I Am Made of Death

by Kelly Andrew

And I’m a fly? He fell back a step and sized her up. “No, I don’t think so, actually. I think if you were a bug, you’d be a praying mantis.”

He came to slowly and then all at once, becoming aware of two horrible things in immediate succession. First, Vivienne was draped across him, her head on his chest, his arm around her waist.

“Vivienne?” She was up immediately. He hardly had time to drop his bag to the floor before she slammed into him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His arms went around her, folding her into an embrace. Her fingers tightened in his shirt and he felt her take a great, shuddering breath.

No matter how hard she played at being a girl, at the end of the day she was nothing more than a doll on a music box, forced to turn and turn by the hand that wound her spring.

This is more than a job to me, and you know it.”

“You don’t want me to see you,” he said. “But I see you, Vivienne.” No one had ever sounded more confident. No one had ever sounded more doomed. “I see you, and I came for you, anyway. I’ll always come for you. That’s what I’ve been trying to make you understand. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I hate it when you cry,” he said softly.

“Because,” said Colton, as though Thomas was slow, “my father was Philip Farrow’s old managing partner.”

What happened to you? “This?” He jabbed a finger at his nose. “You can thank your boyfriend. He went full-on John Wick after you took off.”

“I’ll bet you anything that’s him right now,” said Reed, pulling on his headset. Hudson’s eyes met Vivienne’s across the lamp lit dark. “I’ll give him this,” he said drolly, “his timing is impeccable.”

Because I’m made of death. “No,” he countered. “Because you’re disciplined and clever and connected and you have the entire world at your feet and I’m going to spend the rest of my life working odd jobs to make ends meet. Look at me. Look around. I can’t give you anything you don’t already have.” It was her turn to stare, the breath fleeing her lungs. “I mean, Jesus, Vivienne,” he said, “you don’t have to remind me.”

“Say it back,” he ordered. Say what? “Tell me you like me.” I don’t, she signed. I love you, she thought.

She held out her hand to him one last time, three fingers elongated with ballerina grace. Pinkie, index, thumb—offering up the answer he’d been too good, too decent to presume. I love you.

Say it back, she signed, a mirror of what he’d said to her that night in his bedroom. I’ll help. “I love you, V-i-v-i-e-n-n-e.” “I do love you,” he said solemnly. “Since day one.” And he meant it.

Thomas glanced between them, frowning slightly. “You know,” he said, “now that I see the two of you sitting side by side like this, I’m finding it a little bit unsettling.” Colton’s mouth split into a grin. “It’s okay, Walsh. You can admit you think I’m pretty.”

“Am I your girlfriend?” His laugh was quiet. “I hope so.” She tugged the strap of her seatbelt loose and leaned across the center console, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m glad you exist.” He caught her hand in his as she dropped back into her seat. “I love you, too,” he said. “But you already knew that.”