I did not say goodbye.
How could I? I mean I was the asshole who beat the crap out of her boyfriend and who walked fist first into the Russian mafia. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge, and cowards don't ride their horses down Main Street, firing their guns into the sky and yelling yippee-ki-yay, mother fucker.
They slink out in the middle of the night with a couple of duffle bags—when you live in a hotel, there's not much to take.
So, no goodbye. I drove past her apartment. A few local reporters were camped out. She and her dad were news now. Not TMZ-worthy, but still, I sat in the car clenching and unclenching my fists about a million times. It took a lot of deep breathing to convince myself that I shouldn't take their cameras and smash them into a mission pieces. Where had that ever gotten me anyway?
Yeah, I know. Right here.
For a long time, I wondered if I'd have gotten out of my car if they hadn't been there? Would I have had the balls to knock on her door? To say … something.
Probably not. Besides, I would have said all the wrong things. Because really, there were no right words. I could have said, "I know I should apologize, but I'm not sorry. You're one of only two people who ever looked at me and didn't assume the worst. At least for a while anyway. For that, I'll fight anything that ever threatens to hurt you."
It would have pissed her off more.
A real apology would have been a lie, and I was so fucking sick of lies and games.
No, leaving was better.