Page 44 of Double Shot
Roan…
With Lach and Sadie gone for most of the day, I was left to my own devices and several appointments. There were things that needed to be handled on my laptop, including the emails, and those I was concerned about. What sort of things had she divulged, what anger and pieces of her soul were waiting in my inbox? I would wait a bit on that. I didn’t want to open a bomb that would shatter me while the tailor was measuring my inseam.
The cosmetologist was heralded by a curt phone call from the front desk. She was a stunning raven-haired Spanish woman, with a full kit over her arm. I was seated, and she took six and a half months of missed haircuts off of me. I felt a pound lighter, and younger. The hot shave was everything Lach had said it would be, and it would be the only time a person could hold a sharpened razor to my throat in such a manner that I was close to falling asleep.
I felt like a new man when she packed her razors and scissors away, and brushed my shoulders clean. The style was different from my old efficient short crop. This felt more stylish, rakish, something Lach might have done if he had my red hair.
The tailor and his assistants showed up not long after she left.
The gentleman was older, but had the sharp face of a retired soldier. He recognized me as a fellow one, and his demeanor changed. His gruff attitude vanished, and he was smiles and conversation. He talked about serving with the UN forces, in Cypress, Lebanon, and Beirut, how he was a veteran who fought in multiple battles, yet somehow never served in wartime. I told him about Iraq, Afghanistan, and spending time on her Majesty’s carriers and assault ships.
His assistants were much younger – one a young lad with a strong chin and the hard sharp eyes of the Parisian, the sort of man who had no memories of the Nazis, and his only experiences with violence involved terrorists blowing things up, or shooting up buildings until the gendarmes arrived. The final person was a quiet woman with a tightly done bun of black hair. She reminded me of a young Sean Young. Her smile was disarming, and there was something about her eyes that had me relaxing.
While the old man was talking about Cypress, and wearing a blue helmet, I saw something that made my blood run cold. The young woman was an assassin. I saw a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. It was a jambiya, a curved knife that was the symbol of thePax Sicari.
She was one of the peacekeepers who lurked inside the city, making sure that everyone behaved. That I saw her tattoo was no accident, it was something she allowed, almost a professional courtesy. Later, when we were alone, I would have to ask Lach if any of the Hidden Knives let him know they were there.
The fitting went quickly, and it was a measure of my self-control that I kept a calm and collected face.
The personal shopper came while the old man was packing up his kit. I ordered a tea service to be brought up, thankful to live in a place that was nice enough to have such an offering. The meeting with the shopper took a little longer than the tailor, but she was very interested in details and accessories. She reminded me a good deal of the women that Lach would drop large amounts of money on.
They had to have day jobs, I supposed.
Once she was gone, I had a proper English breakfast brought up. The breakfast anglaise was perfection, down to the imported sausages.
The tea, I shuddered down to the toes that were long gone, was flawless.
That left only one matter, business on the computer. Updating the portfolios and stock options took well over an hour. Most of the good leads I had panned out, and the returns were still in the green, though they should have been much higher in the green than they were. The cost of being on a forced half-year detention, it was what it was.
I found several other distractions that took me through a large slice of the afternoon. I did realize that I was avoiding my emails. I sighed, picked up the bottle of whiskey that I had danced with last night, and it was still half full. I poured a few fingers of booze and sat down. It was time to get serious.
Because juggling a few million in investments and having a Hidden Knives assassin visit you was just any other day for me, I hit the button and opened my email. Unsurprisingly, the box was full. I set to clearing out the junk, and the old stuff, and tagged a few for later review and response.
There was a clear chain of emails, all from Sadie. I clicked the first one.
Dear Conan,
It’s been twenty-one and a half days since we lost you. It feels much longer. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, except I miss you, and I want to feel connected to you and I don’t know any other way to do that now. Your shirt doesn’t even smell like you anymore and that hurts.
Kyle and I watch your videos, but with as much as we do, it feels like you’re growing ever more distant. I see your face; I hear your words but we’ve watched them so many times now I have them memorized. So much so, I play them every time I close my eyes. Every time I shower, every night before I try to sleep.
I don’t sleep. Not much anymore. More often than not, I wake and Kyle isn’t with me. He’s working out, or scrolling through screens or watching old footage from the mansion. Sometimes I sit on the floor, resting my head against his knee and watch too.
He doesn’t touch me anymore. Not like he used to. Doesn’t call me ‘Shady’ either. I never thought I would miss that… I miss it almost as much as I miss you calling me ‘Poppet.’
I won’t say where we are or anything. I haven’t told him that I’m even writing these. I’m afraid he would get mad at me for compromising us or something… but I need this. I need something.
I love you. I miss you.
Sadie
Six months gone, six months I had lost, lost with her.
Fuck.
This was going to be a rollercoaster of digital emotional trauma.
I needed something to distract me from the knot growing in my chest.
