Page 47

47

Jonathan

I am sick, but this time she is the sickness. She has crawled into my brain and into my veins and into all the locked-up, fucked-up parts of me.

I wake before her the next morning. I have a missed call from Thomas. I force myself out to return it, but I am so fucking pussy whipped that I write Eva a note first. I leave it right in front of her nose so she will not think even for a moment that I have left her again without saying goodbye.

The city of Barcelona is part nightmare. Never has another civilization succeeded so well in making the dreamscape a physical reality. Who else would ever intentionally make a cathedral appear to be melting?

I walk along La Rambla, the street Eva and I walked together last night. Only now it is drenched in the nostalgia of a few hours ago. Last night was the pinnacle. We have left the before. We are living in the after.

It is very unclear where things will go from here, but I almost do not need to know.

I still have a little money left from the last job. We could crisscross through Europe, or go farther—maybe that would be safer. South America. Antarctica. The moon.

I find a quiet corner off the beaten path to call Thomas. The sun is shining. The world is right.

“Something’s come up,” Thomas says.

“I don’t want a job,” I say. “You were right. I think I’m going to take a break. A real one.” I want to give Eva my full attention.

“Oh…Wow. I never thought I’d see the day you’d say no to a job.”

I am not proud to say this rankles me, like part of me needs to be the most fucked-up. “Yep,” I say.

I think of what Eva said last night: If it bothers you, don’t do it anymore. Just stop. I would not go that far, but she is right. I do not have to do it. I can stop, for now. Do something else. Mostly her.

“I think this is a really positive step forward for you,” Thomas says. “However, I’m not calling you about a job.”

Shit.

“Why are you calling me?” I say, even though I know why.

“Because the woman who tried to kill you is, in fact, an assassin. She’s not out for revenge; she’s on assignment.”

“Of course she is.” I am not an idiot. I am something worse. I am a romantic. I do not even know if I cared whether she was lying to me or not. I wanted to be with her so badly, I was willing to believe anything. We are all liars in love’s war, but it still hurts to hear the truth.

“I warned you to slow down,” Thomas scolds, like this is my fault. “I told you that you were making yourself too conspicuous, that you were getting sloppy.”

“Who took out a hit on me?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Shit.” In all my years in this job, I have never had someone take out a hit on me. In all honesty, I thought that being a hit man granted me a certain level of protection—never kid a kidder; never kill a killer. I thought my reputation preceded me. I thought they would know better. “What do I do now?” I know what to do when I am the hit man, but I have no idea what to do when I am the hit.

“I’ll try to figure out who wants you dead. In the meantime, I suggest you not get killed.”

“Sure.” My mind is moving a thousand miles a minute, but my body is still ahead of it. I start toward the hotel.

“Jonathan? I would advise you not to confront her.”

“You do your job,” I say, “and I’ll do mine.”