Manic [h.s]

#021

"And every time I think about you, it don't make any sense"

Strangers | Fletcher

February 08, 1999

IRIS XANDER

Getting back to the beach house took longer than intended. Done with all the shit I've pulled, Harry finally took the wheel. Honestly, it's a relief because the last thing I want is to argue about directions with him. He looks like he's on the verge of snapping any second now, and I don't want another reason to push him over the edge as if we don't hate each other enough.

His index finger traces the skin beneath his lip, a habit I've noticed he does when he's deep in thought. Thankfully, he hasn't uttered a single word to me since the chase, not even sparing me a glance. It's like I'm not even here which, considering the circumstances is a relief.

We drive through the open road of the beach house, Harry not even pausing to let me out as he heads straight to the basement garage. The car rolls to a stop among the other expensive vehicles, and he kills the engine without a word.

Harry's the first to get out, slamming the door behind him. I follow suit, my eyes immediately drawn to the exterior of the Jaguar. The car looks like it's been through a war zone, and in a way, it has. It's a sad sight—no longer  gleaming, now covered in a mess of a colourful spray paint and a thick layer of dust.

The back of the car tells another story. The metal is bent and riddled with deep scratches from slamming into the railway gates. The glass in the rear is shattered, yet somehow still clinging to the frame.

My thoughts are fixed on the car, so intent that I fail to notice the figure looming behind me. "Care to fucking explain?!" he spits with utter hatred and I turn around, coming face to face with the devil himself. He's standing no more than five feet away, his eyes burning with rage in the harsh garage lights. This is it. I wanted a war, and now I've got one.

"Who the fuck was after us? Do you know him?" he pushes, not giving me a chance to answer.

"Look. It's a long story-" I try to say but he cuts me off.

"I don't care! You better open that pretty mouth of yours and start talking."

I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. "Okay, okay. Fine. The guy in the Camaro? I don't really know him, but I do know who he works for. Not personally, though. Let's just say we've got some unfinished business," I say, trying to keep it as vague as possible.

But he pushes for more by saying, "And by unfinished business, you mean...?"

I sigh, knowing there's no way to sugarcoat it. For a moment, I think about telling him a made up story that's far from the truth, but I know it's probably not for the best. "I might've uh... borrowed something from him," I continue to keep my answer vague with a partial lie.

His eyes narrow, catching up to my lie. "Borrowed?"

"Fine. I stole some money," I admit. "And he's been trying to hunt me down."

"You're telling me we got chased halfway across the city and almost lost our lives because you stole money from a dickhead? Un-fucking-believable."

I shrug, trying to downplay the gravity of the situation. "It's a bit more complicated than that. We all make mistakes, right? In that case, I may have kinda shot a bar owner when I was stealing the money," I cringe at the sentence that slips past my lips.

"You what?!" he replies.

"I didn't kill him! Or at least, I don't think I did," I quickly add, holding up my hands defensively. "But I wouldn't call it a mistake—it was intentional. He was asking for it and he got it. The guy who was after us works for one of those assholes who's friends with the bar owner. So, yeah, they're after me because of my... naive decision-making."