handles. A mistake, as the motorcycle only speeds up. I can’t stop, can’t do anything but go, go, go. Run. Run. Run.

“Chava, you are trying my patience.”

I swerve, and hear him curse. I hit the throttle, and hear him curse some more.

His chest presses into my back like he’s trying to bend me over the handlebars, while he reaches around me and attempts to take control.

“Watch out for that pothole. You’ll ruin the rims.”

I turn and avoid the pothole in question. I catch his loud sigh as he says, “Gracias a dios.”

“Are you part of the group chasing me?” I shout, my tone ripe with accusation. And if not, where did he even come from?

“Do you have a bullet in your thigh right now?”

I gasp. All three men had fallen to the ground behind me because . . . he shot them? It’d crossed my mind how they may have tripped, just before I did. An illogical conclusion and too much of a coincidence but I was too thankful to really care about how it happened.

“Pull over, damn it. I’ll drive you to safety.”

I grind my teeth together.

“I’ll see myself to safety,” I shout. “I can’t count on a man who abandoned me at a dangerous bus station.”

“Believe whatever will get you through the day,chava.”

“I’m not yourchava.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Prick.”

“Naive fool,” he snaps. “Pull over. This bike requires body strength—”

I hit the throttle hard. Diego falls back in the seat, his grip around my waist the only thing preventing him from falling off.

“My patience is at its limit,” I hear him holler into the wind.

I shake my head, scattering my tears across my cheeks. Patience. He’s the least patient person I’ve ever met. But he grows quiet after that, so maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe I’m wrong about a lot of things—like what he’s doing here, holding me in place on this bike.

We speed out of a second alleyway and onto Boulevard Frida Kahlo. I feel Diego lean into the curve, using his body weight to keep us upright. He’s right about me being unable to handle this beast. But I’m too upset to pull over. And the last thing I want him to see is me crying.

Because once the deluge has begun, there’s no going back.

I’m fair-skinned with a faint hint of freckles. The worst skin type for tears. I’m an ugly cry. My cheeks turn red, along with my nose, neck, chest. My eyes become cautious cat eyes, narrow with dilated pupils before puffing up to the size of macaroons. Not to be outdone, my body gets into the action, chest heaving, body shaking, my soul giving me a firm, teeth-rattling shake. Every problem, every wrongdoing, every lie from the time I was five and lost my favorite Lego piece—the one that had to be the base for the tower I was building for Prince Joe with the long hair—to the time I caught the flu during midterms and pulled an A- instead of and A+, resurface in a tirade of unstoppable tears.

To make matters worse, what’s the heaving equivalent to a loud, resounding whimper escapes my throat. Which Diego immediately hones in on, evident in the sound of his muttered “dios mío.”

Just like how I couldn’t stop the bike, I can’t stop the aftermath of what has to be the second worst day of my life.

“It’s the adrenaline kicking in.”

I sniffle. Adrenaline or not, I earned this cry. Just the timing . . .