Page 85 of Their Arrangement
Like a crucifixion.
Ten minutes.
Or I give him my mouth and pretend it's yours.
I hit send.
Turned the phone face-down.
Closed my eyes.
And waited for the sound of the monster I prayed would come.
The man from the end of the bar waited.
He wasn’t ugly.
That would’ve made this easier. That would’ve let me recoil. Make a scene. Leave. Be saved from myself.
But he was handsome in the way expensive violence could be. Handsome in the way of cold watches and car keys held too tightly. And maybe that’s why I let him get close.
He wore a grey jacket with the collar popped and a watch he kept checking like he was late for something—or someone.
“Thought you were going to make me come to you,” he said. “Turns out you’ve got better taste than that.”
I smiled. The kind that didn’t reach anything real. “Do I?”
He slid into the booth beside me like he owned the seat, the air, and the story.
“You’re alone,” he said, voice low. “But you’re not here for drinks.”
I didn’t correct him.
He touched my wrist. His fingers were warm. A little rough. The kind of hand that had pressed too hard into too many things.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold,” I whispered.
He leaned closer.
“Then let me warm you up.”
My phone buzzed.
One long vibration.
Then black.
Battery dead.
No answer.
No Wolfe.
So I let him lean in.
Let his hand travel from my wrist to the chain around my neck.
