Starbursts and Assassins (John Wick)

Chapter five: John Drives a Minivan

"Well," I say defiantly. "I don't feel like going."

He frowns, his dark brows creasing. "You don't really have a choice," he explains.

"Well," I repeat, accentuating the last letters. "I don't. Want. To. Go. And if you make me, I'm going to throw myself off this building, recollect down there, and run."

John stares at me with guarded bewilderment. He points to the clothes on the edge of the bed. "Just get dressed," he orders. His tone is low, angry, and there is something in the octaves of his voice that makes me shiver.  When he sees that I'm still not moving, he sighs heavily. "It's not like they can kill you."

True. It's not like this stupid High Table can destroy me. Winston said it. I'm indestructible. No weapon in the world can kill me.

"What do they want?" I ask timidly, now noticing the worry lines on John's forehead and the creases in his vest. He was probably up all night, unable to sleep, while I enjoyed paradise on a cloud over here.

He shrugs. "Don't know." Wow, so monosyllabic.

I roll my eyes.

He rolls his own too, which is surprising because that's the most expression I've seen on him yet.

"They might just want to talk," he guesses. "Maybe employ you."

I go over to the bed, watching John from my periphery. He stays where he is, planted solidly by the door. Pretending to inspect the clothes laid out for me, I ask, "Well, if they'd wanted me to be some super-secret spy agent killing machine, why didn't they keep me?"

John sighs impatiently. "That's what we're going to find out."

"We?"

"I still have gotten paid for you."

"Ah." I pull the wool sweater up to my face and inhale. It smells of cheap hotel perfume. "So how do we get there?"

"Plane."

"Um, no." I whirl, facing him, closer than before. I've seen John up close before, just yesterday, but this is different. He's not trying to murder me and I'm not hysterically laughing in his face. I can notice details now, like the texturized skin above his beard line, the huge black eyes, the hints of grey in his facial hair.

He frowns, watching me examining him. Then he loses eye contact with me and opens the door. "Just get ready."

I pull on the trousers reluctantly. They're too big at the waist, but thankfully, John has supplemented a leather belt. The socks are warm and so is the sweater. I cringe inwardly when I see the underwear John has brought me. Some sort of lace intricacy that makes me question every decision I've made in my life as I slip into it.

I leave nothing behind but John's old clothes I wore. I realize, as I'm about to leave the bedroom, that there is literally nothing of Ophelia Marston in this city, just my alias, Maddison Oliver.

The new Vans are the exact right size, and I send up a silent prayer to whoever's up there that at least I got my favorite kicks.

John waits for me in the hall, back against the wall, twirling the keycard to get out of the suite. Beside his feet is a black duffle bag. When I eye it, he supplies, "Gear."

Oh. I'm guessing a girl can't get a decent hairbrush and body lotion, but this asshole can get "gear".

When I ask him, he grunts something about everything being supplied to us, and then leads me out of the hotel.

I stay silent, aware that John is keeping a close distance to me in case I bolt. We meander down the hall and to the elevator, that is blissfully empty and not filled with even more raven-eyed creeps. John's presence is intimidating, and I try to keep myself contained when it's just the two of us down the long elevator ride, but his quietness makes me giddy.