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A/N:
Ahoy! It has (once again) been a while. I'm sorry to keep you all waiting, I really am, but sometimes real life is a bitch. One thing I want to emphasize, though is that even though it has been taking me longer to get these chapters out recently, I am by no means even thinking about not finishing this story. It will be completed. Scout's honor. Those of you who have left lovely-yet-despairing reviews asking me not to quit writing, fear not! I promise that I won't leave Hitward and emo-Bella hanging with out an ending.
With that, I'd like to thank Twilightzoner for her ever helpful critical eye, AerosolDoc for extraordinary beta-ing and encouragement when I was once again ready to rip this thing to pieces rather than post, and ladies of the Coven ( you know who you are) for being an awesome writing and critiquing community.
And of course, I'd like to thank you the readers, especially those who have taken the time to PM or review to let me know what it is about this story that has drawn you in. I am particularly grateful for the insights that help me make it better.
Enjoy!
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Water burst out of the metal faucet, drumming against the plastic sides of the workroom sink. Bella plunged her arms into the water, wincing as the stream hit her grease-covered skin. It was almost too hot, and she had to will herself to hold still while her body slowly adjusted to the temperature. Then she reached for the industrial-strength liquid soap to scrub layers of muck off her fingers, hands and forearms. It had been a long day, and she had spent most of it here, in the back of the bike shop. Between the backlog of repairs and new bikes that had to be assembled and tuned, there was plenty to do. For the third night in a row, she was the last of the mechanics to go home, staying after the store closed to make up for the hours she had missed the week before.
Truth was, she didn't mind. The money was shit, but working at Johnny Sprockets wasn't about the paycheck. These days, fixing bikes was just about the only thing she still managed to enjoy. There was something about the work – wrestling with gears and spokes, up to her elbows in the gray, oily gunk that was the blood and sweat of any honest machine – that recharged her. That made it easier to go home at the end of the day. And even if the evening turned bad, with too much liquor in her stomach and too much blood in the bathroom sink, there was still reason to get up in the morning. At the shop, she had something to work on, something to fix. As trivial as it seemed, the work mattered. Each frame that she assembled, each set of wheels that she aligned, each busted up and rusted wreck of a bike that she managed to salvage – it meant something.
"Hey Bella!" Angela's voice rang out across the sales floor. "There's someone here to see you."
Bella jerked her hands out of sink and turned off the water. She hadn't even heard the door open. "What?"
"There's a guy here to see you!" the store manager called back.
Wiping her hands haphazardly on the gray apron around her waist, Bella stepped away from the sink and headed quickly for the front of the store. Her feet skirted around tools and bicycle parts, then the bikes themselves as she turned down the first aisle, squinting through handlebars and spokes to make out the figure who now stood next to the checkout counter. Angela, who was arranging a display at the head of the aisle, arched a neatly-penciled eyebrow as Bella rushed past.
But the sight that greeted her was not what she expected. The man standing by the front door had blond, not bronze hair, stood about three inches too short, and carried fifteen extra pounds around his waistline.
"Oh," she let out, her shoes squeaking to a stop on the tiled floor. It took her a moment to recognize the guy. "Hi. Something wrong with the Cannondale?"
"No, no, it's fine," the customer replied somewhat sheepishly. "But I forgot to get my license back from you after the test ride."
"Uh – yeah. Okay, hang on a second. I've got it in the back." Retrieving the license from a locked drawer in the workroom, she muttered "no problem" as the man gratefully wished her a good night. Turning back, her eyes landed on Angela. The tall, olive-skinned woman was watching her with amusement playing at the corners of her eyes. Suddenly, Bella felt too self-conscious to hold Angela's gaze. Ducking silently into the next aisle, she scowled at her nerves. Since when are you so eager for him to show up again?
Collecting her messenger bag and umbrella from the back, she approached the front of the store for a second time. "All right, I'm done for the night," she said quickly. Angela was now shuffling through various receipts and order slips piled up around the resister. She turned as Bella walked past, casting an appraising glance at her half-opened umbrella. "Headed for your other job?"
"No, I'm off this weekend," Bella replied, a few feet short of the front door.
"That's gotta feel good. You're only there part time, right?"
"Yeah."
"I used to tend bar. Good money, huh?"
"Helps pay the bills."
"You live up north?" Angela continued.
"Uh, yeah," Bella repeated, unsure of where the conversation was going. "North of Halsted and Belmont."
"Well, I drove in this morning. I could give you a ride. It's on my way." Angela slammed the register shut and reached for her shoulder bag. Its bright, multi-colored fabric clashed spectacularly with her equally bright pink and green t-shirt.
Bella glanced out of the shop window, hesitating. Rain beat steadily against the glass and pavement, blurring the darkened silhouettes of cars and people as they rushed by. It was just past nine o'clock, and on a rainy Saturday night like this one, the El was likely to be packed full of wet passengers. Though she only had a few stops to go, the commute was looking about as pleasant as a dentist's appointment. On the other hand, Angela's offer threw her off guard. The older woman was a good supervisor – didn't play favorites, set clear expectations and wasn't above getting her hands dirty when they were short a mechanic. But she and Bella had never had more than a working relationship. A ride home just seemed out of character.
"Come on," Angela said. The car keys in her hand jingled against the thick copper bracelet around her wrist. "It's about to start pouring, and I'll just take Belmont to Lake Shore after I drop you off."
"Uh... sure. Thanks."
They closed the shop and walked to the car in silence. Sliding into the passenger seat of the old, green Camry, Bella nearly sat on a red plastic baby rattle.
"Oh, sorry," Angela said, tossing her purse and umbrella into the back seat. Bella's umbrella sat at her feet, dripping water onto a rubber portrait of Garfield the Cat. "You can just throw that somewhere. This car is a total mess."
Bella studied the toy in her lap as they pulled out into traffic. "How's your... nephew, right?"
Angela's bright grin flashed in the darkened interior. "Yeah. He's great. Especially now that he's sleeping through the night. It's not so bad for me, I have ear plugs, but his parents are finally starting to look human in the morning."
"He's four months now?"
"Yeah, but he's huge! Already filling out a nine month sleeper. Pretty soon he'll be running around and turning the place into an even bigger sty than it already is."
Bella nodded, scratching at the scab in the back of her head. It was still healing and itched like crazy sometimes.
"But it's all worth it," Angela went on. "He's a gorgeous kid, and even with all of us living together, I still get to spoil him and let his parents worry about the feeding and the diapers. The place is crowded, but it's good to have family around."
Bella bit her lip and turned to stare out of the car window. They had stopped at a red light, and she studied the buildings of the intersection intently.
"So," Angela began again, "what happened last week?"
She blinked at the sudden turn in the conversation. "Yeah, uh – I'm sorry about that. I don't know what the hell hit me. Probably food poisoning. Something I picked up at the bar. I should've called, but I literally didn't leave the bathroom for about twelve hours." She knew she was rambling, and licked her lips. "I'm not on the schedule, but I can come in tomorrow too if–"
"No, it's okay," Angela cut her off. "I'm not chewing you out. With anybody else, I would have been pissed, but you're the one person I can usually count on to be on time. I'm just asking. You kinda disappeared, and a few of us were – " she paused and favored Bella with another long look. "Well, we got worried."
"Oh." Bella shifted in her seat. "Sorry."
Thankfully, Angela didn't press any further. Since re-appearing at work, Bella had had to explain her absence on three separate occasions, and the story sounded more and more stale each time. In one crazy moment, she had considered telling someone the truth, if only to avoid more sympathetic looks and inquiries about her health. Luckily, she'd realized the sheer idiocy of that idea in time. How exactly would she explain the last two weeks to anyone?
Well, you'll never believe it, but I finally hired a hitman to knock off the guys who killed my sister. Then I followed him into a dark alley and – surprise! Turns out he's a fuckin' vampire. But it's not what you think – he's not all bloody fangs and creature of the night. He reads books, uses big words. And he's trying to be good. Says he only kills the bad guys.
No, she definitely couldn't say anything like that. People at work thought she was crazy enough already.
"Left at the next light?" Angela's voice startled Bella out of her thoughts, and she glanced up to survey their surroundings.
"No, the one after. Then make your first right. My house is at the end of the block."
As the car turned onto her street, the headlights flashed over a hooded figure on the sidewalk. For the second time that evening, Bella felt sure of who it was. She held her breath as the car caught up to his quickly-moving form, but as they passed, the man looked up, and she exhaled sharply. His dark skin was nearly the color of his sweatshirt. Wrong again.
"Someone you know?" Angela asked.
"No," she replied, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. "I just thought – That's my house right up here."
The car came to a stop next to the curb. Gathering her bag and umbrella, Bella reached for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride. So you want me to come in tomorrow?"
"Nah, it's all right," the other woman replied. "I'll have enough people on the floor. Thanks, though."
"Yeah, sure. Night."
"See ya'."
The car pulled out into the street, and Bella hopped back to avoid the spray of water that shot out from under the tires.
Locking the front door behind her, she left the boots and umbrella in a corner of the foyer. Padding into the den, her damp toes left ghostly prints on the floorboards, and she paused to rub the arch of one foot against the ankle of the other. The television and futon couch stood in silent welcome, but she turned away from them at the last minute. Back in the kitchen, she rummaged around the cupboard for a moment before pulling out jars of peanut butter and strawberry jam, along with a loaf of bread. On another night, she would have gone for the refrigerator, too, and washed dinner down with a few beers. Instead, she cracked her knuckles in front of its long silver handle and turned to the stove to make a pot of herbal tea. With the plate in one hand and the tea mug in the other, she settled onto the futon in silence, balancing her food on its wide wooden armrest. Biting into the sandwich, she chewed each sweet and sticky piece slowly, thoroughly, licking the corners of her mouth between bites to catch any spare crumbs.
Her eyes flickered over to the thin plastic case that had been sitting on top of the television for the last three days. Twice she almost put it on, but stopped at the last minute, unable to shake the feeling that she should call Edward first, see if he wanted to come over and watch it together. But she couldn't quite gather the nerve – she wouldn't be able to blame this phone call on alcohol.
"Oh bullshit," she muttered to herself. "You weren't that smashed. You knew what you were doing." And it was true. She'd been drinking, but the call wasn't some late-night drunk dial. She'd picked up the phone for one reason – Edward was right. His analysis of her non-existent social life had been as accurate as it was tactless.
The distance between her and the rest of the world was deliberate. Most people she intentionally kept at arm's length. Some had once been friends. Others, like Angela, could have been, but it didn't matter anymore. Those friendships required a compromise she wasn't willing to make. She couldn't – no, she wouldn't, she wouldn't put on the mask they all wanted to see pretend that she was all right, that she was moving on that her sister's death was some unfortunate accident that she could get over. She couldn't betray Alice's memory like that. As long as James Pelzer and Pat Taylor were living in this city, breathing the same air, Bella would remain haunted. But most people couldn't accept that, refused to see the truth, so she had nothing more to say to them.
Then there was Edward. A stranger, a hitman, a vampire … but also the only person who didn't treat her like a paranoid lunatic. Who looked her in the eye when she talked about Alice. Who hadn't just taken her word for it, either. He had gone and looked for evidence. Convinced himself that it wasn't an overdose, that the cops had lied. He said that he cared, and she didn't understand why, but it didn't even matter. She wasn't the only one on Alice's side anymore.
But why did it have to be a vampire??
"Beggars can't be choosers," she whispered into the dark.
***
She slipped out of consciousness easily, falling asleep to the steady drumming of rain on the old roof above. But in the early hours of the morning, she awoke again with a jerk. Gasping, she sat up, eyes flickering around the still, dark room.
It's all right. You're home. It's just a dream.
Sighing heavily, she slumped forward until the tips of her hair pooled onto the bed. Blood pounded through her temples. Air scraped against her throat as her lungs heaved it in and out.
It's just a dream. It didn't happen. You're okay.
Except that she wasn't okay. It had happened. Just not on that night.
Untangling her legs from the comforter, she made her way across the room and down the hall. Her throat felt dry and tight. Her hands were shaking. In the bathroom, she squeezed her eyes shut, splashing cold water on her face and neck. It didn't help. Alice's face still flashed across her eyelids, no matter how tightly she squeezed them shut.
This time, her sister looked sad. Not frightened, not lifeless, just...sad. As sad as Bella ever remembered seeing her. Her hazel eyes had turned coal-black. They glistened with regret and disappointment.
Bella looked up into the mirror above the sink, as if the sight of her own reflection could clear the vision away. But the lights were out, and what she saw in the darkened mirror was even more disorienting. Her chin molded into her sister's jaw. Alice's pointed nose above her own lips. Her right eyebrow suddenly bisected by a small, diagonal scar. She remembered how Alice had gotten that scar, stumbling into a low-hanging branch while they chased each other around a park one summer.
"Bella. Bella," she said out loud, "you're okay. Go back to bed. It's okay." But her voice shook, and she didn't believe a single word.
Fuck. Alice. Why Alice? Why not me?
"Stop it," she whispered through clenched teeth. "Come on, stop it. Don't start this again."
There's nothing to stop. This is who you are.
"No," she muttered back. "No, it's not, it's not!" Grabbing the bar of soap from the edge of the sink, she hurled it at the mirror.
It bounced against the smooth glass, and at that moment, something crashed, rattling the walls above her.
Bella jumped in surprise, then froze.
What the hell?
The sound had come from upstairs. Was someone breaking into the house? But she heard no footsteps, no sounds of human movement. She held her breath, listening. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Wind rattled the window panes. Rain beat against the side of the house.
Had she imagined it?
She crept out of the bathroom, vigilant for any foreign noises or movement. In the kitchen, she grabbed a knife out of the wooden block by the sink. Pausing in front of the stairs, she listened again. Nothing. If someone had forced their way into the house, they had suddenly become very quiet.
This better not be another of Edward's socially retarded attempts at saying hello, she thought, but in truth, would have been grateful to see his face just then.
Climbing up the stairs, each step was silent and painfully slow. Her fingers curled around the knife's plastic handle as she moved down the hallway, dismayed at how much it shook in her hand. Only after the third step did she noticed that the floor was wet against her bare feet. She looked down, frowning. In the dark, she could just make out the traces of a large stain trailing down the beige carpet. Slowly, she bent down and probed it with her free hand. Her fingers came back slick with water. It smelled like rain and rotting wood.
"The fuck...?" Her eyes traced the stain to the very end of the hallway, and suddenly, she could hear it. The soft tap-tap-tap of water dripping onto the floor.
She darted forward, throwing open the door to Alice's bedroom. The light switch flipped up and down uselessly, but the mess of drywall on the floor was visible without any light. Looking up in dismay, she stared at the dark hole that had formed at the edge of the ceiling, next to the closet. It was more than a foot in diameter, framed by cracked paint that hung in strips around its jagged edges. Water was dripping – no, pouring onto the floor, forming a giant puddle that had soaked into the carpets. A massive stain circled the damage on the ceiling like a brown, deformed halo. Stomach twisting with dread, she followed one of its branches to another leak in the opposite corner of the room. The ceiling there was still intact, but bowing under the weight of collecting water, which dripped steadily onto the bookshelf below.
Another piece of drywall broke off the ceiling and fell onto the pile in front of her, followed immediately by the sound of something crumpling in the closet. Stumbling past the mess on the floor, she pushed the closet door aside. Though it was too dark to see, her eyes widened in horrified disbelief as she reached for the contents.
Wet. Everything was wet. Delicate handmade dresses, favorite t-shirts, vintage wool sweaters – everything her hands landed on dripped with cold, mildew-scented water.
But those were just clothes, they could be washed. It was the boxes below that she feared for the most. She dropped to the floor, banging her knees painfully on the metal runners of the closet door, and tried dragging the nearest box out. But the cardboard had absorbed too much water, and her fingers ripped through the top flap on the first tug. She tried again, reaching around to pull the box out by its back corners. It slid forward a few inches, but jammed against the runners. Wedging her hands in between the box and the floor, she strained to pick it up, but the water had made it heavy, too heavy for her to lift.
With a frustrated cry, she tore off what remained of the flaps and dug inside. Her hands came back clutching wet paper – she couldn't tell if this was the box of old school work that her sister had meticulously collected, or sketches of old European cities from her semester abroad. It didn't matter. The pages were nothing now. Just soggy, shapeless pulp. Her fingers tightened into fists, squeezing water out of the papers. Several drops ran down her forearms and fell to the floor.
Another half-dozen boxes lined the floor of the closet. Alice had brought a few back from college, and the others Bella had packed away when her mother announced that she was "going away for a while." These were filled with pictures, post-it notes, birthday cards – symbols of how intertwined the lives of sisters had once been. She had told herself that the storage was temporary. One day, she would be able to sift through these mementos and get back a piece of what she had lost.
Now, with the remains of the ruined box in front of her, she didn't dare reach for the others. Instead, she backed away from the closet, nearly tripping over the wet remains of the ceiling that littered the floor.
The roof must have started leaking – but when? Days, weeks, months ago even? Damage like that didn't appear over night. How long had she had to notice, to get the roof fixed? How much time had she wasted in her self-absorbed depression, moping around instead of taking care of things that really mattered?
Tears sprung to her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and wouldn't let them out.
"Fix it. Stop fucking crying and go fix it."
The rain soaked her hair and clothes as soon as she stepped outside. Barefoot, she ran around the back of the house to the tiny shed that stood in the corner of the narrow back yard. The inside was a mess, and she had to push through old gardening tools and half empty paint buckets to get to the ladder in the back. Its rungs caught on the handle of a shovel, and she staggered backwards when it came free. She let the ladder fall to the ground and dove back into the shed, cursing the clutter and the lack of light. It took several minutes of blind and frustrated groping to find everything else: a box of long nails, a hammer, and the rolled-up tarp her dad had used to cover up his '78 Mustang in the winters.
Dragging the ladder to the side of the house, she tried to remember how to work the extension mechanism. Metal joints ground in protest as she wrestled them open. When they finally clicked into place, she propped the ladder against the brick wall, where it barely reached the roof gutters. Rolling the tarp around the hammer, she tucked them both under her arm. One hand clutched the box of nails, the other tightened around a wet aluminum rung, and she began to climb.
The roof had leaked once before, when she was in second grade. She still remembered her parents fighting over how to pay for the repairs. In the end, her father had spent two days on top of the house hammering new shingles in place of the ones that had cracked and come apart. She didn't have new shingles now, but she did have the tarp. At least she could get up there and cover up the damage – keep more water out of the house until someone could come out and fix the leak.
By the fifth rung, the tarp was slipping out from under her arm. She paused, tucking it back in, and pressed her arm down tighter. Water trailed down her forehead and temples, dripping from her nose. She shook her head to get the hair out of her eyes, but it only swung back and forth like heavy drapery. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and her body began to protest the cold rain and exertion. Grimacing, she reached for the next rung. Body be damned. This wasn't the time to start whining. She'd done enough of that already.
Pulling herself up blindly, her fingers reached for the next hand hold, but slipped. Before she could recover her grip, the tarp and hammer tumbled down, striking her foot on their way to the ground. The heavy head of the hammer landed on her toe and she flinched back, losing her purchase all together. Her hip and shoulder hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her lungs, and she lay there for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe.
The ground was wet and hard. Rain landed in her mouth as she gasped for air. Christ, how could she be so stupid, so damn incompetent at every fucking thing? Pain shot through her foot as she tried to stand. Wincing, she limped over to the wall and leaned against it heavily.
The rain kept falling, steady as a thousand tiny drums, seeping into any crack or crevice, dripping down, down, down. Up in Alice's room, water soaked through fabric, paper, drywall, cardboard and anything else in its way. It didn't care that those things were precious, irreplaceable. It just dripped and spread like acid, dissolving the last physical bond she had to her sister.
She had to do something. She needed some help.
***
Edward felt good. Damn good. He was speeding down an empty road with both windows open, letting in the wind and rain. The air whipping through the car was cold, but he didn't mind. The blood in his stomach felt hot and heavy, and it warmed his insides like a slowly-burning fire. The heat loosened his shoulders and cleared his mind; it took an edge off the tension growing in his gut. This fix was only temporary – he knew that perfectly well. But it would take a few hours for the nutrients to break down into fuel, and be pumped out to the last of his muscles. A few hours before his body discovered how badly it had been deceived.
He had spent the night in Wisconsin, just north of the state border, stalking a forest preserve for prey. The trees were practically teeming with deer, but after a cursory sweep, he caught the scent of something much more interesting. Carnivores were a rarity in these woods, but well worth the effort. Their blood was thicker somehow – more nourishing, more...bloody. Something as small as a lynx was worth the blood of two fully grown deer, and he couldn't drink that much in one sitting anyway. Experience had proven that his stomach could hold considerably more than the average human's, but it was not bottomless.
In the end, he found a nest of them – a mother and three cubs. He killed the mother first, then the others. Each creature struggled in his grasp, writhing and snapping with useless teeth and claws, but he barely even noticed. All he knew was need and hunger and blood.
Now, back in the car, he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and sang along with the radio, filling in with nonsense syllables when he didn't know the words. The dull rumbling of the car's engine flared into a roar as he sped through a serpentine stretch of road. When the asphalt straightened again, he shifted gears and slipped the clutch for a final burst of speed. The back wheels skidded a few inches before regaining traction, and he nearly laughed with the sheer joy of losing control.
Suddenly, he wished that he wasn't alone in this car, that someone else were here to enjoy the thrill of doubling the speed limit at three in the morning. Would she appreciate the rush as much as he did? Somehow, he imagined that she would. Bella didn't seem like the kind of person to shy away from intense experiences. What would it take, he wondered, to convince her to join him on one of these drives?
He'd had several such thought experiments in the four days since they parted at her doorstep. Thumbing through a favorite novel, he found himself reading certain passages out loud, pausing at the more insightful or thought-provoking phrases and wishing to know what she would think of them. He wondered if she had watched the documentary he'd given her, and if so, whether the same themes he had found so compelling resonated with her as well. Walking past Steppenwolf, he paused at a flyer for the theater's newest production, and toyed with the idea of buying two tickets, but changed his mind at the last minute. There was, as he had found through recent research on the subject, such a thing as coming on too strong. If he hadn't managed to do so already, he didn't want to risk it.
One thing was painfully obvious – he wanted to see her again. As strange or unwise as befriending a human seemed, the lure of company after so many years of solitude was proving too strong to ignore. And there was something else, something deeper that pulled him forward. An urge that he couldn't verbalize, couldn't even wrap his head around. Something even more compelling than the desire to discuss film or literature. He didn't understand it at all, and any attempts at analysis only heightened the anxiety. Instead, he tried to formulate a plan for another encounter.
Not that he had too many ideas. See you around was a sufficiently vague parting to leave him with little understanding of what he ought to do next. How, exactly, were they supposed to see each other around? They didn't have a common social circle, or frequent the same bars or grocery stores. Was she dismissing him, then? But no, Bella was not one to mince words. "See you around" had a decidedly different ring to it than "Stop following me" or "What part of fuck off don't you understand?"
But then what had she meant? That she would arrange the next meeting? Or that he ought to? Why hadn't she spoken more clearly, damn it?
At first, he'd decided to wait and give her a chance to call, but by the weekend, it seemed likely he had missed some subtle clue, and was losing his opportunity. After dissecting every word of their conversation that he could remember, he had decided to call her the next evening. He would say hello, inquire about her health, and ask if she'd had a chance to watch the documentary. Whether she said yes or no, he would recommend something else, maybe something playing in the theaters. That would provide a perfectly reasonable excuse for them to meet again.
Half-way through "I Am the Walrus," his phone rang. He turned down the radio and glanced at the display. Bella's number blinked at him, and his heartbeat quickened. For an instant, he wondered if it was possible for her to know that he had been thinking about her.
He shook his head, staring at the phone as it rang. Every greeting he had rehearsed vanished from his mind. On the sixth ring, he turned the music off all together, and finally answered.
"Hello?" The word came out stiffly, and he grimaced.
"Hey – Edward, it's me. It's Bella."
"Yes, I know." He frowned at the thin, strained tone of her voice. Something was wrong. "What's the matter?"
"I need some help," she blurted out.
He gripped the phone tightly. "What happened? Are you all right? Is it your head injury?"
"Yes – no, it's fine. I'm fine, it's my house."
"Your house?" he repeated dumbly.
"The roof's leaking. The ceiling's coming down in Alice's room. I think there's damage up on the roof, but I can't get up there." The pitch of her voice was rising steadily. "Look, I know it's late, and you probably have better shit to do but – God, there's so much water and it just keeps coming, and I don't know what else – "
"I'm driving into the city now," he interrupted, working to keep the excitement out of his tone. "I can be at your house in –" he glanced at the dash "– eight minutes."
She took a deep, shaky breath. "O – Okay. Thanks."
He shifted into a lower gear, and the engine roared as the car accelerated around tight turn.
Maybe, after he helped her fix the roof, they could watch the movie together. Not that he had ever fixed a roof before.
**********
Hope y'all liked it. I'll do my best to get the next update out sooner. For chapter 13, who wants to see more E&B, and who wants to see more agents?
