Eric
The one dude who smells like feet
It’s not much, but it’s a start. And if I cross-reference their stature to what I recall from the beating, maybe I can narrow down someone who might have been in on this and be one step closer to foiling Franklin’s plan to eliminate me.
Earlier today, I thought finding the package might be a lost cause. It’s still a long shot, but feels more possible, and I’ll take every bit of hope I can get.
I empty the rest of my whiskey into my mouth and stand from the stool. I fish in my pocket for cash, tossing it onto the counter and pushing the chair in.
Those recognizable blue eyes latch onto mine from across the room.
She doesn’t look mad—or happy. She appears more curious than anything.
A large part of me wants to stay, to hang back and verify that she’ll be okay. That she won’t drink too much and get herself into trouble the way she did last night. But I know that’s wrong of me. It’s too intrusive. It’s not my place. And I can’t keep putting myself into situations I don’t belong. If she wants me to leave her alone, I need to respect that, even if it’s super fucking difficult.
I need to do what’s best for her, and that means walking away.