Jilly supposed she was cold. Her hands felt numb, her legs and knees were icy, but it didn’t seem to matter. She didn’t know where she was, but that didn’t matter, either. As long as she kept hold of Reno, she didn’t have to think. She could stay in the safe place she’d found, where nothing could touch her, nothing could intrude on the peaceful cloud she’d enveloped herself in.
The cold was nagging at her, pulling at her short skirt, trying to drag her back into the present, and that was the one place she refused to go.
He put his arm around her, only it wasn’t the iron grip he usually used. He must have known she’d given up. She wasn’t going to argue anymore. She was going to do exactly what he wanted her to do. As long as he didn’t try to talk to her, she was fine, perfectly fine. Because if she opened her mouth, she’d start screaming, and she didn’t think she’d be able to stop.
But everything was safe around her, a bubble of tranquillity that nothing could break. And she tucked her arm in Reno’s, leaned against him and followed him wherever he led her.
In the end the hotel was probably a stupid idea, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else to take her. He considered a love hotel, just to see if that would jar her out of her blank-faced stare, but most of them were run by the various yakuza families, and it was too great a risk for them to take.
A hotel built for rich Western businessmen was a compromise, and even if word got out that they’d been seen, the security at those hotels was usually excellent. He could be reasonably sure they’d be safe for at least a few hours, probably for a night or more. If anyone tracked them, they’d simply wait for them to emerge from the hotel.
He managed to pick up a baseball cap from one of the street vendors. He put it on backward, the bill hiding the bright red hair as it trailed down inside his jacket. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would have to do. And they wouldn’t be looking for a gaijin Gothic Lolita who was taller than most Japanese men, either. If luck, which had been piss-poor so far, decided to improve they might just be able to buy a little time. Enough time to get in touch with Ojiisan and warn him about Hitomi and Kobayashi.
At least he’d been smart enough to bring the extra passports and credit cards the Committee always provided. Jilly’s documentation wasn’t as flawless, but he’d had to take what he could get on such short notice from his friend Kyo. He checked in as a Korean American and his girlfriend, and the exquisitely polite staff of the Trans-Pacific Grand Hotel didn’t give them a second look. If they did, they probably thought Jilly was so stoned she couldn’t walk on her own, but they wisely said nothing, ushering them to a corner room on the thirty-second floor.
Once alone he gently pushed Jilly into a chair and headed for the door, planning on checking out the emergency exits and stairwells in case someone caught up with them. But before his hand was even on the door she was behind him, the same dazed look on her face.
He put his hands on her arms, moving her back to the chair once more. “You need to stay here,” he said patiently, kneeling down and taking off her sneakers. “I have to make sure we have another way out.” He started to move away and she rose again, ready to follow him.
He began to curse. “You know, you’re really beginning to annoy me,” he said. “I get it—you’re traumatized. But unless you want to get over it you’re going to get us both killed. Sit the fuck down and wait for me.”
She sat. When he slipped back inside the hotel room, she was still there, unmoving, her hands clasped lightly in her lap.
He double-locked the door, then pulled the curtains on the winter-dark night. He went straight to the minibar, removed a tiny bottle of Scotch, opened it and poured it down his throat. Then he took another, twisting off the cap and advancing toward her.
“Drink this.”
She ignored him, averting her gaze. He grabbed her chin, rough, and forced her mouth open, pouring the Scotch down her throat.
She started to choke, and for the first time she moved, hitting at him, and the tiny bottle went flying across the room.
“Say something!” he said in a fierce voice. “Holy motherfucker, just say one goddamned thing.”
She closed her eyes, shutting him out. That was the final straw. He caught her arms and hauled her up against him. “You killed a man,” he said. “You didn’t have a choice. If you hadn’t, he would have killed me and then you and then he would’ve gone out and killed more people. He was a bad man and he deserved to die and you did the world a service by blowing his fucking head off.”
She blinked at that, her first sign of life, and he shook her, hard. “Would you rather be dead? Maybe you would, if you’d known just how empty you’d feel once you’d done it. And it doesn’t get easier. Each death takes a little piece of you, a piece you can never get back. You’ll never be the same, Ji-chan, and it won’t do you any good to fight it.”
Another blink. He slid his hands up her neck, forcing her to look at him, and frustration and pain boiled over. “Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, I may as well take advantage of it,” he said in a savage voice.
He scooped her up, all six feet of her, and carried her into the bedroom, throwing her down on the king-size bed as he stood over her.
“It’s up to you, Ji-chan. I’m not going to stop until you tell me no.” And he pulled off his jacket, tossing it on a chair, only to meet her horrified gaze. Staring at the blood that had stained his shirt, blood from the man she’d killed.
And she opened her mouth to scream.
13
No sound came out. She was frozen, staring at his bloodstained shirt. With a muttered curse he ripped it off, buttons flying across the room. Then he reached for the gun tucked at his waist, and she suddenly moved, trying to scramble away from him, across the wide king-size bed, but he caught her leg and hauled her back.
“It’s a gun, Ji-chan,” he said. “You used it to save our lives. It’
s just a tool.”
She was fighting now, kicking at him, beginning to come alive beneath his hard hands. He took her hand in his, placing the gun there, forcing her to hold it. She let out an agonized whimper, the first sound he’d heard from her in hours, as she tried to shove it away.
“You have to accept it. You have to accept what you’ve done, that you had no choice.” Was he talking to her, or was he talking to himself? He was no longer sure. For some reason he had to make her come to terms with what she’d done, because if she couldn’t, what hope was there for him?
He wrapped her long fingers around the handle, and suddenly she moved, away from him, clutching the gun. She was pointing it at him, her hands shaking, pointing it at his head.