Page 17 of Assistant to the Assassin

Ohmyfuckinggodohmyfuckinggod

Henry dreamed about me kissing him? He deems that too good to be true?

My receiver beeps at me, indicating I’m still low, but I ignore it. I flip a couple pages ahead, skimming his handwriting for my name, and land on his twelfth entry.

Therapy Journal

Entry 12

Beth plays her music so much around the office that some of it has been imbedded into my subconscious. I had a dream where she was dancing to a love song by that redheaded British guy, singing it completely off-key, and when she noticed me watching her, she invited me to dance with her. We swayed to the music until it ended, and then she kissed me. I woke up and found my cheeks wet. I had cried in my sleep. Haven’t done that since I was a teenager.

A whimper escapes my mouth; it’s a mystery if it was born from sadness, joy, or empathy. Maybe all of the above.

Henry has feelings for me.

Henry has feelings for me.

Is it the right time to do a happy dance? Absolutely not. But that doesn’t stop me from doing one. I jump up and down and do the churning butter move with my arms like an idiot. It goes on for more than a minute before I remind myself that Henry is currently trying to escape England with his life, and I still have to get my butt out of the country. So, I swallow my excitement, stuff the rest of Henry’s belongings in my purse, then leave his apartment to go to my own.

After a short drive where I grin to myself like I’m about to pass gas, I make it to my apartment. I slip inside, lock the door behind me, then I walk into my closet and retrieve my go-bag. I then proceed to stuff my favorite clothes inside, as well as my hair products, makeup, face wash, hygiene products, and tampons. I go into my kitchen and fill up a cooler with insulin vials for my pump, my extra insulin pens, extra needles, extra tubes and pump cartridges, a backup blood sugar meter, test strips, lancets, a glucagon, and extra CGMs.

When you are chronically ill there is no such thing as traveling light.

After I finish packing my supplies, I make sure to charge my receiver and pump, so they don’t die on the way to Neverland. Charging the latter means I have to sit next to a socket so the pump can stay connected to me. Henry has remarked before that I look like a robot when I do this. I guess in a way I am. My entire life revolves around machines. It’s sad when you really think about it.

It’s not like I can do anything about it, though. This is just my life.

Once everything is charged, I go to my bin of shoes in my living room and grab my sneakers and black flats, throwing both in the go-bag. I then do a thorough sweep of the apartment to make sure I’m not leaving anything behind, and when I’m satisfied I’m not, I put my bag and cooler into my car, go back to lock up my apartment, but then take a second to look around and take in this place, knowing full well I’ll never be back.

Because of a stupid little power surge, we’re both out of jobs and have to live in hiding for the rest of our lives. We can’t enter the UK or US again, we can’t get new jobs in or out of our field, and we’ll basically be stuck on our little island. I shouldn’t be as excited for the prospect as I am. A life in retirement with Henry on an island in the Caribbean? Sign me the fuck up.

Henry will probably try to convince me to find a home and employment somewhere else, since I won’t be in nearly as much danger as him going forward. Theoretically, I could find work somewhere in the Caribbean, and I most definitely could find other housing arrangements besides our safe house, but I don’t give a shit. Henry has been stuck with me since he hired me as his assistant, and now that I know how he feels? There’s no way he’s getting rid of me now. He and I are going to live happily ever after on Neverland until we die old and crotchety.

That is, if we can make it there alive.

I Been Facing Trouble All My Life

I bang my fist on the blue townhouse door, praying to God that he’s home right now. It would be just my luck that tonight is the night Mr. Parties Are For Children chose to go out in the town. But considering he picked Manchester to settle down in, I can only assume he’s still an anti-social homebody.

“I’m fucking coming! Jesus Christ in a…” His voice trails off as he begins mumbling to himself, undoing all the locks on his door. He swings it open, about ready to speak again, but he falls speechless when he realizes I’m the one standing there.

Ian Lukas looks a lot different than the last time I saw him. Gone is his spiky brown hair, clean-shaven face, and wrestler physique. Now his hair is almost at his shoulders, he has a beard that covers half his face, and his body is incredibly lean—though he is still as freakishly tall as ever at 6’5”. His shirt is off, so I can see tattoos covering most of his pale skin, and my heart clenches a little when I see the one over his heart:

Non sibi sed patriae.

Not for self, but for country.

The motto of the Navy.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, looking right and left of the street behind me. “Get in.”

I slip past him and wait in his entryway as he relocks his door and closes all the blinds on his windows. Now he turns to me, assessing me the same way I did him before.

“You look like shit, Beast,” I remark, not knowing what else to say That was his callsign, given to him because of how freakishly tall he is.

He glares, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t call me that. You lost that privilege a long time ago.”

“You know why I left.” Or at least part of the reason I left.

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