Page 33 of Stealth Mission

What’s left in the mug is getting cold. It’s not sitting right in my stomach. There’s a great big knot in there. I can’t shake this feeling. Or the memories of Walt’s hands roughly grabbing me as his tongue slid along mine doing wicked things.

He blew my mind.

The heroics. The kiss. The note.

A weird itchy sensation pulses inside my chest as my heart beats a foreign rhythm. It could be a great beat for salsa dancing.

I wrap my arms across my stomach. Walt.You ridiculously handsome, unpredictable devil.

He did everything a gentleman would do. Protected me. Took care of me. Made sure I was comfortable and safe.

I thought men like him were fiction.

A warm sensation seeps through me replacing the wool-shirt feeling. I fight a small smile.

How can I be smiling?

There was an explosion! Someone blew up Sylvester’s car.

Pushing up from the table, I pace to the bay window that overlooks the back patio. The mug has gone cool and my hands are clammy against the slick porcelain surface.

Breathing slowly, I force myself to look out. I can’t stare at that note forever.

Beyond the yard are acres and acres of my prize agave fields.

Mine.

Bittersweet word.

“I miss you, grandad,” I whisper into the silence.

Most mornings, I’m able to get past the bitter and find the sweet as I sit here and plan my day.

Not today. I’m too restless with a cloying sense of doom chasing me.

So much has happened. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

On top of everything, Walt is too good to be true.

Returning to the sink, I stare out that window. Storm clouds are growing to the East. Just like inside of me. There are too many emotions in there, warring like excited electrons.

A moment later I jolt back, realizing the water is still running. I shake out my hands, set the cup in the drying rack without looking.

Someone might think I’m staring at the green and brown expanse of land that stretches toward the horizon. But I’m not. Memories of last night are playing out like a movie inside my mind.

Sylvester bullying me. An explosion. The crazy car ride home.

A shiver rolls through me. If I had gotten in the car with Sylvester?—

My throat tightens and there’s a kick to my heart. “Stop, Marianna. You didn’t die. No one died.”

I wouldn’t have gotten in the car with him. Nothing would have happened. I won’t go anywhere with the man.

This moment of resolve makes me feel better. But the note on the table, that makes me feel confused.

Should I be so happy to have his number and know that he’s coming by?

Shoving the note in my back pocket, I bolt from the kitchen, out the patio door.

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