Chapter 19 - Straight Lines

Gage welcomed the silence of his truck. He took side streets on his way to Deira's apartment, doubling back from time to time. The fact that he was not being followed was a relief but did little to reduce his tension. He felt it like an old jacket, just a little too tight but familiar.

He circled the block before turning down an alley down the street from the apartment. He crossed the street, keeping his head down. Everyone did in that neighborhood. That worked in his favor but could also work in theirs. He waited a few minutes, watching. A large dog trotted down the street, triggering the motion detector.

His gun was in his hand as he entered the building. He made his way quietly up the stairs. The building was silent. He hoped it meant that they did not know where she lived. The lock turned with only the barest click. Sun shone through the windows to reveal an empty room. He headed straight for the bedroom.

He looked around her room. The bed was unmade and there were clothes in a small pile on the floor. He frowned, then shook his head. Moving quickly, he gathered the things she had requested. The nightgown he had bought for her was at the foot of her bed. She had not asked for it, but he added it to the duffel bag. He pulled the shades and turned on the lamp on his way out.

Her gym bag was on the kitchen counter. He resisted the urge to run water into the empty cup beside it. At some point, he was going to have to address that particular obsession. He checked the bag against the list she had given him; everything was there.

He closed the door behind him and pulled out a roll of clear tape. He put a piece across the door and jamb, near the floor. It was a simple trick, but one that would alert her if anyone had come in while she was gone. He changed the security code before leaving. For the time being, it was the best he could do to make the building safe.

On the drive between her apartment and the supermarket, he was followed twice. The first car turned into a restaurant parking lot. A well dressed couple got out, laughing. The second car stayed with him all the way to the store. He put his gun in his pocket when he got out of the truck, keeping an eye on the other car. The man in the car did not move. Gage opened the back of his SUV and pretended to rearrange the contents. After a few moments, the driver of the car opened his door. He was young, maybe 18, in tight jeans and a close-fitting t-shirt – nowhere to conceal a gun. A cloud of smoke drifted out of the car before he closed the door. The boy ran across the parking lot and entered the store.

Gage did not linger in the store as he usually did. The quality of the produce, still a delight after so many years, was not a priority today. He had to remember to buy enough for three. He desperately wanted to send Katya away, to know she was somewhere safe, but he could not. It had taken months to convince her that he wanted her to stay with him whenever she could. Last night's events had done nothing to bolster her trust. He did not want to lose the only family he had left, and she was perfectly capable of walking out of his life forever. Like you will do to her. He ground his teeth. There had to be some way to make it work, but he did not know how.

When he got home, Katya was at the kitchen table, books spread around her, working on her paper. She jumped up to put away the groceries, waving him away as he began helping. He set one bag at the foot of the stairs and went to check on Deira.

She was asleep on the couch, an ice pack on her ribs. Her breathing was normal, so he left her and went into his office to call Nicky. She had no new information for him. He thought about trying to do some work, but the tension had settled into his skin. It felt normal, and he realized he had missed it.

When he came out, Deira was sitting up. She gave him a questioning look.

"Nicky has not found out anything useful," he said.

She sighed, moving the ice pack to her jaw. Her bruises had shrunk, the edges faded to blue and yellow. He felt another swell of anger over her injuries. That felt right, too. The pieces of his old life were falling into place, and he welcomed them.

"So mostly I get to wait again." Deira tucked her hair behind her ear.

He gave her a calculating look.

"There are a few things we can do to prepare," he said.

"Like what?" Her hand went to her ribs.

"How attached are you to your hair?" His grin was wicked.

"Why?" Her eyes narrowed.

"They know what you look like. The simplest way to change that is to dye your hair." He did not know how she would take that.

"Okay," she agreed.

"I did not expect it to be that easy," he said.

"It's just hair." She shrugged and got up. "Should I go do that now?"

"We might as well," he answered.

"We?"

"You will need help," he began. "As will I."

"I can't see you dying your hair."

"No, I suppose not. Come. I will help you upstairs." He offered her his arm. She ignored it and walked out of the room. Stubborn. He took a calming breath and followed her.

Katya did not look up from her computer as they passed through the kitchen. He picked up the bag he had set by the stairs. Deira managed the ascent on her own with the help of the railing. If he had not seen her cringe with the effort, it might have been amusing.

Deira almost laughed when he set out four boxes of hair color in various shades of red and brown. He placed her brush on the counter next to them. For a single man, he was surprisingly astute. She looked up at him.

"No black?" she teased.

"It would not look natural on you." He shrugged. She did laugh then. He looked confused.

"When women dye their hair, looking natural is rarely the goal," she said. "But these are good choices. Do you have a favorite?"

"It makes no difference to me which you choose," he said.

"I meant for you."

"I am not dying my hair. I am shaving it off." He went to the linen closet and took out a box containing a hair clipper kit.

"They don't know that you're involved, do they?"

"Not to the best of my knowledge. I needed to shave before we did the job anyway. Which shall we do first, yours or mine?"

"Yours," she answered. "But I've never done this before, so you'll have to tell me what to do."

"Finally," he said, turning to her with a grin, "you ask my advice before acting."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

He took his shirt off, hanging it on the hook by the door, then put a hand towel in the sink. He affixed the shortest attachment to the clipper, plugged it in, and set it on the counter.

"It is simple. Run that over my head until the hair is gone." He leaned over the sink, head down.

Drifts of hair brushed her hand as they fell. The furrows of short hair left behind felt like a violation. He turned his head so she could get the side. When it came time to do the front, he leaned against the counter, head tilted back over the sink. His eyes were closed. She stepped in closer, running the clippers over his scalp until the hair was as short as she could make it. She brushed the stray strands off his head, enjoying the texture under her hands. His breath came just a little faster. She liked watching his chest rise and fall, knowing she had made it quicken.

For the first time, she noticed a scar on his shoulder, round, with irregular edges. Too close to the heart. She set the clippers down and ran her fingers over the scar. His eyes flew open, wary, intense. She did not back away. She traced another scar, and another. Those had mostly faded. She wondered if they were from his childhood, like the one on his stomach. That one would never fade. She reached down to touch it. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, gently stopping her, eyes never leaving hers. He took her other wrist, his thumb running down the tendons on the underside. Her breathing increased, matching his. Without a word, he stood, moving her backwards until she was up against the door. He held her hands at her side for a moment, searching her face. Then he turned away.

He swept up his hair from the floor and dumped it into the wastebasket. The hair on the towel followed. Turning to the mirror, he reached for a can of shaving cream.

"Almost done," he said.

"Let me," she said, taking the can from his hand. "I've done this much. Might as well see it through to the end."

She smoothed the shaving cream over his head and reached for his razor. He snapped his head to follow the movement. Her hand paused over the straight razor, wondering if he would let her. She noticed the pulse in his neck jump and smiled. Not that much trust. She didn't blame him. She picked up the safety razor.

"Warm water will help," he offered. She did as he suggested.

He looked at her steadily as she carefully drew the blade over his scalp. He clenched and unclenched his fist, making the muscles in his forearm flex. Trust was warring with tension. She rinsed the blade and repeated the action, taking her time. The razor scraped over his head. It could have been drawn across her nerves; he was not the only one feeling it. Careful.

He turned around and braced his hands on the counter, dropping his head so she could reach the back. She had to lean against him to get it all, feeling a twinge of pain as she stretched. She took a washcloth and washed away the rest of the foam. He closed his eyes and let her. Trust.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"I can take care of you in the morning, if you'd like." She ran her hand over his cheek and looked pointedly at the straight razor.

"We shall see," he said, fighting a smile.

She stepped back to admire her handiwork. He looked good bald. She hadn't expected him to.

"Your turn," she said, reaching for the scissors on the stand. He raised one eyebrow as she handed them to him.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You do not have to do this."

"Yes," she answered, "I am. I do." She turned her back to him.

He gathered her hair, lifting it from her shoulders, feeling the weight of it fill his hand. It was softer than he had expected. He let it fall over his fingers, down her back. He did not know how many times he had wanted to do that. Many. Her hands shook when she picked up her brush. He set down the scissors and took the brush from her, gently working out the tangles.

"Start at the bottom," she murmured. He did as she suggested.

The curls turned into gentle waves as he worked, then sprang back into place. It has a life of its own. Brushed out, it fell to just above her waist. He wanted to do this for hours. For years. This would be his first and last chance. When he finished, he ran his hand down the length of it, then again. She sighed, a contented sound. He hesitated.

"Are you sure?" he asked again.

"Yes," she answered.

She faced away from the mirror and stared straight ahead. She does not want to watch. He took a deep breath and made the first cut. Ribbons of gold spiraled to the floor to pool at their feet. Her hands pressed into her thighs, occasionally sliding up and down. It was the only sign of apprehension she gave. He took his time, each cut careful. She deserved that. He would not leave her ragged.

"More," she said tightly.

"I don't," he started, but she cut him off.

"More," she insisted. He complied.

When it was done, he stepped away from her, afraid of how she would react, what she would think of him now. She turned around, looking at her reflection at last. She ran her fingers through her hair. It did not quite touch her shoulders.

"This is not something I normally do," he said cautiously.

"You have a hidden talent," she returned. A smile formed slowly on her lips as she looked at him in the mirror. "I'm glad you did it."

He bent to scoop up the hair on the floor. There was so much of it, but it was no longer heavy. A curl wrapped around his finger. He ran his thumb over it before dropping it on top of the others, his back to her so she could not see.

"You should shower," she said, brushing hair off his back. "I'll finish cleaning up."

He moved to the door, but she reached a hand out to stop him. Her fingers were warm on his arm.

"I'll turn my head and close my eyes," she offered. She was true to her word.

While he showered, she dyed her hair for the first time in her life. The stuff smelled terrible. She was glad he couldn't see her. She kept trying to go past the end of her hair, years of muscle memory refusing to believe there was nothing more there. Despite the fact that it had been her idea, she had expected to feel sad. What she felt was relieved. Another piece of her old life was gone.

He turned off the water. She watched him reach for the towel that should have been on the hook. She handed it to him. Water dripped from his fingers onto her hand, warmer than it should have been. His silhouette was barely discernible through the shower curtain. She wished she could dry him off but could not think of how to ask. He would likely refuse. She stepped over to the closet, looking for an old towel. When she turned around, he had left the room.

When he came back, she was kneeling by the tub, testing the water. He took the sprayer out of her hand and began rinsing her hair. Red-brown liquid spattered her neck and splashed the walls on the tub. He had to steady his hand and was glad she could not see him. Eventually, the water ran a muddy pink. He began to breathe normally. A few minutes later, the water was almost clear. She wrung out her hair and reached for the conditioner.

"I need to get cleaned up," she said.

"If you need help," he started. Then what?

"I think I can manage," she replied wryly.

"I am afraid you have ruined your shirt," he said on the way out.

"No," she said, "I've ruined yours." Her laughter followed him down the stairs.