The Dark Side of the Moon

Chapter 16: Kyle and Tommy

-Kyle’s P.O.V-

Driving through the silent streets at speed was what calmed me most. The cold air whipped past my face and I enjoyed the feeling, urging my bike to go faster. I was barely aware of the wordless little thing clinging to my body for dear life, until she whimpered slightly. I guess I forgot how frightening this experience would be for a human, she probably thought we would die. I wouldn’t let that happen.

The bike slowed to a halt outside her house and I cut the engine, leaving us in silence. Without a sound, she untangled her arms from around my waist and hopped off the bike with as little as a slight wobble. She then proceeded to storm up to her house and unlocked the door, slamming it in my face. Well that’s hospitality for you.

I rang the doorbell and a few minutes later, it was opened by an annoyed Florence. She raised an eyebrow and gave me a look that clearly said “What do you want?”

“I’m going to need my helmet back,” I said emotionlessly, gesturing behind her at a table with my black helmet resting on top. She narrowed her eyes at me and snatched it up, shoving it into my chest. I caught it easily, but when she went to slam the door on me a second time, I refused. My hand shot out and rested against the door, preventing it from closing.

“I’ll see you around. Try not to tell all your friends about this,” I gestured between us as I said it.

“God, why does it matter to you?” she hissed like a moody teenager, her anger surprising me. By the time she had said it though, I was already straddling my bike and pulling my helmet over my head. Without replying, I sped off down the street.

Although going to that party was a drag, it did teach me one thing. Florence had been drinking throughout the entire party and from one whiff of that stuff I knew it was vodka. Five cups later and she held her drink pretty well, not even slurring her words or acting drunkenly. Nobody could withstand that much alcohol and not show signs of being intoxicated, nobody except someone like me: a shifter. But of course, that wasn’t possible, was it?

*

-Tommy's P.O.V-

Standing at a hotdog stand in the middle of a crowded park was not what I signed up for in this line of work. My silver hand gun was pressed into my chest, hidden inside the leather jacket that I constantly wore. My hands itched to use it.

My partner was inconspicuously reading a newspaper a few hundred metres away on a park bench, but really, there was nothing inconspicuous about him. He wore thick black glasses that conveniently covered most of his face and his all-black attire contributed to the ‘mafia’ stereotype that anyone would have the first impression of. If the clothing wasn’t a big give away, his physical appearance would be.

Imagine a six foot two man with muscles that contended with that of a wrestler. Then give him hard features and an unforgiving, harsh look that would scare away any little kid. Of course, this is all just what he looks like. If you want to go into the finicky details, you notice that the way he walks is vigilant and guarded. His narrowed eyes perceive every aspect of his surroundings and he hardly utters a word.  His accent is thick and Russian, barely understandable.

Now you know exactly what Vladimir Rostov is like, and unfortunately I work with him. So you can see why I’m a little bit irritable on the job. My partner is not what you would call ‘company’ and my occupation is a little out of the ordinary. Just as the hotdog vendor hands me my food, my phone blares out its ringtone inside my pocket. I fumble for a moment, but managed to put it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Vicetti, it’s me,” a familiar voice called me by my last name. I’ve never actually known the caller in person, but he calls me a lot. It’s all part of the job.