Page 77 of Tango
“Better?”
I take another steady breath and smile at him. “Yes. Thanks.”
He nods. “Once we’re in the bins, we’ll need to remain silent, okay?”
“Okay.”
“The earpiece is sensitive, so if you need to talk, the slightest whisper should do it.”
“Okay.”
He smiles at me then reaches forward over the console and gestures for me to lean in. I do, until we’re only a breath apart. Tucker’s finger gently touches the earpiece, and it beeps in my ear.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Bright blue eyes level on mine, and his lips part just slightly.
My heart pounds.
Tucker swallows hard, and his gaze drops to my lips for just a moment. Does he feel this too? This bone-deep, soul-warming connection between us? Or is it just a basic attraction for him? “I want to revisit that promise I made to myself once this is all over,” he says. “Because I’m not sure I can let you go.”
My stomach flutters. “Then don’t.”
His hand gently caresses my cheek. “For luck.” Leaning in, he presses his lips tenderly against mine. Like smooth waves kissing the shoreline, he keeps the kiss soft. Gentle. A promise of what’s to come should we survive this. But even as terrified as I’ve been, the roaring of my heart steals every bit of fear from me. Because if I have God on my side and Tucker here with me, then what do I have to fear?
I’ve been in this bin before. Curled in the bottom beneath the lining, taking slow, careful breaths so I don’t move so much that the janitors notice. Then, it had been exciting. A challenge to win. An adult version of hide-and-seek, where the worst thing to happen would be Ramiro beating me.
Now there’s so much more to lose though.
Tucker.
My life.
Our freedom should we be arrested.
With only the deafening sound of my pulse echoing in my ears to keep me company, I pray. Constantly. Incessantly repeating my favorite verse from Psalm 32.
“For You are my hiding place; You protect me from trouble. You surround me with songs of victory.”
We’re doing this for the right reasons—and that’s what I keep telling myself.
We’re fighting the good fight. A battle for our lives. And the Lord is beside us.
The door creaks open, and bootsteps grow closer.
Here we go.
“Then I told her that she could get lost,” one of the janitors says. Perry. I recognize his voice. Arguably, one of the kindest men you’ll meet—if he likes you. “Who is she to boss me around? They may have promoted her, but I refuse to answer to a spoiled little girl.”
“She’s our boss though,” the other janitor says. He’s younger, and while I don’t know him well, I remember he started a few weeks before everything fell apart. Keith. “We don’t have a say in that.”
“Well, I’ll quit before I let her order me around like she’s some sort of general.” He shoves the dumpster forward, and I jolt slightly, stabilizing myself as best I can with one arm against the top and my foot pressing to the bottom.
Keith chuckles. “You may not have to quit if they keep letting people go.”
“They need us. Those new security guards aren’t going to take the trash out, are they?”
“No. But they’ll supervise us doing it,” Perry mutters.
