Heaven's Crime (gxg) ✓

six. luxuriously

                    The word MOTEL flashes in red on the side of a one-story, run-down building.

                     It reminds me a movie. A flickering, weathered sign next to a half-collapsed brick structure. The neon red is a low buzz in my ears as Veah turns off the engine.

                      I woke up only minutes ago, and I'm still dazed. Curious.

                      In a rush, everything comes back to me. The handcuffs. The Yakuza. The girl next to me, who is wanted by the most dangerous people . . . possibly ever. 

                       How did I get myself into this mess?

                       All I did was agree to a Halloween party and a slutty pumpkin costume―which, by the way, I am still wearing―and now . . . I'm here.

                       In the parking lot of Smile's Motel somewhere in California. In the middle of some wasteland.

                      Veah is rummaging through the belt of her pants, and the handcuff between us shuffles, clinking against the dashboard.

                       "What are you looking for?"

                       She glances up. There is a gun in her hand and a casing of bullets in the other.

                       I tense, but she only raises a single eyebrow. 

                       Stupid. She took a bullet for me. She fended off not one, not two, but ten Yakuza members with one hand. And she's going to shoot me now? I could hit myself.

                       But it is a reminder. I don't trust her. I shouldn't trust her.

                       The adrenaline has worn off. My survival instincts are kicking in, and I want to run―get as far away from her as possible. But . . . the handcuffs between us rattle. And I know I've already dug myself a deep, deep hole.

                        So I might as well not make an enemy out of the girl who's chained to me. The girl, who incidentally happens to be wanted by the Japanese Mafia. No―correction.

                        She's not wanted. They want her dead.

                        And by association, that probably means me, too.

                        But for a second, I can't take it. The secrecy, the insanity.

                        I blurt out, "What's your name? Your real name? Not like some alias or American identity or―or whatever."

                        Her hand reaches over me, and my heart stops. Is she going to―

                        But she only opens the passenger car door. In her eyes, I can almost read the words: You first, my lady. 

                        I climb out. Too agile, too smooth, to possibly be real, she springs out after me. Her lithe body is honed, as graceful as a knife cutting through air. And I can't help being impressed, even as I know she didn't answer my question.

                        What's your name? 

                        Maybe it's better I don't know. Maybe she's trying to spare me―or save me―or whatever. You know, in the movies, when they say, I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.