I sip coffee—which, by the way, is leaps and bounds better than the burned, watery swill you'd get in a similar establishment in the US. "Well, if there is sorrow, it's nothing I want to talk about."
"Fair enough. We’ve all got sorrow about somethin’, haven’t we?" His own gaze turns brownish-gray and distant, thinking about his own sorrow. His gaze snaps me to me, and for a second I catch a glimpse of raw, unbridled rage that steals my breath and sends a centipede of fear skittering down my spine.
It's there and gone so fast I almost doubt that I saw it, but the lingering fear is the reminder that I did, in fact, see it. And that I should be careful with the sexy, dangerous Mr. Rush.
"Is Rush your real name?" I ask.
"Yeah." He shrugs a lazy shoulder. "Only name I've ever had."
"It's not short for anything weird?"
This gets me a grin and a laugh, and the sheer beauty of the man when he laughs is almost scary. "Nah, love. What would it be short for?"
"Um," I start, spluttering laugh. "I don't know. Rush…an? Rush…icles?" As in Russian and Rush-ick-leez.
"Rushan, or Rushicles?" His shoulders shake with silent laughter. "Sweetheart, if you ever have kids, leave the naming to your husband."
Husband.
Zero would be my husband now if he were alive.
"Ah, fuck. I've stepped in shit, haven't I?" He peers at me carefully. “How'd he die, then? Your 'usband."
"Fiancé,” I murmur, looking away and blinking hard. "Car accident barely two weeks before the wedding."
Rush covers my hand with one of his—he has W-A-R tattooed across the knuckles of his index, middle, and ring fingers of his right hand, the letters oriented to be read by him rather than a viewer. "Fuck, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Losing someone like that…it rips your fuckin' heart out." He's utterly genuine. You can't fake the look of understanding in his eyes—which are greenish again.
I nod. "You?"
"Me what?"
"Who'd you lose?"
"Everyone." He shoots to his feet, tossing a stack of much-folded euros on the table. "Right back. Gotta have a wazz."
Well, I guess that's the end of that bit of sharing.
But…everyone?
I go back to the flash of anger I saw. I didn't get the impression that he was angry at me. More…Because of me. I can't pinpoint why I feel that way, but I do.
I toss back the last of my coffee while waiting for Rush to return from the bathroom. As he's passing the counter where the cash register is, he pauses, scenting the air. He gets the attention of the woman behind the counter, makes a request. A few moments later, he swaggers to the table with a lidded paper to-go cup from which he sips, looking pleased.
"C'mon, Bryn. That’s us off." He takes a sip, his eyes fixed on me with a small, secretive smirk on his absurdly sensual mouth.
Outside, he pauses on the sidewalk, scanning our surroundings over the top of his paper cup. I follow his gaze, and see nothing—no one suspicious, nothing that sets my hackles on edge.
"This way," he murmurs, setting off in what seems to me to be a random direction.
"Do you know where we're going?" i ask.
He shrugs. "Nah. Just movin' around. Best get out of Berlin quick-like, though. I wasn't exactly subtle, y'know. Rozzer's'll be on us eventually if we don't get scarce."
“Sometimes I have no fucking clue what you're saying," I tell him, arching an eyebrow at him. "Like, what the fuck is rozzers?"
He snorts, sips, slurping and sighing happily. "Fuzz. Old Bill. Bobbies. Coppers."
I roll my eyes. "You can't just say 'the police'?" I point at his cup. "The coffee there was good, but not that good. You sound like you're about to come."
