Seated cross-legged on the mat, Oliver expelled the breath he was holding. He counted eight heartbeats, inhaled again. His mind eye turned toward the small of his back, looked to loosen the muscles there, then travelled up his back toward the tensed knot in his left arm…
"Damned it."
He was unable to meditate. Every time he tried, an image or a sound broke his concentration. Last night patrol had been miserable, and not just because the sky was pouring down on him. He'd logged in sometimes after diner, hoping to pull Chloe into a conversation through her findings about Zlythe. All he'd gotten for his effort was silence. Watchtower guided him through two muggings, a motor vehicle theft, and—that was a first— a call from a local evangelical church being vandalized in a distant, efficient way. Chloe remained unattainable.
The church was bad. Three young adults, two boys and a girl, had stoned down most of the colored windows. They had set the door on fire, and by the time he'd arrived, they had dragged someone outside, maybe the priest or a sacristan. The man was curled on his side, arms protecting his head, while the punks kicked him in the belly, the legs, the back, every part of him they could reach and harm.
Sitting on his yoga mat, Oliver closed his eyes as the whole scene unrolled in his head.
He was barely off his bike when Punk No. 1 pulled his leg back to boot the fallen man in the groin. He raised his crossbow, put an arrow through his chin to stop him. When the boy fell down screaming, the girl lifted what looked like a motor chain. Oliver aimed again, and her weapon went flying, pined to the ground by his bolt. She hollered in rage and would have flown herself at him if Punk No. 2 hadn't charged first. Oliver knocked him on the side of his head hard enough to dizzy him, to no avail. Reluctant to hit the teens, Oliver tried to pull his punches, but he was left with no choice when he realized that it was either them, or him.
He threw the girl over his shoulder in a judo move that left her out cold when she hit the pavement. Knocking the other boy down, he bent over the victim when he felt a nick on his biceps. The thrown knife clattered to the asphalt. The boy sniggered, then passed out.
Oliver examined the body lying on the ground, checking for injuries. The man they'd assaulted spat blood. "They are on drugs… They're good kids, just… misguided."
Misguided. He'd been misguided and high, and he'd never attacked anyone like that.
He'd checked with the hospital and the sacristan would make a complete recovery, at least. The three punks were in custody, with little hope for bail. Two would probably end up in juvie. The third was major and faced a heavier sentence. His rep sheet was too long for someone so young. The Green Arrow had done what he could. Oliver Queen was still reeling.
Oliver pushed the thought away as he unfolded from his lotus position. He grabbed a bottle of water in the bar before he walked on the terrace. The sun was finally peeking through the clouds, but it was timid and lacked its usual warmth.
The weather fit his mood, he decided. Gray to match the guilt, and as pale as the hope that things could get better. His own damned fault, he knew too. Of course, he hadn't planned on some stupid paparazzo catching his drunken act when they walked out. But still. He'd been the one putting her out of the equation, the one to ignore Hal's advice, so certain he could charm her into hearing him out afterward and agreeing he'd done the right thing. Foolish, arrogant, bordering boorish, that what he'd been. Was. How could he tell her how sorry he was if she didn't even pick up the phone? He'd apologized to her voicemail, twice. But he wanted to tell her himself he regretted he'd kept her in the dark and why. She deserved no less.
Oliver polished his water, and headed inside.
And so the later afternoon found him leaning against his bike in the alley behind her building. Oliver felt a bit foolish when he grabbed a handful of pebbles, and threw one at the closed shutter. The stone bounced back with an audible plonk. Oliver waited a few seconds, then threw another. Then a third a minute later.
Finally, the window opened. Chloe's mouth opened in surprise when she saw him then it pursed into a forbidding line. "What are you doing here?"
"Hope I can interest you in sight seeing?"
"I am in the middle of something."
The light gilded her hair with a pink gold halo. She looked like a fierce angel.
"Come on, Chlo. I just want to talk."
"You could have called."
"I did. Your voicemail is probably full by now. And some things are better said in person."
He watched her bite her bottom lip as she hesitated. "All right."
She disappeared again. Oliver stayed where he was, face turned up to the sky. The late afternoon soon finally burned a little brighter, a little warmer on his skin. If she agreed to a ride, he knew where he wanted to take her. If not, he would still have a chance to grovel.
One minute turned into two, then four. Oliver brushed the stones he'd dropped aside with his toe. They left a mark on the ground surface. The raw scratch disturbed him. He told himself to be patient. Chloe was coming down to meet him. It could be ten minutes or twenty. She was coming. He resisted the need to grab another pebble to throw at her window.
Lost in thought, he almost missed the crunch in his back. Oliver spun around to find Chloe zipping her leather jacket to her chin. "Let's go."
No 'say what you have to say and leave'. No, 'where are we going'. Her trust in him cut deep.
"I'm sorry, Chlo. I should have told you what I had in mind rather than blindside you. But I swear I didn't—"
"I would prefer not talking shop in the open if that's the same to you."
Talking shop. He was facing Watchtower, not Chloe. Unease twisted something in his chest that made it hard to breathe.
"Sure. Of course. Here, put this on."
Oliver handed her the spare helmet and stared at the guarded eyes disappeared behind the visor. He straddled the bike and waited for her to climb behind him.
Her grip on his waist reminded him of the day they'd met. Before they became friends, before he became her hero. Had he ruined that beyond repairs? Oliver tightened his grip on the handles as they veered off the seaside route into the old district. She turned her head in his back. She had probably guessed where they were going by now.
He stopped to open a small gate hidden in overgrown thujas. The park welcomed them in resplendent greens. The bike left an indentation in the grass. So late in the season, the caretakers only came to the house, so the vegetation did as it pleased, shedding leaves and preparing for winter.
Oliver finally came to a halt by the old blue oak he'd spent countless hours sitting on a kid. Chloe dismounted and pulled off the helmet. Her eyes fixated on his face as he did the same. The caution he read there gave him courage. "It's home. Was home."
Absence snaked in, insidious. "I don't know why I thought it would be easier here. I wanted you to see the house, I guess. Chloe…" He swallowed, his mouth suddenly too dry for the long speech he'd rehearsed for hours in his head. "Chloe, I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry if my actions, the pretence, hurt you. I wasn't drunk. I wasn't there to pick up loose women. The owner Evgeni Nabokov, is part of the Bratva. I wanted some intel about the jewelry store and the Duma was the fastest route."
"Because diamonds disappearing in Russia then the boutique of one of the best diamond cutters in California being vandalized in less than a month, that's too much coincidence."
"Yes."
She'd nailed it in one, his brilliant, fiery sidekick. "But I couldn't go there with you in my ear. I couldn't risk them finding the comms and tracing it back to Watchtower. To you. I know I should have told you. I know. Please."
Please believe me. Please forgive me. Please say something.
Oliver stared and waited for her silence to kill him.
