*Charlie's P.O.V*

UK

Harry woke up to bad news. Not in grass, like me, but his bed felt horrid the same way. His smile dies. His brows set. Then, as a string of messages blurs his vision, he gasps, "Oh, my God," grabs his stuff and runs. His back slams hospital doors in no time, in sync with the guttural wail of a mother—Caelen's. Pameline stands beside the mother, motionless and pale.

When they lock eyes, Harry turns around, finding anywhere farther to be. Pameline stays with the mum till night, and heads to a bar afterwards, drinking herself stupid.

A guy approaches Pameline and she follows him like a child. Her mind is blank when she feels motel sheets. Her friend is dead; that's all she can think about.

Caelen's face... Burnt. That's all she can see until the sound of a truffle brings her attention to the guy getting a severe beating. Immediately the guy falls, Harry appears, panting, "Hey, are you ok? Did he touch you?"

Then everything fades to black for her. Harry, however, has to bring her to my home, much to my sister's surprise. Sil frowns as my bestie carries the girl to the guestroom before coming out to explain, "Remember Caelen?"

"Huh?" Sil squints.

"Caelen, the babysitter. The one that went missing."

"..Ya?"

"She's dead."

"Oh my goodness," Sil crosses her arms as Harry adds, "her whole family is distraught. It's... awful. Pameline hasn't said a word since and when I found her -"

"Pameline? As in... The girl you just brought in?"

Harry nods. Sil sits beside him to say, "Well... How long are you keeping her here?"

"I'm not keeping her. " Harry insists, "She'll probably want to leave when she wakes up tomorrow."

*

Pameline doesn't leave. Once she wakes up, Harry makes breakfast, feeds and does everything for her while she lies in bed.

Meanwhile, Sil calls Leo, wondering when he'll return from Brazil.

"Tomorrow," says Leo.

Sil grins. "Finally! I wondered what the bloody hell you still got going on there."

"Work. See you tomorrow." Leo hangs up, causing my sister to dial me in hopes of lamenting his curt behaviour.

*
US
**

But I can't answer. I'm being hauled back to Mr. Jackson, unconscious, as the man sits me on his couch, chuckling, "Wakey, wakey."

His grin is beyond aggravating - I awake, see it and shut my eyes.

"I said wake up!" He slaps me. My head rolls sideways, so he holds it brashly.

"You're still out of it? Damn, she must have given you too much." He grabs a glass of clear liquid.

Chucking it down my throat, he mutters an inaudible sentence. My eyelids flutter to meet his calluses above them.

"Pa-pardon me?"

"Relax." Mr. Jackson drops his hand as if his sight doesn't tense me. I edge away only for that hand to enter my hair.

"What are you doing to me -"

"I said, relax. You're going to take a shower, and then we'll talk. Feel at home."

Feel at home?! I slap his hand, and he chuckles, "Why? You don't think you belong here?"

If by here, he means this neon-lit lounge with beaded curtains for an entrance, NO.

I glare at him, and he laughs. "you know, the first time we met, I thought you wouldn't make it after that day."

There is a pause.

"I thought... Your kind of beauty was going to be your ruin. Because Igor liked pretty things... But they are never pretty after he's done with them. "

Ok.

"Wanna know why you are still on Earth? Not because of your beauty or brains. It's because everything about you is deceitful. Even now, you seem so frail. The way you act, too, it's Emmy-worthy. Your mom taught you well."

"Don't talk about my mum." I grimace to Mr Jackson's delight.

"Ok, then. Should I talk about Mia? Wanna know what she's wearing today?"

NO.

Satisfied with my facial reaction, he pours himself some wine. "When we return to the UK, you will be my assistant. You interned at my firm, so don't tell me it'll be hard to apply. Also, the wedding in Russia. You going?"

I blink.

"You're going." He drops a file beside me. "Beforehand, make sure you learn how to play chess and eat pussy. There are some people you gotta befriend there."

Why should I learn to eat a cat? Is it another weird thing rich psychos do?

"I'll teach the latter. You are in safe hands," he chuckles, walking away. When he reappears to free me, I am livid. He takes me to a bookstore and buys so much that I can't help sneaking a book or two into the pile. While he pays, the cashier recognises me. Before I can do a 'help me' signal, though, Mr Jackson drags me straight to the car. 

We reach his house as a jeep parks, its occupants stepping out with arms and stoic faces. One guy smacks Mr. Jackson's hood, earning a scowl from the accountant.

"Fuck."

"Language."

"Shut up and stay here." He hops out to meet them. As I watch the men bicker with Mr. Jackson, it dawns on me that they belong to a cartel.

Oh God. Another one?

Mr. Jackson throws money at the one he spoke to, after which he storms back in. He drives us away like a madman, cursing under his breath.

"Slow down. They are not chasing us," I grunt, so Mr Jackson sizes me.

"The fact that you are a good deceiver doesn't mean you can survive a thousand bullets at once. These are not people to be toyed with... Ah, I should have told Joe this."

"Why? What did Joe do?"

"She lied that she's Mr Yeltsin. Now, those thugs know -" He turns off his stereo - "she's not answering my calls."

I squint. "Is it intentional-"

"Of course not!" he barks. I wince, and he glares as if it just dawned on him that he's giving me information to his demerit. "You listen to me -" He grabs my neck. "Listen and listen well. Don't go to the police. Don't tell anyone about this unless you want to lose everyone you love-"

"Please, stop threatening me-"

"I'm warning you for your own good, boy. They saw your face. Wanna know what that means?"

My head shakes.

"Better." He unbuckles my belt and tosses me my phone. Immediately I step out, he u-turns away, deserting me in the cold.

Clouds darken. Wind blows my shirt while I try to comprehend everything.

Before I know it, I am stranded at the station. A weather forecast plays, talking about hurricanes and stuff.

The winds grow wilder when Mia calls. Clutching my chest, I exhale, "Mia?! Where are you?"

"I'm coming for you. Your GPS says-"

"No! Mia, stay indoors."

"I am coming for you-"

"Stay indoors. I'll come back soon."

She sighs, "How soon?"

"When the weather gets better," I muse. "Isn't it bad at your end?"

"Just a little windy."

"Well, stay indoors, Mia," I stress. She better listen to me.

*

*

By the next night, it's still pouring. The winds have subdued, though. My back aches from sitting all night, so I saunter about, checking for weather updates, when a yell echoes.

"Charlie!!"

I spin.

"CHARLIE!!!"

"Mia?!"

As if on cue, her face brightens. She runs faster. Maybe too fast - someone should stop her before she falls.

"Mia, be careful-"  Her body collides with mine.

Her arms circle my neck as she pants about who knows what. Her hair smells nice.

"... Where have you been?" She pulls back, beginning a rant about how she's been looking for me and was worried sick, and called my PR and - I am just happy to see her alright, even if she is pissed at me.

"... Are you even listening to me?!"

"Yes. You're-" I notice water dripping all over her. "Mia, did you walk in the rain?!"

"That's what happens when you have me worried, and you don't -" She hits my chest. "-Answer. My. Calls."

Then she drags me straight into a cab like I'm some troublesome kid.

Due to the unpredictable nature of the rain, we find another motel and make do with the only vacant bed. A game of rock paper scissors earns Mia the bed and me the couch. Happily, I lie down while she rolls the sheets above her head stubbornly. Silence and space separates us. A light wind whistles inside. Then, bang -

"AH!" She scurries.

Catching sight of what hit the window, I exhale.

"Charlie, get down!"

"It's a branch."

"Oh." She climbs back to bed so slowly that I can't help but ask, "Do you need something?"

Shivering, she shakes her head.

*

*

For the first morning since being held hostage, it doesn't rain. The little patterns of water line the window sill, much like the rust on the ceiling fan. My eyes open to the artificial sky. Greeted with warmth, I turn. Mia's face appears inches from mine.

Oh, Lord. Help.

My breath hitches. Her lids are sealed, though she moves like every five seconds. I am frozen by her head, lolling between my chin and shoulder.

"Mia?"

"Mm?"

"Wake up," I squeak. "Please."

"Mmmm." She instead throws a hand over my waist. Helplessly twisting to face the roof, I take deep breaths and yell, "Mia, cockroach!!"

"WHAT?!" She snaps up, spins her head like she's possessed and then shoots me a murderous look.

I smile innocently. "There was a biiiiig cockroach."

"Charlie, be warned."

"Oh, it was massive. You should have seen it." Not me crawling away as I lie. Good thing Mia is no longer holding me so I can run to the bathroom. Coming out dressed for the day, I dive into the chess books.

Mia prefers a swim. By noon, though, she has somewhere to go, and I'm like -" Yes, please, let's get out of here."

In twenty minutes, we are on a train to Connecticut. I don't know why since she won't tell me.

We have fallen into the 'since you refuse to tell me where you were, I won't tell you where I'm going' phase.

Though I'll probably know when we reach the destination so her math isn't mathing - anywho, shut up, Charlie.

*

It's a prison. While she visits whoever, I amble and recount the file Mr. Jackson gave me. It's on Mr and Mrs Lamentin, two board members for the Yeltsin Group of Companies, one Russian detective and Mr Palviokinsky.

Mr Palviokinsky is Pamela's father. Is he the one I'm learning chess to target? If so, who am I eating cats with? The Lamentins?

The last file was on Mia's grandfather. It made the most sense because Mr. Jackson explicitly wrote underneath it:

You can choose to bow out of this one. Otherwise, learn how to kill.

Learn how to kill? No, thank you.

I shut the chess book, already determined who and what to handle first.

Once Mia returns, I claim to have something to attend to, to which she sighs, "Same. I'm going home."

"Home? As in -"

"My foster mom's."

"Oh. Ok."  My heart sinks as she avoids my faze. Instead of inquiring, though, I tug her towards an ice cream truck. We buy enough goodness for the journey and finish half upon arriving at what was once Mia's home.

*

The house is desolate. Empty.

"This would so piss Aunt Lisa-" Mia points to the worm-infested flower plants. I grimace as Mia steps onto the porch. Gradually, she turns the door handle. A creak ushers her in.

"Mia, I don't think it's a good idea to be here." I shut the door after myself, glimpsing the dust-layered hall with disdain. How long has the house been abandoned?

Climbing upstairs, she beckons me like this is normal. I follow her to the main bedroom, where an awful stench engulfs us.

"Mia, seriously -"

"Help." She clenches one end of the mattress. We flip it, spreading dust everywhere, to my dismay. Coughing, I motion to the letters underneath. Mia nods, gathering them into a trash bag. One falls, and I read the envelope.

"Are these... Letters from your Dad?"

She nods again and pulls out two pocket knives. Handing me one, she points to the mattress sides. Tearing it apart proves difficult, but we are unharmed when we find chequebooks. She adds them to the pile, so we drag it past... Her room?

"Ya, that was my room,"  she mumbles, reading my mind. At the staircase, we drop it. The rubber surprisingly remains intact, so we drag it to our ride.

Mia doesn't turn to the house again. The next stop is our central motel. Dusty luggage is not allowed. Hence, we find a spot outside. Pouring out the letters, Mia scoffs inaudibly to herself, earning my stare.

A moment passes. I look down. "What are we looking for?"

"Don't know. Anything about sending large sums of money."

"So you want me to read through the letters?"

She shrugs. We borrow a lamp and digest it into the night. The more I skim, the more I'm intrigued by her dad's penmanship and overall style - his attitude pops out of his every word, so much so that I can't help laughing,
"Your dad was funny -"

"Found something." She tosses me another letter. My laughter festers as several zeros invade my vision. The letter warns Mia's foster mom to send money to Mrs Lamentin.

Mrs. Lamentin?

"Mia, do you know Mrs Lamentin?"

Mia shakes. "Never heard of her."

"Hmm." I sit up. "Why did your dad tell -"

"I don't know, dude," Mia cuts me off, " I don't fucking know!" She storms off. Confused, I arrange the pile and cover it.

Why is she acting like this?

I can ask. I am going to ask. Tomorrow. Right now, I'm fed up. I retire to my room and slip off my shirt. I'm taking off my sneakers when a knock startles me.

"Charlie?"

"Yes?"

My door widens, and she struts in, eyeing the remainder of our ice cream cups. Catching her gaze, I remind her that the chocolate one is mine.

"Sure." She dips her spoon in hers. "You should wear tank tops more often. Do you go to the gym?"

"Why would you think so?"

"Your arms."

This is the first time anyone has told me this. I hug them as she inquires, "What would you prefer? Muscles or your ice cream-"

"Ice cream."

"But wouldn't you need muscles to beat up bad guys -"

"There is no joy in beating up anyone, Mia." I snatch my ice cream while she sits on my bed.

"Dude, what? What is joyous about chocolate? Even my flavour is better than yours."

"Not true."

"T'is true." She scoops a spoonful. I wouldn't say I like vanilla, but as she draws the spoon closer, it slips onto my tongue.

Her face brightens. Still in disagreement, I scoop her mine, resulting in us eating each other's ice cream. It's when Mia tries to steal my entire cup that I realise we've gone too far, and it's time I finish mine, so -

"Mia, let it go-"

"Dude-"

"Let my ice cream go." I pinch her palm only for the goodness to guzzle over our intertwined fingers.

Suddenly, Mia sucks it. It doesn't even occur to me until my index finger enters her mouth, and her eyes widen.

Finger stuck in her mouth, I retrieve my cup, set it down and look her in the eye, quiet.

I can feel her tongue moving. Her face is frozen, but her tongue is circling my finger - how is she doing that?

*

*