lethal | hs

/00/

~~*~~
Molly Pierce
Kouver, Arizona

THREE YEARS EARLIER

A hideout is roughly like an escape outlet. When someone's at a sinuous low, it's the place they know they can flee to for some peace. It's imperative, much needed even. Everyone should have a hideout, or at least some place they can venture off to when they need to take a pause on whatever problems they're experiencing. The only time they shouldn't have one is if it interferes with someone else's.

He catches my eye the second he unknowingly steps into mine.

I never thought that my first visitor would be a man as tall as him. His silhouette makes it hard to point out any dominant features, but I can tell that he looks bothered. Why else would he be at a lake this late at night? He doesn't look pissed or upset about anything, rather, he looks like he's hiding. He keeps checking down the direction he entered every few seconds, and as he leans back, I can almost see the rise and fall of his pounding chest.

He must've been running.

From what, I don't know. But what I do know is that he doesn't see me. I'm sitting on the dock closest to the lake. I chose the spot because it keeps my mind at ease. I'm able to feel the light swaying from the waters beneath, and the space yields me the perfect view of the moonlight's reflective pattern through the water. Except, my back is turned to look at him, and by the looks of it, he finally recognizes that he isn't alone.

This is supposed to be my spot, not that I'm mad at him for interfering. He didn't know this space was occupied, and I can read his movements well. He isn't planning to stay for long. He's clearly on the run.

"If you're looking for somewhere to hide, this probably isn't a good place," I yell to where the man is standing. I watch as he checks his surroundings before heading in my direction, stepping down onto the dock. He must really be desperate to hide, and I mean what I'm telling him. All that's here is lake water and a dock. And unless he's planning on jumping in, he's out of hiding spots.

"I'm figuring that out," his head remains low as he trails over.

His voice makes me think twice, seriously catching me off guard. I swear I could hear a profound English accent. The way he enunciated his words, they were slow and dragged out deeply. It's enough proof to convince me that this stranger isn't American.

"So what kind of trouble are you in? People don't come down here unless they're desperate, and I'm guessing that's what you are," I kick my feet up onto the dock, leaning back with my arms to prop myself up. Tonight hasn't been the best for me, so I could use a good story, and by the way he's approaching me, it looks like this lost guy has a great one.

"I'd hardly call it trouble," he takes his hand up, rubbing the back of his neck with the continuation of his leisure walk. "I just had to make sure I wasn't being followed, you know?" He finally reaches me, "Mind if I stay? Need a second to catch my breath, and this fuckin' coat's not doin' me justice."

I nod, allowing him to stay. And when he's close enough for me to examine his features, I'm almost stunned by his beauty. I've never seen a guy as gorgeous as him. The light curls of his brunette hair frame his face perfectly, a few of them damp with his sweat. My eyes trace down the sharp angle of his jaw, leading over to the light shade of his lips. All I can see from his eyes is that they're staring at me, but the details are hard to picture in such harsh lighting.

He's wearing a tan corduroy coat that reaches down to his thighs. The sizing looks too big for him, especially because the sleeves are rolled to fit onto his wrists. The only thing I do notice, however, is that small patches are ironed on around the jacket. A lot of them have to do with car brands and racing. That must be something he's into, unless the jacket doesn't belong to him.