Chase helps me up and helps me sit back in my seat, and reclines the chair, giving me one of my painkillers. Is Noah right, do I need to just look at this differently? I'm a nightmare, stubborn to the very core.
“Don’t listen to him, Simon. You do what you feel is right for you,” Chase says as he pats my hand and walks over to the seat beside Noah and cuddles into him. I glance ahead and Aaron is sprawled out over an unamused Lev.
Could I ever be like that with a man? So comfortable and open?
A hand is shaking my shoulder roughly, and my eyes open slowly, tender from the bright light of the aircraft. Dima.
“We’ve landed. You slept the whole way, time to go home,” Dima says as Aaron pulls my chair back up and helps me to stand.
“I’m okay Aaron, thanks anyway.”
“Cool,” he says and moves along ahead of me. When we get to the top of the stairs at the exit, a dark voice talks into my ear. Noah.
“Kill your demons before they kill you,” he says, and I look back.
“They’re already dead.”
“The ones making you cry on the plane aren’t. You were talking in your sleep. Leo.”
Holy shit, I was talking about Leo? I can’t remember.
“He isn’t a demon.”
“Whatever. Only you know, but my advice is kill it. Trust me, you’ll feel better.”
“That’s murder.”
Noah focuses his terrifying eyes on me, like he’s not impressed.
“You kill all the time.”
“For work, not pleasure.”
“You're weird,” Noah says before we continue down the stairs. He thinks I’m weird because I don’t go out there on the hunt for ghosts of my past. Actually, that is weird. Since when did the psycho turn therapist? Ahhh, Chase must be imparting some of his wisdom, as this is the most I’ve heard Noah speak. Either that or we’ve annoyed him to the extent that he has to speak to get rid of us.
Noah and Chase say their goodbyes since they are flying off to somewhere else. As we head off on the final part of our journey home, I check my phone. No messages.
Nothing.
He didn’t stop them.
He helped me escape.
He hasn’t returned home.
Have I lost Carlos for good before I even had him?
38
CARLOS
T he sun is high, hot and brutal, beating down on my bare chest as I lay stretched out beside the pool. Aviators over my eyes, I
await the confirmation from our lawyer that the Marin deal is done.
Not a minute later, my phone rings and I sit upright, hoping this is the end.
“It’s done,” Mayara says smoothly. “All contracts are finalized. Every Silva asset is now under the Marin banner. Real estate, accounts, ports. It’s all signed and done.”