Assassins: Slow Agony Part 21

He got up. "I wasn't the one who wasn't ready to be a parent. Are you ready?"

"Well, it's kind of a bigger commitment for me, you know."

"I didn't think so." He unzipped his pack.

"I don't know." I sighed. "Maybe. If you were there, if we were... It's not as if I don't see myself having children someday. And yes, I want that to be with you."

He yanked out a change of clothes. "I'm going to take a shower. Let's just drop this, huh? Afterwards, we'll walk around. We'll try to have fun."

"Griffin-"

"No," he said. "We could use some fun."

South Congress Avenue was like an extended Purple Fiddle. The whole street had the same eclectic atmosphere, whimsy married to shock art. It was like strolling through the coolest place I could possibly imagine. We went into funky art galleries, where the art on the walls ranged from typical landscapes to large pieces of metal sculpture. (There was even one that was made entirely of forks. I loved that one.) We went into vintage clothing stores and tried on outlandish outfits. We got coffee and sandwiches at a little bistro where the walls were covered in oddly-framed mirrors. Some were old and bra.s.s and stately, others bright and bold.

What I loved about the whole area was that it was iconoclastic and edgy, but it somehow managed to pay tribute to its traditional roots as well. Like The Purple Fiddle was tinged with bluegra.s.s and West Virginia charm, SoCo had a Hispanic undercurrent. It was Tex Mex, and it knew it. It celebrated it. But it also twisted everything so that it felt like we'd stumbled through the looking gla.s.s and that everything had been switched from right to left. The best thing was that the whole time Griffin and I strolled the streets, it seemed as if SoCo was was.h.i.+ng away all the complications between us. We both seemed airier, happier.

As the sun began to go down, I clutched Griffin's arm with one hand and several shopping bags in the other.

"I could definitely live here," I said.

He smiled down at me. "It's kind of a big Thomas, huh?"

He got it. I beamed at him.

He held up his own shopping bag. "Let's change into our Austin outfits and then find someplace to go to dinner."

Good plan. Griffin had been right when he said we needed more fun. I hadn't realized how positively grim everything had been recently. I mean, maybe it was necessary. After all, we were in danger. People had died. But having fun felt nice. I felt like I hadn't felt this free since... Gosh. A long time.

Griffin let me change in the bathroom, while he put on his clothes in our room. I had a few different outfits, but I settled on a blue seventies-style dress. It was off the shoulder, a long ruffle hanging to my elbows and over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The skirt was made of layers of the same kind of ruffles. The dress made me feel light and pretty.

And... pure.

Which was something I wasn't sure I'd ever been, but something I desperately wished for right then. I wished I could erase all of the things that had come before and go to Griffin fresh. Surely then we'd connect in the same magical way we had before.

I surveyed myself in the mirror. The reflection that greeted me was clean and simple. I tossed my hair and called out to see if Griffin was ready.

"Sure," he said.

I opened the door.

Griffin spread his hands. "What do you think?"

He was wearing a tight, tight Rolling Stones t-s.h.i.+rt. It was black, and the letters were starting to flake off. It looked grungy and too-cool. And it hugged each and every aspect of his perfect chest. His jeans were snug too. And he was wearing cowboy boots!

I grinned. "You look awesome."

He was staring at me, a stunned look on his face.

"Griffin?"

He shook his head "I like the dress, doll." He reached for me. "I like you in blue."

I knew that. I put my hand in his, happy with his reaction. I let him tug me close.

He gazed down into my eyes, searching them.

I reached up to brush my fingers against his cheek.

He closed his eyes.

I was so close to him that I could feel the faint patter of his heart through his s.h.i.+rt. I wanted to be wrapped up in him. I wanted us closer.

But he swallowed and pulled away. "Dinner?"

I bit my lip and nodded.

The restaurant was dimly-lit and furnished with mismatched, brightly colored tables and chairs. The food was delicious-smoky, spicy, and crispy. I was beginning to think that my favorite thing about Texas was the food. If I lived here, I'd probably gain at least eighty pounds. I couldn't stop eating.

There was a band tucked in the corner on a small stage. Two guys with acoustic guitars and another guy on hand drums. The sound was a fusion of African beats and southwestern folk. I'd never heard anything quite like it. But there was an earnestness to the way the man crooned into the microphone that I liked.

I swayed in my seat to it, occasionally taking long swigs of the s.h.i.+ner Bock that the waitress had recommended to me. It was a fairly nice beer, not quite as tasty as the homebrew of Silas-but, then, that was a tall order to fill.

Griffin chuckled at me. "You want to dance."

I smiled. "Yes, I do."

He gestured. "Go for it."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Oh come on, you can't pretend like you can't dance when I spent months helping you get in touch with your inner dancer."

He might have blushed again. I couldn't be sure in the scant light. "No way. I'm not dancing."

"You can pretend like you didn't like it, but I know better." I got up out of my seat and held out my hand to him.

He sighed heavily, took his napkin off his lap, and put his hand in mine. "One song."

I pulled him to his feet and across the room to the band. Griffin could pretend all he wanted that he didn't like to dance. I knew better. We'd had conversations about it, in fact. They were often the same conversations that touched on spirituality. And we both agreed that dancing was powerful primarily because it was about surrendering your body to the music.

I even remembered what Griffin had said. It's like music and dancing is all about shutting off your inhibitions, or whatever's in the way, and letting your body move.

It was my influence that had led him to that conclusion. He'd never have danced if it hadn't been for me. And he was a good dancer. Griffin was big and burly, but he was a physical person. He spent time working out-lifting weights and jogging in the mornings. How I remembered the way he teased me about my couch potato ways. Dancing was a natural fit for him, once he allowed his body to move, like he said.

The music was upbeat and quirky. We danced together, but with a foot between our bodies, swaying and bouncing, both grinning. The music made us lively and buoyant. We wound our way between the other dancers, and we were happy.

But then the song ended, and the strains of the next song were quieter. Slower.

Griffin and I both stopped moving, and the smiles slid from our faces.

He swallowed, gazing at me.

I peered up at him, searching his expression.

He reached for my hands and pulled me close.

Our gazes still locked, we began to move together. His hands slid over my waist, settling on the curve of my hips. I snaked mine up and around his neck. The music was soft and slow, but the African beat of the drums spoke to my hips, and I found myself undulating them.

Griffin's fingers dug into my skin.

I let my fingers travel over his shoulders.

Distantly, I could hear that the crooner had started to sing the words to the song, and that it was a song of lost love, a lament for a lover gone away. But Griffin was so close that the music seemed further away. He loomed, blocking out the rest of the world.

My chest felt tight.

His fingers s.h.i.+fted. One of his hands went to the small of my back, and he pushed me closer to him. Our bodies were practically touching.

His other hand moved up my body, cupping me behind my neck.

I moistened my lips.

His gaze had grown thick with intensity.

We were barely swaying to the music anymore. We'd been slowing down, as if we couldn't be bothered by it anymore.

I stopped moving entirely.

Griffin's head dipped down.

I tilted my chin.

Our lips met.

His lips were soft and warm. His kiss was sweet and thorough. My body sank into his, and I thought of the sun going down, the stars appearing in the sky. Their bright spots in the darkness were my desire for Griffin, still burning brightly through the smothering night of our separation. The kiss made my desire brighten, come back as strong as ever.

And then it was over. He pulled back.

He touched his lips. "Doll..."

I looked at the ground. "I know. I confuse you."

He drew in a breath. But he didn't say anything.

I went back to our table. Someone had left the check for us. I shuffled cash into the black leather folder.

Griffin was behind me. "I was going to get that."

I turned to him. "It's okay. It's not like this was a date or something."

He furrowed his brow. "Wasn't it?"

I straightened, smoothing out my skirt. "Should we go back to the hotel?"

He sighed, sounding frustrated. He seized my hand and dragged me out of the restaurant. "Let's walk."

It was much warmer at night here in Austin than it had been in West Virginia. I let Griffin lead me up the sidewalk. I looked at the shops we'd visited earlier in the day. Most were closed now.

"I don't know how to start talking about this," said Griffin.

"Talking about what?"

"I don't think you're a murderer."

Oh. That. I felt my stomach turn inside out. "I'm glad you don't. But maybe we shouldn't talk about it anymore. It only makes us angry and ugly."

He didn't say anything. "All right. Fine. Let's go back to the hotel." He let go of my hand and turned around on the sidewalk.

I caught him by the shoulder. "Wait." He seemed so defeated. I didn't want to cut him off if it was important to him. "Do you have something you want to say?"

He cupped my cheek with his palm. "I don't know. I wanted you to know that I don't think that. You yelled it at me right before I ran off, and we haven't talked since then."

"But you said I killed your child."

His jaw worked. "That was how it felt. To me, it felt like something... something that I was supposed to protect... died."

I pulled away from him. "And you blame me."

He grabbed my arm and forced me to face him. "No. No, doll, I blamed myself."

There was a lump growing in my throat. My face twisted as I fought tears. "But you said I was selfish, and you called me names-"

"I never should have done that. I was angry at myself, and I took it out on you."

I tried hard not to cry. He was apologizing? He was taking it back? He didn't think I was selfish?

He craned his neck up at the sky. "I hate Jolene French with every fiber of my being, but sometimes some of the things she said help me. We had to become efficient at killing at Op Wraith."

"And she taught you to turn off," I said. I'd seen Griffin hard and emotionless. It was terrifying. "But you weren't turned off. You were angry."

"If the turning off didn't work," he said, "then she taught me other mind tricks. She said that it was hard wired biologically into men to want be protectors. If I had trouble killing people, I had to reframe the action in my mind as a protective action."

At least this was distracting me from crying, but I didn't understand why he was telling me this. "Okay."

He shrugged, meeting my gaze again. "I think that's why I freaked out. Because I'm hard wired to try to protect my own offspring. It's biological."