I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman, who’s not totally hungover after a birthday party that lasted until the sun touched the horizon. My dog is kind of a jerk, my best friend is really bossy, and I have a crush on the hottest guy in town. My lips are sore from kissing said guy, and I can’t wait to do it again.
There’s the part where I’m an escort, my best friend is a madam, and the hottest guy in town is in association with the local mob. Should I leave out the part where the underboss of the mafia sends me jewels that cost more than I make in a year? And I think he might be following me?
Fine print aside, my life is looking up.
Dog sprints back to the apartment. His nametag sings against his collar, and he runs in circles around my frozen feet. Lydia’s usually taken him on a run by this time. Since she’s still in bed, he has energy left to burn. We can sit in front of the television and polish off that tray of cinnamon rolls. Or, with this new lease on life, maybe I can work toward beating Dog in a race.
“Lydia,” I whisper into her room twenty minutes later, cringing at how dark she keeps it.
She groans from under a mound of blankets, “Go away.”
“I’m going to take Dog for a walk,” I say. “Do you want to come?”
She throws a pillow, and I close the door before it hits me in the face. “Fuck off, Camilla.”
Sharing a cheeky smile with Dog, I crack open the door again. “Do you have a hangover? There’s coffee if you need it.”
Lydia rises from the mattress like a vampire rises from a coffin. Her hair sticks up around her head like a crown of thrones, and she holds the blankets to her chest. “Camilla,” she growls. “I said to fuck the fuck off.”
Another pillow hits the door, and I know that if she throws one more, she won’t have a pillow to sleep with. I peek inside one last time and say, “Okay, we’ll be back in a little while then.”
“I’m going to kill you,” she mumbles as we walk away.
As the season brushes against winter, the ocean breeze turns bitter. Most runners have surrendered to their treadmills until spring, but I have a grudge with this dog and this stretch of road. “It might not be today,” I say to Dog as we line up after my stretch. “But I’ll outrun you one of these days.”
Definitely not today.
It most definitely will not be today.
I may not be as hungover as Lydia, but I overestimated my ability to function as a human being after a night of heavy drinking. We haven’t traveled an entire block before my side splits, my lungs tighten, and tequila seeps from my pores as if on tap. Dog judges me, antagonizing me at a walking pace as I fight to put one foot in front of the other in a slow jog. But I won’t give up. I won’t stop until we get to the end of the street or my heart gives out, whichever comes first.
“Not today, Satan,” I whisper to myself with an ironic smile.
I’ve overcome a lot in my short life, and this road won’t be the thing that beats me.
When the hair on the back of my neck sticks up, my first thought is a heart attack. The road won’t beat me, but the jars of Nutella I eat will. No one can eat trays of cinnamon rolls and get away with it. But when my skin starts to tingle, and the sound of my heart are louder than anything else, I stop running and spin around.
The sidewalk is empty.
Dog’s ears stand straight up, and he stares pointedly ahead at nothing.
We’re the only ones on the road.
“Let’s go,” I say, pulling his leash.
Dog’s ears stay up. He isn’t as light on his feet as before, now running lower to the ground defensively. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched, even though there’s not another soul in sight. No one is in their garages, sitting on their porches, or checking their mail. It’s just me and this icy anxiety braving the frigid morning.
My legs work harder, dread being a better catalyst than aspiration. Dog’s ID tag chimes in sync with our steps, growing louder and quicker as we run farther and faster. We fly past the end of the block, through the intersection where Lydia normally turns, and down a quarter-mile before my lungs refuse to take another breath and my sides cut wide open.
I double over, sucking in air. But the prickling feeling that I’m not alone, that someone has their eyes on me, becomes overwhelming.
“Who’s there?” I call out.
There’s a white van parked in a driveway five houses down. If someone’s following me, the only place to hide would be on the other side of the van.
The memory of Nicolai’s grin nearly knocks me off my feet, but his words are what really haunt me.
My cousin Luca likes you.
