.o Stormy Confessions o.


Alyson

"You should be resting."

I didn't turn around, keeping my gaze on the little girl in the street below. She was holding a white umbrella with purple polka dots, the raindrops on the window making them look more like large raisins on a pillowcase. In the seventeen minutes I'd been watching her, she'd splashed in puddles, ran through the small current forming by the curb, and not once looked around to check the perimeter. "I'm not really the resting type."

The floor creaked as Preston crossed the room. "You're not the type to ask for help either," he said. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't do it from time to time."

"If you're here to make me talk-"

"I'm here because it's my house. You showed up in a hysterical bloody mess three days ago, remember?"

I closed my eyes, refusing to turn around. A long breath escaped my nose before I opened them. Outside the girl was catching raindrops on her tongue. She had no clue someone was watching her, and she didn't care. Why should she? She was normal.

Preston was never one to be ignored by me. "Look, you were right when you said I owed you," he told me, growing impatient. "You're alive, and I've made sure my mother hasn't contacted anyone about you, but I can't hide you here-"

"I'm not hiding." My voice came out too hard. I didn't want to talk about it.

"-without you at least telling me what's going on," he plowed on. I could practically hear him shaking his head at me. "You can't expect me to keep you here without knowing what to look out for, not knowing what kind of danger you're in-"

"Don't do that!" I snapped, whirling on him. To his credit, he didn't flinch. It seemed not all the training had been wasted on him. "Don't act like you're trying to help me-"

His eyes widened. "If I'm trying not to help you, what am I doing?" he nearly shouted. "Running a bed and breakfast?"

My teeth were grinding so hard my jaw hurt. "You're paying off a debt. You're not calling anyone about me because you don't know who to call. Don't pretend you actually care about me. Don't act like we both don't already know where each of our loyalties lies."

Preston didn't say anything. For a second he just stood there, staring and I momentarily wondered if he was pondering the most convenient person to call about me. As if calling top secret government agencies was as trivial as deciding where to order your pizza from.

Yes, I have an insane, severely problematic fugitive topped with extra psycho. Do you pick up?

After a minute, he spoke, his voice so low I actually had to try to hear him. "That's the thing, Ally. You always assume you know where a person's loyalties are. " His eyes grew soft, and I couldn't stand to look at him, not when the pity was practically pouring out of him in waves. "You think because an ally chooses to help someone else, it means they've thrown you to the wolves." He crossed his arms. "Not not everyone is out to get you."

"CIA, FBI, Interpol," I started rattling off the groups who were most definitely out to get me. Anything to get him to change courses.

It worked. Preston huffed. "You know that's not what I mean."

That was true. I knew what he meant. That didn't mean he was right. It only meant that he was as fooled as the rest of them, and it only amplified my annoyance. I didn't want to talk about it.

I guess he was able to read my expression because he threw his hands up with an exasperated breath before pointing at me. "Stay right there," he snapped, and then he marched out of the room.

There was the sound of doors being swung open and shut, the noise fading as he got further into the house. I glanced back out the window. There was a man with the little girl now. They were kicking water at each other, the bottoms of their pants soaked through.

Three minutes and nine seconds later, the door swung open again, and there was a small thud as something hit the bed. I turned, raising an eyebrow when I saw the two items Preston had retrieved to show me. "A spider-man watch? Really?"

He snatched it off the bed. I couldn't be sure, but it looked like he was suppressing a laugh. "Let me tell you a story-"

"Please don't."

"-A story about the week a boy met two girls at a hotel in Boston. Two girls who changed his world in different ways."

I glared, reaching for the watch; but he stepped back, a twinkle in his eyes. He was teasing me. I was half tempted to storm out of the room, but there would be no point. I couldn't leave, and it was his house. He would follow me anywhere I went.

After a minute long staring contest, I finally huffed and leaned against the wall. Three days had allowed my body to rest, but there was still aches where busied skin met scarring cuts. If Preston insisted on acting ridiculous, I could always hit him later for it when moving didn't hurt so badly.

Grinning, Preston sat on the bed, still holding up the watch. "One of the girls saved his life that day-"

"They weren't after yo-" I tried, but he shook the watch in my face. I smacked it away.

"The other," he continued, looking far too smug. "The other girl saved him from being dangerously stupid on a rooftop." He grinned. "Now, you tell me which girl is standing in front of me now."

"I don't like mind games, Preston."

His laugh was short and loud and entirely mocking. "Oh, don't you?" He asked. "I heard they were your specialty."

"And last I heard, you didn't like talking about Boston," I shot back.

He was quiet for a moment, his grin faltering. He looked like someone waking up from a dream when he said, "I don't." Then with a small shake of his head, he tossed the watch at me. "But I don't like seeing you like this more." He paused. "Do you remember how we met?"

"Yeah." Of course. It wasn't a day I would forget anytime soon, and funny enough, Preston had nearly nothing to do with that.

I looked down at the watch in my hand. It looked as dorky as it had the day I'd swiped it from a politician's son years ago, swinging it as he chased after me. Of course then I'd led him to an empty bathroom, locked him in, and told him exactly how stupid it would be to stick with Macey and her friend when they arrived; then, when it became obvious he wasn't going to listen, I'd made sure he didn't do anything stupid while dangling on the side of a multistory building. What he didn't know is the only reason I'd been there was my mother had banned me from the rooftop, and I'd happened to see him trying to figure out the controls, nearly plummeting himself down sixty stories.

He didn't know that was the day everything changed. He didn't know that Zach had never quite forgiven me for being a part of the attack. The Preston back then still hated the training his father put him through. That Preston was ignorant of his birthright, his world, our world. When I would corner him for information a few months later he still wouldn't know quite yet; it wouldn't be until Mother did a little digging on Winters that Preston would make the connection. And even then he'd still be naive and scared and skeptical.

The Preston in front of me was none of those things. In fact, the Preston in front of me was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, staring at me as if he were waiting for a moth to escape from its cocoon.

I bristled under his stare. It felt too raw, to revealing. "Is there a point to this?" I snapped, flinging the watch back at him.

He didn't react right away, still watching me. Finally, he shrugged and reached over, grabbing the other item, a small velvet box. He tossed it to me.

"What is this?"

"It's a box. You open it." He made an act of opening an invisible box in his hand, his grin returning. I could have punched him right then.

Instead, I begrudgingly decided to humor him and opened the box. Inside was another watch, this one gleaming either silver or white gold. My bet was white gold. I didn't know anything about nice watches, only that this one was worth more than anything I'd ever stolen. I glanced up at the boy across from me, curiosity getting the best of me. "Nice watch."

"Yeah," Preston nodded, the grin vacant. There was a hollowness in his eyes that I recognized all too well. The box in my hand suddenly felt heavier.

"This was your father's," I said, unease spreading through my limbs and knotting in my gut. It wasn't a question, but he nodded again anyway.

When he spoke, his voice was low. "I swiped it from one of the old houses. Mom doesn't know." He shook his head, a mirthless chuckle reverberating in his throat. "I know he was technically evil and wanted to start World War Three and all, but that's not the part of him I saw. Well, at least not until the last year or so." A sigh slipped from his lips, and in my head, alarms were blaring. "I just wanted something to hold on to, because, despite supremely sucking as a person, he was still my dad." He glanced up at me.

I didn't want to talk about it. My stomach was churning, and I think my nails had sliced through the velvet on the box. "Don't."

Preston stood up. "Ally-"

"No!" I burst, throwing the box at him. "No. I know what you're doing, and I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about!"

"Before you passed out three days ago, you told me you'd just found out who your father is," he replied. "I think there is."

"It's none of your business."

"I'm sorry. Who just nursed you back from the walking dead?" he snapped. "Just because you're scared-"

"I am not scared!" I screeched, far to quickly to be convincing.

Preston gave me a look. "Just because you're upset, you can't just avoid the situation. You have to talk to someone, try to face him!"

The ants were crawling over my skin again. I shook out my hands, noticing for the first time that both of them were bare. I blinked. "Where are my gloves?"

"Don't try to change the subject-"

I shot forward, ignoring the way my muscles protested. He dodged, just out of my reach. "Where are they, Preston?" My voice came out as a growl.

He shook his head. "You were only wearing one when you came to us, and we took the other one while looking you over."

"Give it back!" I moved towards him again, but he stood his ground.

"No," he snapped, giving my shoulders a shove, and I stumbled back onto the bed.

A hiss escaped my teeth, pain blossoming from my legs. Preston took a step towards me carefully like he was approaching an injured animal. In a way, I guess he was. "Alyson?"

"I need that glove." I was sliding down until my knees hit the floor.

Preston crouched down, confusion and worry in his eyes. "Why?"

My head was shaking, my hands clawing into the carpet. "I need it."

His hands were on my shoulders. "Why, Alyson?"

"I can't. I can't." I'm not even sure if I knew what I was saying. I didn't want to talk about it; I didn't want to think about it.

"Can't what?"

"I can't face him. I can't face them-" " A hiccup choked me. My jaw tightened. I refused to cry again. Refused to be that weak again.

Preston pushed my shoulders back, forcing me to look at him. "You have to, Ally. I know Zach, he's not going to-"

"You don't know anything!" Maybe it sounded more like a petty teenage girl than a highly trained assassin. At that moment, I didn't care. I shoved the only boy who'd ever be crazy enough to help me away and bolted for the door.

I heard him calling after me as my feet sped down the stairs. It hurt, but the pain was irreverent. It's always there. Whether physical or mental or both, conscious or unconscious, it's always there; only armatures give in. And I was no armature. When I nearly slammed into the door, I didn't pause. My stinging hands flew over the locks, throwing open the door before the boy behind me could call my name again. Heat was crawling up my back, my neck. My ears pounded with the sound of my own heart. In the distance I could hear the phantom of destruction; I could feel the fire chasing me. I couldn't breathe. I needed to get out.

Damp air rushed to my lungs as I burst through the door. I nearly crumbled right there, raindrops cooling the ghost fire from my back, my hair, my hands. Everything in me was screaming to run, to get away from the fire behind me. But I realized as my feet slowed, reaching the end of the yard, there was nowhere else to go.

Stepping onto the street, I noticed the girl with the umbrella staring at me. When she noticed I'd looked up, she tugged on the arm of the man next to her, pointing.

"Alyson!" There was a rapid squishing noise, I guessed were Preston's footfalls as he ran after me. They paused halfway down the lawn. "Ally?"

I didn't answer. My focus was on the girl and the man who was now staring at me, looking me up and down, taking in my scars and bruises and the wild nest that was my hair. After a moment, he said something to the girl, and I didn't bother to read his lips. I didn't want to know what he thought of me, to hear his warnings not to stare at the crazy girl.

Behind me, Preston was easing forward, probably scared I would start running again. But Evelyn had been right- Clara- Clara who I'd abandoned- had been right. I glanced down at my bare hands, the scarred skin that had never fully healed. It was time to stop running.

Preston's voice was a whisper at my back. "Alyson, you don't have to do this alone."

Rainwater dripped from the ends of my hair, my hands, my face. In front of me, the girl was grinning as her father lifted her onto his shoulders and began walking towards a house on the end of the street. "I know," I told Preston, watching the girl and her father's retreating backs. "Will you go with me?" I felt his hand on my shoulder.

"Of course."