Page 38 of Fallen Empire
I stepped inside, heading straight for the machine against the far wall. My throat was dry, my head pounding, and I just needed something cold, something carbonated, something to anchor me for one damn second.
My hand reached for my purse, only to grab nothing but air.
Shit.
I’d left it. Right by the sofa in Savannah’s room.
“Of course I did,” I muttered under my breath, leaning forward until my forehead thudded against the cool glass of the machine. My fist hit the side of it with a dull smack, as if somehow, it might magically spit out a Coke out of pity.
It didn’t.
Behind me, a low throat-clear cut through the quiet.
“Forgot to grab cash?” a man said, his voice smooth. Calm. Like he belonged here.
I stiffened.
He was seated just a few chairs away. How had I not noticed him when I walked in?
I turned to face him. He didn’t look like someone who belonged in a hospital waiting room. Not in the jeans that probably cost more than most people’s rent or the fitted black jacket resting against his broad shoulders. His hair was cleanly styled, but not overly neat. Everything about him was... intentional. Effortlessly sharp.
His face, though. I didn’t recognize it. Not really.
But something about him made my skin tighten.
He offered a polite smile. “I hate when that happens.”
“Yeah,” I said cautiously, my eyes still sizing him up. “It’s fine. The room’s just down the hall.”
I turned to leave.
“Here,” he said, holding out three crisp one-dollar bills.
“No need to walk all the way back. We’re all here for a reason. I just hope yours isn’t as bad as mine.”
I hesitated, eyeing the bills. His fingers were steady. His tone? Conversational. Casual. But there was something underneath it. Something colder.
I forced a smile. “Depends on your definition of bad.”
It was my nerves—still raw, still frayed—that had me on edge. I was judging this man solely off everything that had transpired over the last few days. The chaos. The fear. The blood.
I needed to chill.
I took the bills from his outstretched hand, our fingers brushing briefly.
“Thank you,” I said, barely above a whisper. “I can bring you back some cash.”
He shook his head lightly as I turned toward the vending machine. “No worries,” he replied, that easy voice still low. “It’s just a few dollars.”
By the time the third bill slipped into the slot and disappeared, my throat was screaming for relief, like a plant on the verge of death, parched and limp and reaching for any drop of water.
I jabbed the Coke button and waited for the machine to rumble.
While I stood there, I glanced back at him.
He was still in the same position, eyes cast downward, like he was reliving something. Something that weighed heavy. Something personal.
His expression was unreadable. Not cold, but... detached.
