Deliver Us To Temptation

Chapter 10: Run

The rope catches, but none too soon. A sharp intake of breath as she readies herself for a harsh slam against someone's living room window. God she doesn't know why she left him but she does. That love...

Had she been lying?

Yes. She had lied to herself and Vaughn and her heart and everything in between. Once upon a time, when the world was still real and nothing contrived, she had loved him truly. She imagines she still does, but—like him—she had run. Except she had been chasing instead of escaping.

-

He drops to his knees. Is this possible? Did she really just jump? He wants to forget, pretend like this is a dream, but stray shards of glass from his once-beautiful window are beneath his knees. He can see blood trickling already.

A million and one questions are sitting on his mind. But the topic fogging over them, what makes him even more clueless than he is already: She had forgiven him.

Of course, that had been a lie, a smokescreen. And it had worked. An eye for an eye—or, in this case, a bullet for a bullet. She had aimed behind her with the gun as she jumped, using the bullet's impact on the glass as segueway for her departure. It was ingenious.

He can't help marveling at this unbelievable woman.

-

With a furiously loud crash, she flies. More glass surrounds her when she lands on the floor, clear speckles digging into her palms as she cartwheels to soften her landing. A scream and a shout welcome her, and two completely nude beings scramble away from her in shock. The man searches beneath the coffee table without removing his eyes from her, until he has a silver gun pointing at her.

"Don't shoot!" She catches his and her eyes, trying to speak earnestly. "Please, I just need to—"

She makes a mad dash for the door and kicks it down, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through her system. Bullets follow her as she runs through the labyrinth of hallways, finally reaching a fire escape.

-

The blood is staining his rich hardwood floors. A cool night breeze is drifting through the nonexistent window and makes every hair on his body stand on end, each crying out for heat.

He finds himself standing, moving, reaching into the secret panel of the freezer, holding up the gun. Light shines on it, reflecting, and for some reason he is reminded of the night she returned. He sees her before him in that red dress, lusty voice speaking few but many words. He sees himself slipping the gun into his pocket, expecting a customer. What did he end up with? The opposite of a customer. His past, his future, his everything.

He cocks the gun but can't pull the trigger. There is no energy in his index finger. God, why can't he pull the fucking trigger?

Maybe, he realizes, it's time to run. Again.

-

She takes the stairs two, three, four at a time. She's flying again, but doesn't acknowledge the feeling because of the fear that is beginning to creep over her. The endless questions: What if I don't make it? What if I'm not fast enough? What if he shoots me?

At that she almost laughs. How many times has she been shot at and survived? She leaps to the bottom of the staircase and forces her way through the door marked clearly in three different languages, "Emergency Exit Only." The alarm goes off behind her.

-

His consciousness is beginning to return. It's like an amazing trip but no acid involved. The most wonderful high he has ever felt. He pulls on his most comfortable jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket. Smooth criminal.

He grabs only a fistful of cash (American, British, French, Chinese) and his gym membership card, which doubles as his international identification. He leaves the door open as he exits, flooding the flat with the buzzing of the fire alarm he ignores.