The Fall [2]

One

❝ don't worry, he's a professional ❞

His hand slides to his neck.

Two bite marks, like a cliche Halloween make-up, cross his skin like a burn. Only that it's not fucking Halloween ― even though the Gecko has to admit ― what happened the night before was straight out of a horror flick. Not a very classy one, no. Some low-budget stuff, in which the producers tried their cards with nudity, blood and gore. Movies like these may be fun to watch ― until you find yourself playing the leading role.

He reclines in his seat with a quiet grunt, before lifting, only to make his second stroll over to the stained mirror above the commode, placed right next to the running TV. Walking past it, he briefly interferes with the girl's view.

Amber's glance swiftly switches from the glass cleaner commercial to the Gecko standing in front of the mirror again. From the bed she watches him tilt his head, twisting into the most unnatural position to see the itching marks on his bare neck. Careful and from the distance, she feels safe enough to comment on it.

"Does it hurt?"

He stiffens at the sound of her voice, almost as though he was convinced she has been watching the Spanish program with intense focus.

"Sons-of-bitches will leave scars for sure," he mutters tiredly, before turning around after a final examination. Furrowing his brows, he takes in her puny posture. "You alright?"

He doesn't want to push it, but it's evident she's far from alright ― her eyes are red-rimmed, she's been holding back tears for the past hours, and she doesn't talk to him. At least no more than a couple of words.

"Yeah." She retreats back to the comfort of silence after that, leaving the man staring at her from the mirror, a thousand things shooting through his mind.

Shallow cherishing is what both of them have been feeding off the entire day ― she would ask Seth about his wounds, whereupon he'd wave it off as though it didn't scratch his ego ― as though they don't occupy him enough to spent hours fuming with anger over the person that has caused them. Then, Seth would ask her how she was doing, and there would be only one right answer to this question. She was doing alright.

"You haven't touched your food. Chicken mole doesn't tickle your fancy?" Seth walks over to his seat again, where the last packages of convenience food are scattered over the table next to it, and he raises his dark brows in demand for an explanation.

Amber only shrugs, eyes on the television. "I'm not hungry."

Almost sulkily, he studies her a little longer, before nodding. "Make sure to eat something. I can't have you fainting as soon as the situation gets a little heated."

She bites back a comment, trying to hide the slight irritation that prickles her blood ― there is a condescending tone in his voice, like she's the one who's making the rock-bottom situation both find themselves in unnecessarily complicated. She doesn't know whether he intends to, but more and more Seth makes her feels like a burden, like a weight that's tied to his legs and hinders him from moving under the radar.

While the clapping sound of the audience of the Mexican reality-TV show that begins to play fills the room, Seth forces himself to level out his thoughts ― but his pent-up mind forbids. It's times like these when the desire for a good old scotch gets the better of him and coerces him to go to any lengths for a drink.