Get out of jail, get yet another crappy criminal henchman job, get his hotshot lawyer ex-girlfriend back. Oh yeah -- and get a murderous demon exorcised from his head. Jason Torres has his route back from rock-bottom perfectly planned out, right? Th...
Rusty after three years in Riyadh, I'd been too confident. I slipped on a crenelation, only just catching myself, so close to falling and splattering onto Plaza de la Catedral a hundred meters below. I inched my way along the final gut-churning section of stonework, swinging up to the platform hidden high on the clock tower's side.
Once the adrenaline had ebbed, I basked in my favorite spot, just big enough for me to stretch my legs and gaze out at the skyscrapers opposite, and the winking lights of ships in the bay. I'd found the route up as a kid, back when I used to leave the house early and get home late to avoid whichever of Mamá's boyfriends was fucking her over at the time. A secret place just for me. After three years in Riyadh, my windswept platform on the side of the clock tower felt like coming home.
But something wasn't right. It wasn't my secret platform anymore. Someone else had found my secluded spot high above the city.
A delicate wooden box sat on the platform, wedged under a gargoyle's talon. The initials D.R. were neatly carved into the wood. Someone had stolen my secret place from me. They'd taken in my view over the bay. They'd put their own precious things in my space.
I snatched up the box. Who the fuck coulda known that this platform high above the city existed? More incredibly, who coulda made the near-impossible climb here?
It had taken me months to find the way up. I'd spent long hours mapping out myriad failed routes in the early days, only going farther when I was sure that I'd practised every finger-cling and every leaped gap safely. Even then, I'd had to conquer the terror of navigating the final treacherous meters, clinging to gargoyles and masonry for dear life.
A flick of the latch, and the box opened on well-oiled hinges. Inside nestled a golden ring with a little diamond set in it.
The teenage pickpocket in me awoke suddenly from a decade of slumber.
Besides wreaking vengeance on the agile asshole who'd commandeered my favorite spot, the diamond ring spelled endless wondrous possibilities for me: a few months' rent, an Italian suit, a used motorcycle. A convenient engagement ring to get Leila back. It wasn't the big gaudy diamond that she deserved, but it would do. I could slip the ring into my pocket and call Leila. I could become the man I once was.
The chill of shame chased goosebumps over my skin. I was the true interloper on the clock tower's windy platform, touching precious mementos that weren't mine.
I was tempted then to kick the box over the side, ring and all. I'd take back the spot that I'd trained so hard to reach. But I wasn't my triumphant sixteen-year-old self protecting my patch anymore. I was what everyone had expected me to be by twenty-seven: a haggard criminal, hunted by my old employers, pilfering a ring while I watched the final seconds of my life tick away.
I wedged the box back under the gargoyle's crumbling stone claw. Kudos to the person who'd found my spot. They were welcome to share it; Alcor would kill me soon anyway.
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
