Page 10

Trauma, in my professional opinion, was best processed while speeding through city streets with windows down and Lady Gaga blasting at volumes that could wake the dead. At least that's what I told myself as I watched Vince clutch the door handle with white knuckles every time I took a corner.

"Could you possibly drive like a normal person?" he shouted over "Bloody Mary," which I'd cranked specifically to drown out thoughts about murdering my former mentor and effectively signing my own death warrant. "You're going to get us killed before the assassins even have a chance!"

I flashed him my most reassuring smile, which, based on his expression, wasn't reassuring at all. "Relax, doc. I've been professionally trained in tactical driving."

"By whom? The Grand Theft Auto school of transportation?"

"Actually, it was an ex-Mossad specialist in Greece," I said, cutting across three lanes to make an exit, "but your guess was pretty close. "

His knuckles went whiter, if possible. "Where are we going? And can I please get some clothes?"

I hit the clutch and shifted into a higher gear.

The car leapt forward, speeding well over the limit.

I noted an SUV followed us across the highway.

A sharp crack tore through the air, and my back window exploded, glass pelting our necks and shoulders like razor-sharp hail.

Vincent's shocked gasp pierced through the music.

"Shit!" I snarled, yanking the wheel hard right. "Keep your head down!"

Vincent ducked, covering his head as two more shots rang out. One pinged off the trunk, the other going wide. I had to give the shooter credit for accuracy while firing at a moving target, but thankfully, not good enough.

I blew through a yellow light turning red, cutting off a delivery truck that honked angrily.

Watery morning sunlight slanted through buildings, catching on windshields and puddles from last night's rain.

The smell of Hector's blood lingered in my nostrils, stuck to my skin, a constant reminder of what I'd done.

What I'd become. A traitor, a dead man walking.

"Hold on," I warned, spotting a black Audi pulling into traffic behind us, moving with too much purpose to be coincidence. "We've got company."

The Audi followed, bullying through the intersection. Not amateurs. Heat from the engine became noticeable as I pushed harder, tachometer climbing toward red before I shifted up.

Just as we hit a straightaway, the song faded, replaced by one of Lo's K-pop numbers.

"What the fuck?" I snarled, momentarily distracted. "How did that get in there? "

Vincent clutched the door handle, knuckles white, eyes wide with panic as he kept glancing back at the gaining Audi.

"They're getting closer!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Oh my god, we're going to die!"

"I’ll be damned if I die to K-pop. Hit next on the playlist!"

Vincent stared. "There are people SHOOTING at us!"

"Yeah, and now I have to listen to Lo's K-pop while dealing with them," I complained, swerving around a truck. Blood from my broken nose dripped onto my shirt, a metallic taste filling my mouth. "The arrow button on the right. Please?"

Vincent reached for controls with shaking hands, fingers fumbling. "Which—I can't—"

"The arrow! The fucking arrow on the right!" I snapped, downshifting aggressively, pain shooting through my face with each word. "Lo knows I hate this song! He did this on purpose!"

A bullet pinged off our bumper. Vincent yelped and ducked, abandoning the music controls. "We're going to die to a K-pop soundtrack!"

"Not if I can help it!"

Vincent pressed something, but instead of changing, the volume increased, K-pop practically vibrating the windows.

"Not that one!" I groaned, executing a perfect drift around a corner. "God, I'm going to kill Lo if we survive this!"

"You're going to get us killed!"

I spotted an opportunity ahead—a construction zone with a narrow lane. Perfect.

"Brace yourself," I warned, downshifting and slamming the brakes. The nose dipped as the performance brakes bit hard. I cranked the wheel and executed a perfect one-eighty. The car spun in place, tires smoking, and suddenly we faced the opposite direction .

Vincent's eyes widened to saucers as I released the brake, hit the clutch, shifted, and floored it.

The car shot forward, now heading directly at our pursuer.

His hand unconsciously gripped my thigh, fingers digging into the muscle.

The contact burned through denim like a brand.

The first time he'd touched me voluntarily.

The Audi driver hesitated for a crucial second. I used that hesitation to swerve around them and blast down a narrow side street they'd passed.

"Are you insane?" Vincent gasped, still white-knuckling the door.

"I don’t think so," I said, shifting smoothly as we accelerated away. "But you’re the expert on that, doc. Not me."

After minutes of evasive maneuvers through alleys and side streets, confident we'd lost our tail, I merged back into normal traffic.

The city had fully awakened now, streets filling with commuters, delivery trucks unloading at storefronts, students hurrying to morning classes.

Normal lives unfolded around us, oblivious to the lethal chase we'd just escaped.

The mundane morning ritual of the city felt surreal against the blood drying on my skin.

"I think we lost them," I said, checking mirrors obsessively.

Vincent still breathed heavily, looking like he might be sick.

His bare chest was damp with sweat, his fingers leaving damp prints on the door handle.

Meanwhile, I glared at the dashboard as if Lo could feel my rage through it. Nobody messed with my driving music.

"Just my luck," I muttered, finally hitting power to silence the song. "Survive an assassination attempt only to be aurally assaulted by K-pop."

Vincent, still catching his breath, gave me a bewildered look. "But... wasn't that other song Japanese pop? What's the difference?"

I gasped, physically recoiling. "What's the—Are you seriously—BABYMETAL is kawaii metal, not just ' Japanese pop.' Completely different genre! That's like comparing Mozart to Nickelback!"

Vincent stared like I'd grown a second head, probably wondering how he'd ended up with a music snob assassin more offended by genre confusion than people trying to kill us.

Vincent's hand finally released my thigh, leaving a cold emptiness behind.

I caught the slight tremble in his fingers as he ran them through his hair, the careful way he shifted his weight in the seat to ease the tension in his lower back.

The morning light caught the slight flecks of amber in his otherwise dark eyes as he glanced toward me.

"You just kidnapped me!" Vincent sputtered, somehow managing to look both outraged and composed despite being half-naked.

His therapist's voice slipped into place, professional even in crisis.

"This constitutes abduction, forcible confinement, and assault.

I should be calling the police, not critiquing your playlist."

"I just saved your gorgeous ass. Think of it as an unplanned vacation with an exceptionally hot tour guide." I glanced at his bare chest appreciatively. "And the dress code is clearly casual, which I am absolutely not complaining about."

Vincent's eyes narrowed, that flicker of steel I'd glimpsed in his office resurfacing.

"My eyes are up here, kidnapper." Then his shoulders slumped, the brief show of defiance crumbling as reality crashed in.

I could almost see thoughts racing as he processed the men with guns, shots fired, someone wanting him dead. "Why is this happening?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just know there's a contract on your life. A hit. I don't know who placed it or why."

"A contract? Like... an assassination contract?"

I nodded, eyes on the road. "Yes."

"How do you know about this? "

"Let's just say I have connections in that world."

"Wait... are you..." He blinked. "Are you saying you’re one of them? An assassin?"

My mouth curved in a sardonic smile. “Maaaaaaybe?”

"Oh my god! You are!" He pressed against the door, trying to create more distance in the confined space.

"The symptoms I thought indicated attachment disorder and possible PTSD.

.. those weren't from childhood trauma, were they?

They were from—" He cut himself off, mind racing behind those perceptive eyes. "This isn't a delusion. This is real."

"Calm your tits, doc," I replied, rolling my eyes. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be cooling on a slab, not admiring my driving skills."

"That's not as reassuring as you think," he said, voice pitched somewhere between hysteria and academic lecture.

"Where are we going? The lair of a different assassin who hopefully also doesn't want to kill me?

Or perhaps a nice underground bunker where you keep all your not-quite-murdered therapists? "

I caught his eyes lingering on my forearms as I shifted gears, his gaze darting away when I noticed. Interesting. Dr. Professional was still in there somewhere, appreciating the view despite his predicament.

"Somewhere safe," I replied with a snort. "A place to regroup, figure out next steps. And get you clothes, though that's lower on my priority list."

"And then what? I can't just disappear. I have patients, responsibilities."

"Then we find whoever put the hit out and convince them to retract it," I said casually, as if suggesting coffee. "I'm very persuasive. You might have noticed."

"Just like that? "

"Didn't say it'd be easy. But I'm good at what I do." I glanced sideways, enjoying how flustered he looked. "Very good, in fact. In all kinds of situations."