What If You Fly?

Part 12 by J. R. Richardson

A loud, unexpected laughter rose up and out of me. "I'm sorry, David. I could have sworn you just said, the Cartel." The result of nervous energy, no doubt.

Even as I said the word, myself, I knew he must be joking. The David I knew, and loved, had never been synonymous with words like Goodfellas or The Mob. More like . . . exceptional. And extremely easy on the eyes.

Oh. Those eyes. Stop staring into his gaze, Liv. That's where mistakes and regrets reside.

Clearly what I needed was another drink.

No. Not another drink. Stay away from the drinks.

"Where's the wine again?" I got up to go find it myself.

"Liv," David followed. "This isn't a joke."

There it is. The bottle he'd opened just a few minutes ago. "No, of course it isn't. In fact I was just telling my class today that I had to leave early because I had an assassination to conduct."

I laughed again as I poured a glass of the . . . Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon? To the very top.

"Expensive taste, David."

The fact that I was holding such an upscale bottle of wine in my hands didn't stop me from guzzling that bad boy. Not one bit.

"Liv." He took the glass from my hand once I finished. Then the bottle. "Forget the wine for Christ's sake." He set them down. The expression he wore like a suit of armor told me he was being quite serious. The only problem was that my head couldn't quite wrap itself around what he was saying.

"It's not nice to tease, David." I said it quietly, hoping for confirmation that was the case.

"I wouldn't tease, Liv. Not about this."

Between the strain in his voice and sincerity of his words, suddenly, I was having doubts about coming here.

"M . . . maybe we should just call it a day." As he trapped me in his gaze, the instinct to flee was overwhelming. As though I was back in my dream all over again.

"You can't just go, Liv. That's the problem." His phone buzzed and he checked it.

That's not a. we're going to have a nice romantic, maybe make out a little more this evening, kind of look.

"Why not?" Panic struck me, inexplicably. And I'm fairly certain I was shaking a tad.

"Mazzie!" he called out and when she appeared at the top of the stairs, he instructed her calmly. "Code fizzypop."

Her eyes widened but she nodded, obediently. "Okay, Daddy."

She disappeared again, quickly, and when David's eyes met mine this time, there was no crinkle at the edges of them, and no smile on his lips. Only worry and dread.

"We have to go."

"What? I just-"

"Now." He grabbed my arm and pulled me along with him to the back of the house.

"David, I don't like this. What's happening?" My question went unanswered and when he opened the door from his kitchen to lead me out to his garage, a man fell to the floor, limp . . . and lifeless. His eyes were cold, his stare, blank.

"That's . . ." I pointed at the thick river of red flowing from the back of the man's head as hysteria set in. Not joking. He's not joking. "Real blood," I whispered.

Whatever his response was, went unheard, as a strong case of vertigo swirled through my head. Then a flash of white. Then nothing.