Erasing Faith (4 page)

I tried to respond but all that slipped through my lips was a nervous squeak as I attempted to formulate a coherent response.

At the sound, he seemed to snap out of his somber reverie. His face blanked, his eyes flew up to meet mine, and an easy-going smile crossed his lips once more. I couldn’t help but notice that it seemed a little forced.

“That’s bullshit, Red. We make our own fate. Forge our own fortune. Shape our own stories.” His eyes were still too serious as they stared into mine. “Sometimes, we shape other people’s, too.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I nodded anyway. Silence fell between us for a moment and I was afraid to shatter it, so I just stared at him.

“My turn,” he said finally.

I nodded.

“Will you go out with me?” he asked, grinning.

Laughter burst from my mouth, a strange sensation after the serious moment we’d just shared. “I don’t go out with serial killers,” I said regretfully, shaking my head in rebuff. I glanced out the window; the rain had stopped and the sun was shining weakly. “And I’d better go while the weather’s clear. Who knows when the downpour will start again?”

His dark eyes trapped my skittish ones. “You’re really not going to tell me your name or give me your number, are you?”

“Sorry, stranger.” I smiled and stood up. “First rule of stranger club, and all that jazz. Can’t break it on day one.”

He blew out a puff of air. “So, I’m supposed to let you walk away and take the chance that we’ll never see each other again?”

I paused, staring at him for a moment. “You might not believe in fate, but I do.” I grinned. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

“That’s total crap,” he pointed out. “You do realize that, right?”

I shrugged, still smiling as I slid my camera strap back over my shoulder. “Well, in that case, I guess I’ll never see you again. Have a nice life, stranger.” I turned to go.

“You’re weird
and
stubborn,” he muttered under his breath.

I giggled and glanced back at him for a fleeting instant.

“Have a little
Faith
, will ya?” I called, chuckling at my own inside joke as I headed for the door and left him behind for the second time in a week.

WRECKING BALL

My fingers were aching and swollen after two straight hours.

My knuckles were raw, ripped to shreds, bleeding through the tape.

My fists struck the bag in a ceaseless bombardment, a steady blitz of punches and uppercuts that left behind a smattering of four blood-red circles with each hit.

I embraced the pain like an old friend.

The girl’s face entered my mind again. I pounded the bag with renewed intensity, despite my screaming muscles.

She’s an idiot.

She’s beautiful.

She lives in a delusional, fairytale world.

She’s honest and innocent and everything I’m not.

She’s a foolish little girl with silly, inconsequential dreams.

She’s refreshingly real in this bleak life of deceit and deception.

I hated her for it. For
this
.

For making me feel.

For making me question everything about my existence which, until this point, I’d been perfectly content with.

Never stopping, never settling.

No friends, no family.

Avoiding attachment, uprooting every few months.

It’s how I’d lived, how I’d survived. Not just since I took this job, but for as long as I could remember. Since the day I realized they were never coming back, no matter how long I waited on that cracked asphalt gas-station stoop.

I’d been alone for an eternity. An old man since I was a child.

Twenty-five years was a lifetime when you spent it in total solitude.

Exhausted, I collapsed against the punching bag. My breaths were coming quick and my pulse was pounding beneath the skin, faster than I was comfortable with. Breathing deeply through my nose, I counted the seconds it took to regulate my heartbeat again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

And, just like that, I was back in control.

The tense coil of anxiety unfurled deep in my chest. I welcomed the pain radiating from my battered knuckles. I’d rather feel that than this other shit. Physical pain — at least it was manageable. You could overcome a fractured finger or a bruised bone. Lacerations could heal, bullet wounds could be stitched closed or cauterized.

But pain in your head? Pain in your heart?

That was the shit that fucked you up permanently.

When I was first recruited to the agency, I thought things might finally be different. For the first time, someone wanted me. Needed me.

I wasn’t just joining an organization, I was joining a family.

Yeah. It took me about three minutes on the job to realize that was just another line they fed potential recruits. They didn’t seek me out because I was special, or unique, or because they recognized some kind of latent possibility within me that they wanted to tap.

I fit a profile.

Loner. High IQ. Unemotional. Unattached. Aptitude for weaponry combined with a lethal appetite for vengeance. Enough anger at the world and its shitty circumstances to channel into something productive.

Nothing more than another shiny, savage tool in their arsenal.

I suppose I couldn’t put all the blame on their shoulders. After five years of doing what I did best, they offered me a desk job. Back in the States, filing paperwork and handing out orders. I could’ve had a life, a family, if that’s what I’d wanted. No more of this covert, chameleonic, undercover bullshit.

Most guys I know would’ve jumped at the chance for a little stability, considering our work circumstances. The job paid well, sure. I had more money than I’d ever know what to do with. But it was also notoriously hazardous to one’s health. Too many of my comrades had learned the hard way that you can’t exactly spend that heaping fortune from six feet under.

So, when you finally got your chance to get out, you took it. Unless, of course, you were me.

I didn’t want the stable life, with the sprawling mansion and the Stepford wife. I didn’t want to be Agent Weston Abbott, settled nicely in a corner office at Langley.

I had no use for that life, or for him.

People with permanent positions at the agency, who’d never done deep cover missions or stepped so much as ten feet from their comfortable desk chairs, didn’t — couldn’t — understand.

It must be exhausting — leading a double life,
they’d say, shaking their heads in sympathetic disbelief.
Constantly putting on a show, never letting your mask slip.

But it wasn’t. It was a million times easier to live my life as someone else. To look in the mirror and see a total stranger. To slip into a new skin and slither around for a while, only to shed it for another when the time inevitably came to move along.

I liked my new life of limitless identities and ever-changing characters better than I’d ever enjoyed being Wes Abbott.

So why did one stupid, insignificant, staged conversation with Faith Morrissey have me wishing I could, just for a single moment, be him again? To look into her eyes, to talk to her, as the real me, rather than the asshole who was about to take a wrecking ball to her life?

Disgusted by my own weakness, I took a step away from the punching bag, lifted my aching fists, and began another round, hoping this time it might drive her from my thoughts for good.

WORK UP A SPARKLE

When I arrived back at the office to collect the parcels for my last run of the night, I was covered head to toe with a thin sheen of perspiration and in desperate need of some water if I wanted to avoid falling off my bike while cruising through Vörösmarty Square. Dismounting, I headed through the Hermes side entrance — the double-wide doors and dual access ramps had been designed specifically for speedy bike departures and, as an added bonus, using them meant I didn’t have to see Irenka when I was in and out a million times a day, refilling my black messenger bag with small parcels, documents, and packages for delivery.

  I entered, deposited my bike in its designated rack near the far wall, and nodded at Istvan, the beefy security guard who ensured that only employees made it through the back entrance. Hurrying toward the sorting room around the corner, I mourned the fact that there was no time for a leisurely pace or a sip of water. In the past five years, Hermes
had overtaken the competition as Budapest’s largest courier service, which meant there was rarely a dull moment for anyone who worked here, from the bike messengers to the sorting staff.

I ignored my strained muscles as I walked through the doors and tossed a smile at Konrad, one of the young Hungarian teenagers who worked in the stock room on summer breaks and weekends. After three weeks on the job, I still found myself taking in the chaotic space with wide eyes. The sorting room was always a blur of activity, with new packages arriving every few minutes. Konrad and four other young men worked nonstop in the sweltering room, plotting the best delivery routes, clustering packages, and restocking the returning bike messengers.

Parcels headed to the same general neighborhood were grouped together and given to a single messenger for maximum efficiency. Speed, productivity, and number of deliveries were logged to ensure every courier was pulling her weight. It was strenuous and sweaty and more stressful than any other job I’d ever had.

If not for the pay, I would’ve quit after my first shift.

My only saving grace was the fact that Hermes couriers were exclusively young women about my age, so I wasn’t competing with the delivery times of super-speedy muscle-men. When I was first hired, I thought this all-female staff was strange and rather sexist, but within an hour on the job I’d figured out
why
the company would adopt such a business model. Pretty girls delivering packages in form-fitting, brightly colored uniforms was the crux of what made us the most popular parcel service in the city.

Hermes girls were something like cultural celebrities. Tourists snapped pictures with us, smiling policemen stopped traffic to help us through particularly jammed areas of the city, and the clients receiving their packages were always happy to see us on their door stoops. 

In short, despite our smaller statures and our tendency to get lost in the city’s many twisting avenues, a cute, feminine courier in a helmet got things done ten times faster than a brooding Hungarian man with a backpack. 

And, anyway, each bike was rigged with a built-in GPS screen between the handlebars, to guide us while we were out making deliveries. Our helmets were bluetooth-enabled, so we could easily receive calls from headquarters without fumbling for a cellphone in our bags. Constructed of the lightest carbon-fiber, the bikes weighed less than fifteen pounds and whipped along faster than any cycle I’d ever ridden back at home. They also each cost more than I’d made in my first two weeks of work.  

“What do you have for me this time, Konrad?” I asked, grinning when I reached the young man’s station.

His head lifted, a wide smile already on his lips. “Only three, Faith.”

I cast my eyes heavenward and pressed my hands together, as if in prayer. “There is a God.”

Konrad snorted. “Don’t thank God, thank
me
. I just gave Sara the seven-parcel run that should’ve been yours.”

“My true savior,” I drawled, grinning at him and batting my eyelashes coquettishly.

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna go out on that date with me, now?” His brown eyes lit up hopefully.

I laughed. “Call me in ten years, Konrad.”

“I’m almost sixteen!” he protested. “Only four years younger than you!”

“Five,” I amended. “My birthday was last week.”

“Happy birthday, Faith.” His smile was warm as he handed over the packages.

“Thanks.” I winked and turned away from him, loading the three small parcels into my backpack with a bounce in my step.

Konrad had ensured that my last run of the night would be quick, which was a good thing considering my thigh muscles had begun to ache somewhere around hour three of my shift and, in the time since, had worsened to a steady burn. I’d have to ice them later.

I’d zipped my backpack, grabbed my bike from its rack, and was wheeling it toward the exit when I heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, loser,” Margot called breathlessly, pushing her bike through the opposite door. She’d just returned from a run, by the looks of it.

“You’re a sweaty mess,” I called back, grinning at her.

“I don’t sweat, I sparkle!”

Istvan’s muffled laugh was audible across the room. I rolled my eyes as I wheeled my bike onto the exit ramp. “See you in a few!”

“Drinks after shift?”

“Count on it!” I tossed over my shoulder, smiling as I clipped my helmet tightly beneath my chin. I programmed my route into the GPS, slung my messenger bag firmly across my back, and pedaled off into the sunset.

***

The bass thrummed through the speakers so loudly, I had to watch Margot’s lips if I had any chance of making out her words. The song,
Dark Paradise
by Lana Del Rey, was familiar to me, but it still came as a bit of a surprise to hear American music blasting at a club in Hungary. The DJ put his own spin on strains I knew by heart, remixing it with a pounding dance beat, and the crowd of revelers around us contorted their bodies in time with the pulsing bass. 

Clutching Margot’s hand firmly in mine, I tugged her petite frame behind me as I cut a path through the throng. Our venue of choice tonight was
Iguana
, a huge, multi-level ruin club at the heart of the city. Ruin clubs were fantastic and totally foreign to me, but in Budapest they seemed to be all the rage for tourists and locals alike. Birthed from the ruins of abandoned buildings and redesigned to create the ultimate festive atmosphere, each club had its own unique design and vibe, but they all had one thing in common — they were always packed to capacity.

Margot and I had been eager to check out
Iguana
for weeks, but this was the first night we’d succeeded in getting through the velvet-roped doors before closing time.

“Drinks?” I yelled to Margot.

“What?” she shouted back, cupping a hand over one ear.

I blew out a huff of frustration and mimed a drinking motion with my hands.

She nodded in comprehension, but her expression turned forlorn as she took in the sight of the bar. When I glanced over, I couldn’t blame her — it was so crowded, we couldn’t see the bartenders behind the mass of people waiting for drinks. It would take ages to reach the front of that line and, in my experience, club drinks were usually overpriced and under-liquored.

Thankfully, I’d been a Girl Scout for approximately two months during second grade. I hadn’t learned much in that short time span, but one vital lesson —
always come prepared
— had stuck with me. Well, that, and a love of delicious mint-chocolate flavored cookies.

Snapping open my clutch purse, I pulled out two mini, airplane-sized bottles of Fireball whiskey from my stash. I’d had to leave my phone at home in order to fit the nips inside, but it had been worth it.

I grinned at Margot’s stunned expression as I pushed one of the tiny bottles into her hand.

“Classy,” she mouthed at me, her fingers curling around my gift even as the insult left her lips.

I shrugged, grinned, and unscrewed the plastic cap. “Down the hatch!”

“What?” she yelled again.

Rolling my eyes, I poured the alcohol between my lips. I swallowed and my senses were abruptly overtaken by the warm, cinnamon burn of the alcohol. It tasted like the Wrigley’s Big Red bubblegum I’d chewed as a kid, and I happily licked the remnants from my lips. Margot spluttered a bit, but managed to swallow hers in two gulps.

“Good?” I screamed in her ear.

She nodded, a smile curving her mouth.

I snapped my clutch purse closed, saving the remaining two bottles for later consumption, and grabbed Margot’s hand once more. Tugging her toward the center of the undulating mob of dancers, I felt my hair grow damp around the temples and wished for a hair elastic to pull it up. I was definitely working up a
sparkle
in the intense heat created by hundreds of moving bodies.

We reached a point when the wall of people became so thick, there was no way to get any closer to the DJ booth, which was elevated on a high, circular platform. On the lofted stage beside the speakers and sound equipment, four female dancers in skimpy green lingerie and shimmering makeup shook their bodies to the pulsing beat, much to the delight of the male patrons below. Similarly-clad performers were scattered on platforms along the club walls, putting on a nonstop show under the dizzying, multicolored light beams that throbbed in harmony with the song’s tempo.

Every few minutes, confetti would blast from the ceiling in an explosion of color, raining down on the dance floor below, and everyone in the club would raise their arms into the air and scream. The thin, colorful pieces landed on sweaty limbs and stuck like paper-mache — after a few confetti explosions, the entire crowd was awash in rainbow hues, a sea of club-goers covered in scales like some strange species of vibrant, deviant fish. We were an ocean of immoral mermaids and mermen, our bodies pressed flush together, gliding so languorously, it wasn’t hard to imagine the air flowing around us was water. 

Iguana
was definitely an experience.

Margot and I danced for what felt like hours, pausing only once to finish off our supply of whiskey. When a set of arms wrapped around me and a hard, male body pressed into me from behind, I glanced up at Margot and widened my eyes in question.

“So hot,” she mouthed, flashing me a quick thumbs-up sign before turning to face the attractive man who’d just approached her.

Somewhat giddily, I grinned and gave myself over to the music. All too soon, however, I found my happiness wavering as my partner’s unskilled hands guided me into a inept, inconsistent gyration that stirred horrible flashbacks to junior prom night and called to mind an image of Otto, my childhood dog, humping his bed pillow with unchecked vigor.

Unfortunately, I seemed to be the pillow in this situation.

Either my partner was severely rhythmically challenged, or seriously intoxicated. Judging by the smell of cheap gin emanating from his pores, it wasn’t too hard to guess which.

After five minutes of suffering, I was about to extricate myself from his grasp when, to my surprise, his hold on me suddenly vanished. Above the din of the music, I heard what sounded almost like a low grunt, and then his hands were simply gone from my waist. I managed to spin around in the crush of bodies, but there was no one behind me — as though he’d never been there at all.

Puzzled, I started to turn back to Margot, but halted when my eyes caught on something that sent my heart stuttering. I felt a thrilled jolt of electricity shoot through my system as I stared across the expanse of dancers, straight into a pair of darkly familiar eyes. Eyes I’d been longing to see again, if only to prove myself right — that fate really did have a hand in whatever was happening between me and the handsome stranger. That we would find each other again.

Startled by his presence, I blinked rapidly to clear my whiskey-blurred vision and to reassure myself that he was actually there, rather than a figment of hopeful imagination.

When I opened my eyes not even a second later, he was gone.

There were no signs of him in the crowd. In the place I thought I’d spotted him, two blonde girls in plastered-on dresses were entwined in an intimate embrace. Behind them, a pair of drunken tourists were having a competition to see who could stick their tongue the furthest down the other’s throat. My stranger was nowhere to be found.

It only took a few seconds to convince myself that I’d been imagining things.

Seeing him in the crowd because I so desperately wanted to.

Disappointed, I turned back to Margot and, for the millionth time since I’d walked away from that café without getting so much as his name, I regretted my own stubbornness. If I never saw him again, I only had myself to blame.