Page 4 of In Death's Hands
“New company policy. We ask for the names of regular clients to greet them personally.”
Well… that’s not too bad, is it? I’ve almost convinced myself that my lie is plausible when I hear Joana’s snort behind me. Dammit.
I’m not surehegets any of it, though, as he seems lost in thought, his eyes pondering something. “Nathan?” he tells me, the inflection of his voice making it sound almost like a question. He nods and confirms, “I’m Nathan,” in a more decisive tone. “Thank you for the drink, Liv.” The way he says my name, like he’s tasting it for the first time, makes my cheeks warm. He starts walking away.
“Wait, how do you know my name?”
He turns to look pointedly at my chest, and I feel myself getting outraged when I remember the company tag with my name on it. It’s got “Olivia” written on it, but I scribbled out the first and last two letters years ago with a sharpie.
“Oh.”
He smirks and heads out of the shop. I try not to be disappointed that he’s not staying to drink his cup inside but fail miserably. Thankfully, an onslaught of new clients keeps my mind busy enough that I only replay our conversation a dozen times or so.
A few hours later, I throw my apron into my locker in the back room, grabbing my bag and slamming the door while putting my coat on.
I’m late.
I was busy chatting with Lewis, a homeless man that comes in from time to time for a hot drink and some company. It took me years to convince him, and even now, he doesn’t like to lingerlong for fear of bothering us. So, when he came in, I couldn’t find it in me to tell him my stern guitar teacher will kill me if I’m late.
Knowing that he accepted a piece of cake along with an extra-large hot chocolate will make Miss Anderson’s sermons worth it, though.
I put my headphones on my ears and practically run out of the shop, waving at my colleagues on the way out.
Miss Anderson used to be a guitar teacher at the Royal Academy of Music. She’s now retired but probably missed terrorising students, so she decided to give private lessons.
I kinda suck at playing the guitar, to be honest, but I love it. The fact that after two years I still struggle with the most basic partitions only bothers my perfectionist of a teacher. She takes it as her own failure and refuses to give up.
I hurry down the street, bumping into tourists more focused on the sights than on the people around them. It feels both like yesterday and forever ago since I was one of them.
Thankfully, I don’t have to walk for long before I see the entrance to the Tube. I just need to cross the road, the traffic currently at a standstill due to people exiting a red double-decker bus. As I make to step ahead of the bus and cross, a bike comes out of nowhere and nearly topples me to the ground. I get stuck in place, brain working out the curses the man was uttering loudly as he almost killed me.
I don’t have time for this shit. I take another step forward, but I must have taken too long. I’ve lost my window. The bus is pulling out behind me and I find myself in the middle of moving cars. With my heart pounding in my chest, I take a retreating step, deciding that I’d rather be late than take my chances with Death.
Only I don’t seem to get a choice. As I try to retreat to the pavement, the sound of a honk registers a second before I see a car rushing towards me.
Everything slows down. The honk is still loud in my ears, as is the screech of the tires braking on the tarmac. I try to move, but I know it’s too late. The scene goes black as I close my eyes, clearly too much of a coward to face this. And through all of this, I don’t yell. No, the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, “Shit. Notagain!”
I wake up with a massive headache. Really, this one should be crowned ruler of all headaches. The light next to my bed forces me to close my eyes immediately after opening them, which is why I don’t realise where I am right away.
It’s the too-soft sheets that give me the first clue. Is that silk? Whohassilk sheets?
I don’t. Fuck. Idon’t.
I hurry out of bed, but the sheets are too soft. My legs tangle in the fabric and I slip, crashing onto the carpeted floor.
“You seem to do that a lot,” says a rumbling voice.
I yelp and fight the sheets off. It takes a ridiculous amount of time for them to release me. Once I’m standing, I realise that the man from the coffee shop, Nathan, is standing tall in the doorway. On my right there is an entire wall made of windows, the sky beyond still dark. On my left are the bed I just extracted myself from and a second door leading to what I can only assume is a bathroom.
I focus on the man in front of me and try not to panic. Surely there’s an explanation for why my head is murdering itself and why I woke up in a stranger’s place.
“What did you do to me?”
His eyes widen in shock, but I swear I see fear in them. Okay, maybe that’s not the smartest thing to ask, since it doesn’t seem wise to antagonise the big man who may have kidnappedme. I stand my ground and fight the vicious fog inside my head to put words in a different order. “What happened?”
“You were in an accident. Don’t you remember?”
A chill goes through me, and I close my eyes. His words unleash the memories of my most recent near-death experience. I remember being late and running to my lesson. I see the white and red lights of the cars and I recall bracing for impact.
