From the looks of it, he’d been there a while. His coffee cup was half-empty and the leather jacket slung across the back of his chair wasn’t dripping water onto the floor, so he’d likely been inside when the skies opened up. We stared at one another for several seconds in silence, mirrored smiles on our lips, and I couldn’t help but think that this was fate, pulling us together again. That it was somehow my destiny to keep running into this beautiful stranger, against all odds, in a city of nearly two million people.
There was a name for it.
Kismet.
That moment when stars align and things that are just meant to be come to pass.
My mother always told me, fate was a force to be reckoned with. Some encounters were just destined to happen in this life, and you stood little chance of avoiding them. Certain people were simply meant to cross your path — to reach into your chest and leave an irreversible handprint on your heart, on your very soul.
Then again, my mother also believed that loose tea leaves at the bottom of her mug foretold the future and firmly insisted that she could see peoples’ auras, so I tended to take everything she said with a grain of salt.
“Are you going to fall into my arms again?” my stranger asked, smiling crookedly up at me. “Should I be prepared for a dead faint, or do you intend to remain conscious?”
“You make it sound intentional.” I rolled my eyes. “I tripped. You just happened to break my fall… with your face. Did the impact of my head against yours do permanent damage?” I asked sweetly, fighting off a grin.
“Well, if you’re going to be ungrateful, next time I’ll just let you collapse to the ground unassisted,” he said, his dark eyes warm on mine.
“How charming of you.” I snorted in a truly ladylike fashion. “Chivalry isn’t dead, after all.”
“Not dead, just passed out somewhere without a handsome stranger to revive it.”
I rolled my eyes a second time.
“Want to sit?” he offered, gesturing toward the empty seat across from him.
My eyes flickered from his face to the chair, undecided. I felt a blush stain my cheeks. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your reading.”
“You’re not,” he said softly, closing his book and nudging the free chair away from the table with his foot. A clear invitation.
My eyes moved back to meet his.
“You already know I’m a psycho, stalking serial killer,” he pointed out. “What else do you need to know before you’ll agree to have coffee with me?”
I laughed lightly and could almost feel those intense eyes watching my mouth as the sound escaped. It should’ve alarmed me, but instead I found it oddly comforting.
“True enough,” I agreed, some of my trepidation fleeing. “But, if I sit, there are some rules you have to agree to.”
His head tilted in an evaluative stare and he forcibly suppressed his smile into a serious expression that had me fighting off another laugh. “Terms are open to negotiation,” he said formally.
“Good.” I grinned. “First rule of stranger club…”
“Let me guess,” he interjected. “Never talk about stranger club?”
My laugh escaped. “No, Brad Pitt. The first rule of stranger club is no names.”
“I can deal with that.” He shrugged. “Second rule?”
“Questions are fair-trade. You ask one, you answer one.”
“Sounds good to me, Red.”
“Red?”
He eyed my hair pointedly and the skin around his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“I am not a redhead.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
His lips twisted in a repressed laugh. “Whatever you say.”
“My hair is clearly brown.”
“Uh huh,” he agreed, grinning.
“Ugh!” I groaned, craning my head back so my eyes were on the ceiling. “I don’t even know you and I can already tell you’re impossible to reason with.”
“There’s that redhead’s temper.” He laughed. “Now are you going to join me, or are you planning to let your caramel latte get cold while you list a whole bunch of rules I have no intention of following?”
“It’s actually a cappuccino,” I corrected, narrowing my eyes at him. “And you better follow my rules.”
He leaned back in his chair and unleashed that crooked grin once more. “You have any more excuses left in your repertoire? Or are you fresh out of reasons why you can’t sit with me?”
I sighed and set down my mug. Pulling out the chair across from him, my eyes dropped to the table as I settled in. My sassy, smart-talking bravado seemed like a pathetically thin shield, now that I was seated directly across from this beautiful man. I felt my confidence fleeing as I sat beneath his steady gaze.
“Suddenly shy, Red?” he asked, his voice wry.
My eyes lifted from their intent study of the wood-grained tabletop. “No,” I objected a little too defensively. “I’m just thinking of my first question.”
“Who says I’m letting you go first?”
“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do,” I pointed out.
“Who says I’m a gentleman?” he asked, his eyes flashing. I suppressed a shudder — not one born of fear, but of something far more startling: desire. It was like nothing I’d ever felt. Perhaps because I’d already had a perfect gentleman in Conor, and it hadn’t satisfied me.
One glance at this man, at the promise in his dark eyes, was enough to assure me he was nothing like any of my well-mannered ex-boyfriends.
I ignored the sensation, as well as his words.
“So…” I took a swallow of my cappuccino before forcing my eyes up to meet his. “You’re American?”
He nodded. “Yep, born and raised on Cape Cod.”
“Here for vacation, school, or work?” I asked, thinking he didn’t look much like a tourist or a student.
“That was two questions in a row,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “It’s my turn.”
I huffed and motioned for him to get on with it. “Do your worst.”
“You’re American, that much is obvious,” he noted.
I glared at him playfully but didn’t disagree as he spoke on.
“Based on the book-bag you were carrying the other day, I’m going to assume you’re a student.” His gaze drifted lazily across my features, moving from forehead to chin in such a slow study, I immediately had the urge to hide behind the curtain of my still-wet hair. “So, instead I’ll ask: why Budapest? Of all the places you could’ve chosen to study abroad, what brought you here?”
I stared down at my teacup so I didn’t have to meet his gaze directly. “Honestly? I have no idea.”
“Nah, I don’t buy that.” He shook his head and leaned across the table into my space. “There must be a reason.”
I took a deep breath, then looked up to meet his eyes. “I guess I picked it for a lot of reasons.”
His eyebrows quirked. “Such as..?”
Sighing, I ticked them off on my fingers as I spoke. “Because I wanted to go somewhere with a rich history. Because my favorite professor coordinated this trip. Because it was the only program with a down payment I could afford.” I swallowed roughly and continued in a quieter voice. “Because I needed to escape my family for a year.” I stared into his eyes and took a deep breath. He waited, sensing I wasn’t finished. “Because, after a lifetime of stumbling around blindly, I need to figure out who the hell I am… and this seemed like a good place to start.”
I sat back in my chair and expelled a heavy breath. I was stunned those words had just escaped my mouth. I’d spent two decades pretending self-doubt and loneliness didn’t bother me, yet here I was — in a café halfway around the world, spilling the beans faster than a freaking espresso machine to a man I knew nothing about.
Maybe it was true, what people said — that blurting secrets to a stranger was always easier than confiding in your closest friends. But, as I waited for him to say something, anything,
I found myself quaking under his suddenly solemn gaze. For a fraction of an instant, so fast I wondered if I’d imagined it, his eyes flashed with a dark emotion I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Not quite sadness, not quite regret — something else entirely. Before I could figure out what the expression meant, it was gone.
“Hell of an answer,” he murmured, his voice deeper than normal.
“Thanks,” I whispered back, staring at him. “My turn?”
He nodded.
“Do you believe in fate?” I asked. “Do you think that — despite everything we set out to do in this life, despite our best attempts and intentions — we don’t control a damn thing, from the people we meet to the places we end up?”
I blushed up to my hairline, immediately embarrassed. I’d known the guy all of thirty seconds and I was already peppering him with philosophical questions. Perfect. I might as well have asked if he believed in soulmates and love at first sight, while I was at it.
He was totally going to laugh at me.
Except, to my absolute astonishment, he didn’t. Instead, his face drained of color. I stopped worrying about looking like an idiot and started wondering if I’d said something to upset him – but, for the life of me, I couldn’t fathom what.
He was silent for a long time, mulling over my question with an unreadable look on his face — eyebrows drawn tightly together, lips pinched in an uncompromising line.
I fidgeted anxiously in my seat.
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice. “You’re asking…” He pulled a deep breath of air through his nose and seemed to steady himself. “Do I think that a man who’s set out on a particular life course — one he may not like, one he may wish to escape — has no hope of ever changing, of ever redeeming himself, because some asshole higher-power decides it’s not in his cards?”
I tried to respond but all that slipped through my lips was a nervous squeak as I attempted to formulate a coherent response.
At the sound, he seemed to snap out of his somber reverie. His face blanked, his eyes flew up to meet mine, and an easy-going smile crossed his lips once more. I couldn’t help but notice that it seemed a little forced.
“That’s bullshit, Red. We make our own fate. Forge our own fortune. Shape our own stories.” His eyes were still too serious as they stared into mine. “Sometimes, we shape other people’s, too.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I nodded anyway. Silence fell between us for a moment and I was afraid to shatter it, so I just stared at him.
“My turn,” he said finally.
I nodded.
“Will you go out with me?” he asked, grinning.
Laughter burst from my mouth, a strange sensation after the serious moment we’d just shared. “I don’t go out with serial killers,” I said regretfully, shaking my head in rebuff. I glanced out the window; the rain had stopped and the sun was shining weakly. “And I’d better go while the weather’s clear. Who knows when the downpour will start again?”
His dark eyes trapped my skittish ones. “You’re really not going to tell me your name or give me your number, are you?”
“Sorry, stranger.” I smiled and stood up. “First rule of stranger club, and all that jazz. Can’t break it on day one.”
He blew out a puff of air. “So, I’m supposed to let you walk away and take the chance that we’ll never see each other again?”
I paused, staring at him for a moment. “You might not believe in fate, but I do.” I grinned. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.”
“That’s total crap,” he pointed out. “You do realize that, right?”
I shrugged, still smiling as I slid my camera strap back over my shoulder. “Well, in that case, I guess I’ll never see you again. Have a nice life, stranger.” I turned to go.
“You’re weird and stubborn,” he muttered under his breath.
I giggled and glanced back at him for a fleeting instant.
“Have a little Faith, will ya?” I called, chuckling at my own inside joke as I headed for the door and left him behind for the second time in a week.
Chapter 6
Weston
WRECKING BALL
* * *
My fingers were aching and swollen after two straight hours.
My knuckles were raw, ripped to shreds, bleeding through the tape.
My fists struck the bag in a ceaseless bombardment, a steady blitz of punches and uppercuts that left behind a smattering of four blood-red circles with each hit.
I embraced the pain like an old friend.
The girl’s face entered my mind again. I pounded the bag with renewed intensity, despite my screaming muscles.
She’s an idiot.
She’s beautiful.
She lives in a delusional, fairytale world.
She’s honest and innocent and everything I’m not.
She’s a foolish little girl with silly, inconsequential dreams.
She’s refreshingly real in this bleak life of deceit and deception.
I hated her for it. For this.
For making me feel.
For making me question everything about my existence which, until this point, I’d been perfectly content with.
Never stopping, never settling.
No friends, no family.
Avoiding attachment, uprooting every few months.
It’s how I’d lived, how I’d survived. Not just since I took this job, but for as long as I could remember. Since the day I realized they were never coming back, no matter how long I waited on that cracked asphalt gas-station stoop.
I’d been alone for an eternity. An old man since I was a child.
Twenty-five years was a lifetime when you spent it in total solitude.
Exhausted, I collapsed against the punching bag. My breaths were coming quick and my pulse was pounding beneath the skin, faster than I was comfortable with. Breathing deeply through my nose, I counted the seconds it took to regulate my heartbeat again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
And, just like that, I was back in control.
The tense coil of anxiety unfurled deep in my chest. I welcomed the pain radiating from my battered knuckles. I’d rather feel that than this other shit. Physical pain — at least it was manageable. You could overcome a fractured finger or a bruised bone. Lacerations could heal, bullet wounds could be stitched closed or cauterized.
But pain in your head? Pain in your heart?
That was the shit that fucked you up permanently.
When I was first recruited to the agency, I thought things might finally be different. For the first time, someone wanted me. Needed me.
I wasn’t just joining an organization, I was joining a family.
Yeah. It took me about three minutes on the job to realize that was just another line they fed potential recruits. They didn’t seek me out because I was special, or unique, or because they recognized some kind of latent possibility within me that they wanted to tap.
I fit a profile.
Loner. High IQ. Unemotional. Unattached. Aptitude for weaponry combined with a lethal appetite for vengeance. Enough anger at the world and its shitty circumstances to channel into something productive.
Nothing more than another shiny, savage tool in their arsenal.
I suppose I couldn’t put all the blame on their shoulders. After five years of doing what I did best, they offered me a desk job. Back in the States, filing paperwork and handing out orders. I could’ve had a life, a family, if that’s what I’d wanted. No more of this covert, chameleonic, undercover bullshit.
Most guys I know would’ve jumped at the chance for a little stability, considering our work circumstances. The job paid well, sure. I had more money than I’d ever know what to do with. But it was also notoriously hazardous to one’s health. Too many of my comrades had learned the hard way that you can’t exactly spend that heaping fortune from six feet u
nder.
So, when you finally got your chance to get out, you took it. Unless, of course, you were me.
I didn’t want the stable life, with the sprawling mansion and the Stepford wife. I didn’t want to be Agent Weston Abbott, settled nicely in a corner office at Langley.
I had no use for that life, or for him.
People with permanent positions at the agency, who’d never done deep cover missions or stepped so much as ten feet from their comfortable desk chairs, didn’t — couldn’t — understand.
It must be exhausting — leading a double life, they’d say, shaking their heads in sympathetic disbelief. Constantly putting on a show, never letting your mask slip.
But it wasn’t. It was a million times easier to live my life as someone else. To look in the mirror and see a total stranger. To slip into a new skin and slither around for a while, only to shed it for another when the time inevitably came to move along.
I liked my new life of limitless identities and ever-changing characters better than I’d ever enjoyed being Wes Abbott.
So why did one stupid, insignificant, staged conversation with Faith Morrissey have me wishing I could, just for a single moment, be him again? To look into her eyes, to talk to her, as the real me, rather than the asshole who was about to take a wrecking ball to her life?
Disgusted by my own weakness, I took a step away from the punching bag, lifted my aching fists, and began another round, hoping this time it might drive her from my thoughts for good.
Chapter 7
Faith
WORK UP A SPARKLE
* * *
When I arrived back at the office to collect the parcels for my last run of the night, I was covered head to toe with a thin sheen of perspiration and in desperate need of some water if I wanted to avoid falling off my bike while cruising through Vörösmarty Square. Dismounting, I headed through the Hermes side entrance — the double-wide doors and dual access ramps had been designed specifically for speedy bike departures and, as an added bonus, using them meant I didn’t have to see Irenka when I was in and out a million times a day, refilling my black messenger bag with small parcels, documents, and packages for delivery.
Love & Lies Page 49