I open my mouth to say something. Anything. Yet nothing comes out. Unable to make eye contact, I stare at his chest. In my head exists dozens of breezy answers to his question, but only a choked sound leaves my lips.
Troy shuts the cabinet, holding a bag of popcorn. He's staring at me and waiting for a response. Despite my best efforts, I can't give him one. The panic at having him stare at me is too much, and I run back to my room where I plan to hide until Minka returns.
6
~~~
Troy
The Soft Curvy Ghost
Gentle has never been my strong suit. I get into my head how things ought to be a certain way, so I push until the world bends to my will. When it won't, I walk the fuck away and avoid the struggle. I win, or I give up.
What can I do about a woman like Darla? She needs gentle, but I feel edgy having her out of my sight. I hate not knowing what she's doing. Is she making calls? Can anyone see in through the windows? Darla being out of my sight means she isn't protected.
I can't pretend I'm emotionally touched by Darla's story. I never get into the heads of those I protect. For most of my adult life, I've killed bad guys, so I'm much better at focusing on my target. A freak like Locke doesn't scare me one-on-one, yet his money makes me nervous. He can hire a hundred killers like Zivkovic.
Watching the game, I wait for something bad to happen or for Darla to get her ass back into the living room. I'll be satisfied with her hiding in the adjoining kitchen. Knowing her movements helps me prepare for Locke's.
Taking a break from the third inning, I decide to make another bag of popcorn. The file on Darla says she is an emotional eater. Maybe buttery popcorn will lure Darla from her hiding place.
My bait works. Sitting again on the couch, I sense movement behind me and see her image in the window glare. She's hovering near the kitchen hallway.
"Get it while it's hot," I say, tossing popcorn back at her.
I'm unsure how close to her my half-ass throw lands the popcorn. Darla disappears from one doorway near the kitchen, only to appear from another hallway near the front door. I instinctively tense, thinking she might make a run for it. Instead, Darla appears at the other end of the couch and stares at the cushions.
"Here," I say, tossing popcorn at her shirt.
A frown appears on her face, but she remains silent. Sitting on the couch as far from me as possible, she studies the bowl of popcorn that I've set on the table.
"Have at it," I say, taking the bowl and resting it next to her on the couch.
Darla doesn't react immediately. I don't know if she's afraid or stubborn. She could be stoned too, I assume. Her medicine cabinet is overflowing with helpful aids from well-meaning doctors. "Dope her up," seems to be their solution to her every problem. Scared of her own shadow? Just dope her up! Trouble sleeping after an attack by a Serbian hitman? Just double her doses!
From the corner of my eye, I see her hand sneaking up on the popcorn. I don't know what she thinks will happen when she touches the food, but I notice an obvious sigh of relief once the first piece is in her grasp.
"Do you like baseball?" I ask once her shoulders relax a little.
Darla glances at me, using her hair as a shield. I see her blue eyes for only a second before she stares at the popcorn. After much deliberation, she nods.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?"
After two minutes, Darla shakes her head, and I feel like a frigging snake charmer. Even if she isn't deadly, I know she can make my job very complicated.
Careful not to be caught looking, I watch her eat. Darla's clearly overheated from wearing the heavy sweats. I notice her sweaty forehead and a slight flush to her cheeks.
"Why not change into something more appropriate for the summer heat?"
Darla tenses. I've pissed her off. No, scared her. I have to remind myself how someone like Darla doesn't get angry over every annoyance. That's Minka. My ex is a big believer in punching people first and asking questions when they regain consciousness.
Darla wants to wear her sweats, but I think it's stupid to be overheated inside. The air conditioning is running so high the apartment feels like late autumn. The colder the room gets, the angrier I feel. Not at Darla, but at Locke for still being in her head.
"What's the point of wearing all that?" I ask, pointing at her getup. "It's not cold. Locke isn't here. Besides, I know what you look like under all those clothes, so why not take them off?"
Darla gives me eye contact for the first time, and her gaze is full of hate. Before I can react, she jumps up from the couch. I move without thinking and grab her wrist to stop her from fleeing. Her panicked crying startles the living shit out of me.
"Whoa," I say, letting go of her. "Don't freak."
Standing somehow straight, yet seeming in a fetal position, Darla hides right before me. Whimpering behind a curtain of her hair, she shakes in terror.
I take a deep breath and remember her file. The doctors were vague on the specifics of her time with Locke, but I got the gist.