Page 80 of Girl, Reformed

‘Wow,’ Ella said. ‘That was...’

‘A terrible idea,’ Luca finished.

'The worst,' Ella agreed, a grin splittingher face. The smart call would be to tap out now, to shove this back in its boxand throw away the key. Nip the bud of intimacy before it could take root inthe salted earth of her heart.

But something stopped her. Maybe it wasthe keenness of the lonely wind in her ears, mourning for connection. Maybe itwas the phantom warmth of Luca's lips on hers, the promise of shelter, howeverbrief. Or maybe she was just finally ready to land - to put down roots, howevergnarled, in something other than death and brutality.

‘Maybe we need to practice a little more,’he said.

Ella laughed, the sound rusty but real.She leaned back, putting some much-needed distance between them before she didsomething really stupid, like jump the guy’s bones right there on theLaughingstock's sticky stage.

‘Good idea.’

She climbed to her feet, grabbed Luca’shand and pulled him up. This time, she didn’t let go. She intertwined herfingers into his and led him down from the stage, out into the weak sunlight.

She knew it was temporary. Knew the abyssalways called its children home in the end. But here, now, with Luca's pulsebeating hummingbird-quick against her own, it was enough.

EPILOGUE

Mia Ripley didn’t know how long she’d beensitting on this damn kerosene barrel. Time slipped by in an excruciating crawl,seconds into minutes into hours, marked only by the slow march of shadowsacross oil-stained concrete and the occasional skitter of unseen vermin in thewalls.

She'd picked the lock on this freakshowstorage unit in the wee hours, high on heartbreak and sleep deprivation. Tradedthe cold comfort of her car for the dank confines of this corrugated metal box,all on a wild hunch and a masochistic need to know. To ferret out thetruth, no matter how buck-toothed and ugly it might be.

But with each hour that ticked by with nosign of Martin, doubt crept in like damp rot. Maybe she'd jumped the gun, likealways. Stuck her nose where it didn't belong and ripped the scab off somethingbetter left to fester.

It was enough to make a saner woman cutand run. To pack it in, wash her hands of this whole sordid mess and never lookback. But Mia had never been accused of being particularly sane. Or smart, whenit came to matters of the heart. No, she was a glutton for punishment, amasochist of the highest order. She'd see this through to the bitter end, evenif it killed her.

So she waited. Leaning against the coldmetal wall, eyes gritty and head pounding. Sleep crept up on her in fits andstarts, teasing her with oblivion only to dance away again. For years she’dbeen telling anyone who’d listen that she was getting too old for this crap.All-nighters and stakeouts, running on fumes and nerves frayed raw as dollarstore carpets. Time was, she could go days without sleep - just her, herinstincts, and a stomach loaded with bad coffee.

But that was then. A lifetime ago, whenthe job was all she had, the only thing tethering her to the world. Beforeshe'd gone soft, let herself hope for something more than a tin star and aticket to oblivion.

Before Martin.

Mia pressed the heels of her hands againsther eyes until starbursts painted the backs of her lids. Sucked in a slowlungful of kerosene and dust, mildew and misery so thick she could almost chewthe air.

She should go. Cut her losses, chalk thisup to another lesson carved in scar tissue, and walk away while she stillcould. There was no coming back from this, no matter what her traitor heartwanted to believe.

Then, in a flash of gut-punch clarity, asoft scuff outside the unit. Rubber soles on oil-slick pavement.

Mia went statue-still, not daring tobreathe. Her fingertips tingled, curling instinctively around the absence ofher service Glock, still nestled uselessly in the glove box, left behind in amoment of weakness or perhaps level-headedness. A desperate attempt to keepthis from turning into a bloodbath. Because she knew, deep in her bones, thatif she had it on her now, things could very well go sideways. So she'd playedit safe. Left the gun behind, traded cold steel for colder logic. Tried toconvince herself that she could handle this with her head.

But for a reason only her subconsciousknew, she was starting to regret that decision.

She waited for the jangle of keys, thesnick of the lock disengaging. The creak of hinges as the door swung open toreveal her fate, her future, her whole damn world teetering on the edge of aknife.

But nothing happened. The door stayedclosed, the silence stretching like a noose. And Mia knew with an excruciatingcertainty that settled in her guts like lead, that Martin was out there.

She felt it like an itch between hershoulder blades. A sixth sense honed by a hundred hunts, a thousand close callsin the jaws of a beast.

And worse yet, Martin – the stranger onthe other side of the door – knew she was in here. Knew she was waiting,wanting.

They were trapped in a standoff. Twoserpents coiled in their den, waiting to see who would strike first. Who wouldbreak, who would shatter the illusion of civility, of love, that they'd builtbetween them like a house of cards.

Ripley broke first. She always did, in theend.

‘Martin,’ she said. ‘Get in here. Please.’

The word felt jagged in her throat. Ripleycouldn't remember the last time she'd said please, the last time she'd askedinstead of demanded.

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