Page 22 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
He moved fast, vaulting over the table in one fluid motion. Julia barely had time to register what was happening before Daniel’s hand found her wrist. His grip was firm, but not rough.
"Hope you’re fast, ballerina."
She didn’t need to be told twice.
They ran.
The mercado blurred around her—faces, stalls, neon lights flashing past in a haze. The air pulsed with bass-heavy music, the rhythm matching the pounding of her heart.
Behind them, a shout. Then another.
Sebastián veered left, disappearing into a curtain of hanging tarps. Daniel tugged her right, shoving past a stack of crates into a narrow alley. The glow of a beer sign flickered weakly above them, casting shadows against damp pavement.
Daniel didn’t slow until they made it all the way back to where the ’Cuda parked. He pulled out his keys, glancing at her.
Julia wasn’t winded. If anything, she feltalive. She let out a breathless laugh, brushing her hair back. "That was intense."
Daniel smiled, unlocking the door. "Yeah? You kept up."
She met his gaze. The adrenaline still crackled between them, hot and electric.
A different kind of danger.
And for a moment, she wasn’t sure which one thrilled her more.
* * *
Daniel leaned against the 'Cuda, fishing in his pocket as the lake stretched out before them, silver under the moonlight.
The night air carried the scent of damp earth and gasoline, mixing with the distant hush of waves against the shore. The chase, the market, the city—it all felt distant now. Here, the night was quiet, the world smaller.
Julia got out of the car and joined him. "You’re not what I expected."
Daniel finally looked at her. "What did you expect?"
Julia thought for a moment, then just shook her head, smiling. "I’m still figuring that out."
He flicked open the lighter attached to his keyring, the flame briefly illuminating the palms of his hands. He touched it to the tip of the joint between his lips, inhaled, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke that curled into the cool night air. "Let me know when you do."
She looked back at the water. “Where’d you learn so much about cars?”
He tapped his joint, watching the ember glow in the dark. “My dad taught me,” he said, watching the lake. “He had this big old Chevy Impala. I’d set up obstacle courses in the gravel lot at the end of our street—cones, bits of wood, whatever junk I could find. I was eleven, could barely reach the pedals. But I was shit-scared of knocking over a single cone ’cause I knew he’d make me rework the whole body of the car.” He took another drag, then held the joint out to her. “And that was one big motherfucking Chevy.”
She eyed it. “I don’t smoke cigarettes.”
His grin was lazy. “It’s not a cigarette.”
Her lips parted slightly. “Oh.”
He waited.
She hesitated another beat, then reached for it, her fingers grazing his as she brought it to her lips. She inhaled.
And immediately choked.
Coughing, she shoved it back at him.
Daniel chuckled. “You good?”
