Rise [Bruno Mars]

Chapter eleven

Chapter eleven

Joseph and I strolled side by side in silence, building two growing in the distance as we neared.

“I have blood on my hands, Adrian.”

At his figurative language, the image of Servicer Brim with a knife in his chest floated up behind my eyelids, and with it, anger and disgust I tried burying down. “I'm not afraid of you.”

“No?” He seemed intrigued. “You view me the same?”

“I should see you as a monster because of your removal of one bad man?”

“Do you think we are responsible for judging if a life is to be lived or not?”

I sucked in a silent breath, instantly thinking of Bruno and how I disrespected his choice to die. Your body fights for you to stay alive, why can't I? That was what I'd told him. Was it a good enough excuse? It didn't matter. This was different. It had to be. I wasn't killing someone. I was trying to keep someone alive.

“I believe in justice,” I said as we stopped in front of a green door. I ignored the Do Not Disturb sign hung around the doorknob, feeling for the first time a nasty flare of nerves in my stomach.

“Justice,” Joseph echoed distantly. I entered first and paused in front of the long counter that ran the length of one wall, where an old, dusty television sat, unsure of what to do. Joseph removed his jacket. I disregarded his muscled arms.

“What do you think of Ryan?” I asked him out of nowhere. Something. Anything to break the silence and ignore the single bed.

“The singer's friend?” Joseph moved to the sink that was outside of the bathroom and ran the faucet. “A child.”

I frowned. “He's not used to this.”

He splashed water over his face and through his hair. He stared at me through the mirror. “Defensive.” He cut off the water. “And he is not even your friend. You know who his loyalty belongs to.”

“That can always change.” I clicked my nails against the counter. “I've only known him for a few days.”

“You've known me for longer.” He withdrew rolling papers from his pocket and a small bag of something green. “There's no longer a ring on your finger. Why did you reject your singer?”

My singer. Was that what Bruno was to him now? I curled my hand, missing the bite of cold the beautiful ring gave and that I'd only had for a day. “I have my reasons.”

“You always do, Adrian.” He was rolling a cigarette. 

“That's not weed.” I remembered the smell of pot at parties.

“Weed?” He perched on the edge of the bed. “Why would I smoke weeds?”

I stifled a laugh. “Marijuana, Joseph.”

“This isn't that. Nor is it tobacco.” 

He let the unlit cigarette dangle between his long fingers, and regarded me in the weak motel light. I let out a slow breath and unslung my bag from my shoulder, my back facing him. “What do you want from me, Joseph?”

“You think I want something from you?”

I turned. “You kissed me.”

“I remember,” he said, voice cool and smooth as glass. “I remember you kissing me in return, touching me.” His head tilted. “Did you like it?”