Ever After

Electric Avenue

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This chapter is in Mark's perspective.

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A few minutes were spent gasping for air, breathless despite what the wind offered. We'd been clutching at our hearts and clinging to an outside lamppost for what felt like ages before Jack finally suggested that we keep moving, for "who knows what Killian and his bitches would do" if they caught us there - as if I weren't even there, he suddenly started walking, not bothering to grab at my hand like he usually did. Of course, I'm sure he didn't expect me to rebel, seeing as I was a stranded puppy in the middle of nowhere. As little as I wanted to seem desperate, I was forced into practically stepping on his heels as we walked, praying that the mob of Irish citizens wouldn't swallow me whole.

Eventually, Jack finally stopped dead in his tracks, cutting me off and sending me flying against his backpack (causing me to question whether I was happy or upset that it'd caused me not to touch him). He turned to face me, smiling as he asked if I was hungry, to which I nodded eagerly, my stomach astounding me at how loudly it rumbled. I practically held my hands around my ribcage as we pressed on, walking for what felt like miles upon miles, stopping just before a food truck surrounded by businessmen and women.

"Stay close to me," Jack advised, gripping onto my hand once again. It was an odd feeling, having him touch me; along with everything that'd happened thus far, I couldn't tell whether I liked it or not. Something about him told me that he wasn't into me, that he was just a waste of time, that he was nothing more than a straight, sexy man with three worst enemies that were now (probably) after me - and yet, whenever his palm wrapped around mine, a feeling of trust impacted me, a feeling of the desperate need to hold on and stay close. I tried not to think much of this feeling... it was probably just the large crowd, the horde forcing my thoughts to become just as compacted and blurry as the people within it.

I looked up at the neon lights above the food truck, saying nothing more than the word "Poutine." (How descriptive.) I could already tell by the way Jack maneuvered through the crowd that he'd been here before - was there a place downtown Jack hadn't been? I watched as he dove under a group of friends, practically stepped over a toddler, and swerved around an incoming stroller, only to find him up and at the counter of the food truck within a few seconds. He felt around in his back pocket as the chefs finished up their current orders, finally finding himself lucky with his ten euro and change from the ticket he'd purchased - not bothering to ask what I wanted, he leaned into the window, placing his hands down on the counter as he awaited to be asked for his order.

"That kid cut in line!" someone called out from over my shoulder.

"Yeah," someone else chimed in, "he's gotta wait!"

I started to turn, hoping to see who was causing the ruckus, before Jack's voice cut me off, his tone as stale as it'd been when he'd been telling me how to hide in the creepy-closet washroom and how to steal a pair of "lightly loved" sneakers.

"Can you get Cry?" he asked the chef that approached him.

"Cry's busy - is it urgent?"

"Very." His tone somehow managed to drop an octave.

It was a short moment when the chef had gone to fetch whoever this "Cry", a moment of silence (if you weren't to count the crowd of people around us). I opened my mouth to question who Cry was, only to be cut off by an approaching man, one seemingly two years older and wiser than Jack and I. His hair was wild and seemingly not dealt with, free to move with the wind (but, fortunately, out of his way). He had a light green hoodie on underneath of his apron - an apron, similar to the one I wore at the Coffee House. I swallowed as he spoke.