Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“You mean it’s your preferred solution.” Smirking mindlessly occurs. “Words matter, sweetheart.”
Snickers slip free as we arrive at her car.
“I said I would cook. And I’m going to cook. I swear it’ll be edible.”
She flashes me a playful pout at the same time the trunk pops open.
“If it’s not edible and you actually hate it then we can order in.”
“Dos Mamas.”
“Gonna guess that’s Mexican.”
“Yup.”
“You’re in the mood for Mexican?”
“I’m always in the mood for Mexican, especially if you add extra cheese.”
“Cheese enchiladas it is.”
Her eyes widen in newfound excitement. “Do we have stuff for cheese enchiladas?!”
Lightly laughing can’t be helped. “You don’t even remember what we bought?”
Guilt briefly flashes itself prompting my laughter to get louder.
And deeper.
And livelier until a car at the opposite end of the lane fiddles with their lights creating rapid flashes, I’m unprepared for.
The stun grenade sends me plummeting to the hard ground like the enemy wants.
Expects.
Bullets wiz by forcing my frame to stay low while fighting through my disoriented senses to find my team.
Where the fuck is my team?! Where’s Hiltz?! Where’s St. Clair?! Were they hit?! Fuck, were they hit!? Answer me!
Harsh scrapes collect along my forearms while high pitched screams and barbaric last cries have me unsure of which way I should go for my next move.
Left? Right? And where are those women we saw earlier? Were they in on this? Were they innocent victims killed by a stray bullet?! Were they decoys? Are we decoys?! What about the child?!
“…Archer?”
Archer?
That’s my…that’s my first name.
We don’t go by our first names.
Just our last.
Always our last.
Especially during a mission.
The soft, delicate voice calls out again, like a siren my mind ruthlessly insists we follow, “Archer…It’s me. Jaye. Can you hear me?”
Jaye?
I don’t know a Jaye.
A small twitch of my entire frame is swiftly followed by a huge headshake.
Of course I know Jaye.
Jaye is now.
“Jaye is now…” I force myself to state as I squeeze my eyes shut, determined to bring myself back to the present.
“I am now,” she warmly echoes at the same time her hand lands on my shoulder causing me to flinch. However, she doesn’t remove her grip. Doesn’t relocate it. Doesn’t even consider how dangerous it might be to keep it there. “Jaye is now.”
Her grip tightens and instinct has me jerking.
Away.
Towards.
In place like a junkie in need of a hit.
And I am.
A hit of sanity.
Fucking clarity.
Where am I?
Pop music blaring from a nearby vehicle have a new question piercing my mind.
When am I?
Then?
Now?
“Archer,” the feminine voice softly coos, summoning the answer out of me.
“That was then…this is now.”
My palm aggressively lands on top of hers only to have her other sandwich it. “Jaye is now.”
“Hiltz was then.”
“Jaye is now.”
“Jaye is now,” is repeated again and again and again until I’m dragged back to the proper point in time.
The one where I’m sprawled out on the concrete of a grocery store parking lot being watched over by a woman whose life I can’t endanger.
Won’t endanger with this bullshit.
It takes longer than I care to admit for me to steady my breath and rise to my feet. People stare and gawk, yet Jaye keeps all of her attention on me. Dusting away rubble. Checking for new marks. She even places two fingers on my pulse, overly concerned about the way it races.
Once I’m completely composed, she quietly suggests, “Why don’t you go ahead and get in the car? I can unload this stuff on my own.”
There’s no hesitation to bite, “You don’t want me to embarrass you again.”
“I’m not embarrassed. I’m worried.”
“About your precious fucking groceries?”
“About my precious fucking friend that’s still trembling!”
Her counter isn’t the one I’m expecting and hearing someone give a damn about me when I can barely manage to draws tears to my eyes that I’m not accustomed to having. Unbearable emotions swell in my throat, clogging my vocal cords, causing the words I manage to croak to be ragged and broken just like me. “Please let me do this.” I use the back of my hand to banish a small sniffle. “I need to do this. I need to…be useful.”
Brown eyes I don’t deserve to have in my life instantly soften with understanding. She sweetly nods, touches my scuff covered cheek, and whispers, “I’ll get the car warmed up.”
Rather than think about my own shame or the pending shame that’s waiting for me inside the vehicle, I focus all my energy on transferring the contents from the basket to the trunk where they belong. It requires some shifting and rearranging – we really did overbuy – and I’m honestly grateful for the time I’m left alone.
Left to finish…recovering myself.
The instant I’m settled in the passenger seat I brace myself for the swarm of questions or lecture on why the earlier proposed scenario can’t work – won’t work – but am surprisingly met by silence.