When I wake up, there's light streaming in from the windows. At first, it's blinding, and I struggle to grasp exactly where I am. The bed is so plush under my back, the sheets soft under my fingertips. I brush my cheek against the ever-soft pillow, and when I inhale, I smell the unfamiliar fragrance of a hotel room.
I turn to my side, reminded by the sunlight in the windows of the past day.
Quickly, I sit up, checking the door to see if the chair is still under the knob. It's still is.
Sighing in relief, I check the time and notice it's quite early in the morning. I wonder if this room has any spare toothbrushes.
I tiptoe into the bathroom, aware that I'm still in a hotel suite with an intelligent assassin who can probably already tell I'm up and about. I wonder if he tried coming in my room during the night and slitting my throat. Or maybe he tried smothering me? Would that do the trick?
I ignore the nagging questions in my head, the heavy, sour feeling of anxiety rising in the pit of my chest.
I'm a fucking mess when I see myself in the mirror. Dark circles, unkept half dried hair, and a look of utter shit.
I search the cabinets for a new toothbrush and find one still in its packaging. I find Coldgate toothpaste and find it kind of funny that high class hit men don't brush their teeth with toothpaste named, like, MenKiller or ArcticBomb.
I wash my face and brush my hair out with my fingers.
When I step out of the bathroom, I shriek.
John stands by the door, the chair to the side neatly, his hands in his pockets as if he is meant to be just standing there in my hotel room.
"What the hell!" I shout. "How did you even get in here!"
I linger by the bathroom door, heart hammering. John's wearing the same suit as yesterday, his hair neatly gelled back, beard expertly trimmed. It's as if he slept on his back, keeping his assassin look immaculate, and then just woke up to come terrorize me.
He doesn't say anything. He gestures to the bed, where I see there's a black wool long sleeve, trousers, socks and underwear, and by miracle, a fresh pair of Vans.
"I put the chair under the knob," I say, pathetically gesturing to the chair John put back in its place.
"Oldest trick in the book," he mutters, scratching the bridge of his nose. "Also, that doesn't work when the doorknob is round."
I swallow thickly, embarrassed. "At least I tried."
"You don't have anything to fear from me, Ophelia," he says, matter of fact, and when I raise a brow at him, he adds, "anymore."
I sigh impatiently, rolling my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest like a real entitled brat. "So, what now?" I ask. "I'm gonna get dressed in a female version of your kill suit and what, go gallivanting around New York, stabbing people?"
For the first time, I see John smirk.
And instead of finding it endearing or cute or whatever – because yeah, he's sorta hot – I get angry. "Oh, so it's all just fun and games for you?" I grit.
He doesn't say anything, still trying to stifle a laugh. I find myself wondering what he even sounds like laughing.
"Stop it!" I demand, all but stomping my foot like I'm four. "Explain yourself!"
He does a face that's between an eye roll and an angered sigh. "I'm going to bring you to the High Table." He says this as if I'm supposed to be like, yeah okay, cool.
"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.
"Stop that."
"I can't," I answer, looking around the enclosed space. "Have you ever watched that movie about the demon in the elevator, and they all get stuck in the dark and eventually all die?"
"No."
"Or does that really pretty girl survive?" I ask myself, pretending to ponder. "Anyway, sometimes I get in elevators and just get this fear that it's gonna jam and then wham! Some long dead demon from the 70s slithers through the cracks to – "
The dinging of the elevator stops me, and I sigh, "Finally."
John seems annoyed as we descend in the lobby. I walk behind him, a few steps away, looking around absentmindedly. I don't, however, miss the looks women give him. Like their raking their eyes up and down his body, either seizing him up for a kill or a romp in the hay.
John, however, stays polite as a cold slab of cement. He nods curtly, ignoring the smirks, the winks, the seductive walking. It's like none of it affects him. Like he's immune to everyone just gawking at him.
I ask myself if John has a reputation. Not only as a high-class expert killer but also as something else.
When we get outside under the auvent, I'm about to ask him if he's some kind of underground gigolo too, but John opens the passenger door to some sort of really cool, vintage sports car.
"I wish I could tell you the name of this car," I say, advancing towards it, the bright morning sun catching my eyes. "But I have no fucking clue what it is."
When I slide into my seat, John throws the door closed harshly.
He puts his gear bag into the trunk and swiftly slides into the driver's seat beside me.
"Does it go vroum vroum?" I ask childishly.
John just eyes me and starts the engine, the sound roaring around me loudly before idling.
We speed out of the Continental's entry way like we're being chased by cops in Fast and Furious. I'm thrown against the window, back pressed against the metal of the seatbelt I forgot to put on. The street zooms by me in the windshield, my breath knocked out of my lungs, before I recuperate and sink into my seat. I slowly put my seatbelt on.
"Who the hell taught you to drive?" I ask.
No answer.
I reach over to try to put some tunes on, but this guy – this motherfucker! – actually slaps my hand away.
I gasp. "You've clearly never done a road trip before, M. Wick, because tunes are essential!" I try again, but it's like he has a sixth sense for me, and he slaps me again, all while keeping his eyes on the road. "I'm not staying here for God knows how long with just the sound of your stupid car!"
This time, when we stop at a red light, my forehead almost smashing against the dash, he gives me a cold hard stare. Maybe insulting the car wasn't a good idea.
"We're just going to the airport," he says between clenched teeth.
"Airport!?"
"Yes."
"I'm not leaving the country with you!" But he doesn't answer me, his eyes traveling from my face to just above my head. I frown. "Hello? I'm talking to you!"
"Shut up," he grunts.
"No, I will not!" I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
But I see his eyes widening ever the slightest and his arm goes around my shoulders, pushing me face down against my thighs. A millisecond later, there's a series of bullets spraying against my side of the car, and it's so loud that it drowns out the sound of the city, my yelling, and John's obnoxiously loud car.
I feel some of the bullets flicker on my skin, burning through my new trousers.
John switches gears and guns the engine. We squeal out of the intersection, and when I raise my head again, I'm faced with a totally different John Wick.
I am only vaguely aware of the yelling outside, of the shattered glass in my hair and in my lap, of the wind slicing against my skin as John rips through the intersection.
I am only aware of John, of the way his entire posture changes. He is not normally a man of leisure or laziness, but he always maintains a level of nonchalance with me, as of yet anyway. But now, I see in him a rigidness, a focus coming into the center of us, a space he creates for himself when the hitman in him comes alive.
He looks absolutely ruthless as he white knuckles the steering wheel, his jaw clenched, eyes razor sharp to every detail on the road.
I hear more gun fire, but it's far – distant pops among a wave of yelling and honking.
"Keep your head down," he says, and I have a sense that it's more out of habit than out of actual fear for me because – if you've forgotten – I'm bulletproof.
He races the car down a few busy lanes, ignoring every single road signal, including a brigadier. My heart soars in my chest with a painful series of beatings, hammering away in my throat even though there is no fear for my life. I just do not wish to be caught. Even though I'm basically chained to John until he gets his cash, I'm assuming the High Table won't keep me locked in the basement for the rest of eternity.
John quickly scans the streets as we slow down on a boulevard, the traffic light for an early mid-week morning. He looks behind us, then pulls into a street, quickly turning the engine off.
I stay breathless, unmoving, staring at him with wide eyes.
"Get out," he orders. He's not even looking at me as he gets out, elegant as ever, as if he wasn't just shot at a few seconds ago.
I realize my hands are trembling as I get out. We're in a narrow street between a clinic and a bar – hilarious – and John is already going through his gear bag.
"Should I get one?" I ask, slowly coming to stand a few feet from him.
"No."
"Why?" I whine.
"You don't know how to use it."
Just to prove to him that he's wrong, just to be that annoying bitch, I grab the first gun I can set my sights on. I've barely grasped the heavy, metal handle before John's hand grips my forearm. His fingers are harsh, but his grasp is light.
I give him a snide look. "What's the worse that can happen, huh?"
"I get shot in the back because you can't aim," he answers, dark orbs boring into mine. He's so close to me I can count the four freckles under his left eye. I stare up at him a little while longer, intent on continuing my annoying stunts, when I decide against it. I retreat my hand and he releases me, my skin white from where he grasped me.
I'm about to open my mouth when a shot rings out and searing, hot pain explodes on my temple. I'm thrown against the car from the sheer force of the shot and tumble to my knees. I'm aware that John is pushing me to the other side, dragging me by the collar of my sweater, surely stretching it out. The gravel is hard against my bum. I hear something behind me, either John screaming or shooting, I can't tell. The pain reverberates along my skull, down my spine, and I wonder just what kind of fucking bullet that was to make me such a pussy.
When I come to, a ringing in my ear and a painful soreness throbbing in my skull, John has pushed me up against the other side of the car. He's alternating between standing and shooting, and sitting down on his knees, reloading.
There are wanton shots fired by John, loud in their reciprocity. And then there are duller, farther pops as John's rivals shoot back.
"What the hell was that?" I yell over the ruckus.
John bends back down, a few strands freeing themselves from the gel and falling into his eyes. There is sweat on his brow and his lip is curled in concentration. "Sniper."
I gasp, frowning as I awkwardly rise to my knees too. "Those assholes sniped me!?"
John doesn't answer, expertly reloading and checking the chamber bullet, fingers nimble and quick. He goes back to his feet, hidden behind the car, and shoots a few rounds.
When he comes back down, I glance at the gun at his hip. I reach out, opening his suit vest. He jerks back, frowning, caught between slapping me and asking just what the hell I'm doing.
He has a whole belt of arsenal around his hips – knives, guns, bullets, and a few grenades.
"You get all that and give me nothing!" I yell over a loud spray of bullets against the car's body.
He grunts, eyes diligently going from place to place, door to door. He points with his gun to an area above my shoulder. "Go," he instructs.
When I turn, I see the entrance to some alleyway. Right, so now John is going to lead us to an even narrower street. I don't have time to protest, however. John hauls me to my feet by the bicep, keeping his gun aimed in the general direction of the other shooters, and pushes me towards the alley.
I run to it, keeping tabs on John's footsteps behind me. "How can you run in those?" I ask, breathless, pointing to his shining leather shoes.
He grunts an answer and pushes me further into the alley. I run, feeling my scalp prickling with fear as John tails me and so does our aggressors.
John stops me when we reach a metal, dirty door with a barely hanging-on-there doorknob. I'm breathless, heaving in breaths through clenched teeth. John wrenches the door open, barely leaving the knob on, and hauls me in, closing the door behind us and plunging us in darkness.
"Oh my God," I breathe, "find a light or I'm going to yell."
John fumbles with something behind me, his breath loud and heavy in the darkness. I hold my side, feeling the sweat on my brow.
John finds the switch and floods the room with tacky electric light, illuminating a surgery room. It smells like bleach and old socks.
"What the hell is this place?" I ask, still breathless. "Man, I need to work on my cardio."
When I look over at John, this man is still well put together. Hair? Flawless. Sweating? Not even one bit. Suit? Impeccable. I'm beginning to wonder if John Wick has superpowers of his own. Maybe indestructibly good looks?
"It's a vet," John says, rummaging through drawers, keeping his gun in his left hand. A few pieces of his hair are flitting across his eyes. His lips are pinched together in concentration.
"You're looking for a hidden hamster in there, John?" I ask, still trying to regain my breath. I'm watching the door, sure the perpetrators will come rushing through any second.
John gives me a dark look from under his brow and continues to rummage. He pulls out a set of keys from the desk drawer.
"Company car," I say, already making my way to the door which leads to the hallway.
Turns out, the company car in question is an emergency veterinarian mini van with We Save Lives Daily! printed on the side. It gives John and me a second to consider, wondering just how inconspicuous we'd be, or even more suspicious. No one would ever believe a man with John's stone face would be a nice, fun, safe emergency vet van driver.
But John ushers me in anyway. I embark, fear still racing through my body, down to my toes and fingertips. But John seems totally calm as he takes the wheel and races us out of the vet's garage.
I grip the side of the door, straining in my seatbelt, as John squeals out of New York City and into the suburbs, brows furrowed in concentration.
"You can drive like nobody's business," I comment when my heart has settled from his reckless driving. By now, the roads are calm, nobody shooting at us, and the suburbs are thinning out. "Soooo, I'm guessing, no more airport?" I ask.
John grunts in acquiescence.
I throw my hands up. "Uhm, so where the hell are we going?"
"South."
"Oh, right, yes, I forgot we were going south," I say sarcastically. "Because you explain everything so well and full of detail."
He shrugs.
"That means, if you hadn't guessed, tell me where the hell we're going now or I'm throwing myself out this moving emergency veterinarian minivan." I cross my arms over my chest, turning in my seat so I'm facing him full frontal.
He sighs. "I'm taking us to someone safe," he says, eyes on the road. "It's a long way ahead. Another state. We'll stop somewhere to sleep and change cars."
I sink into my seat. Another state? I exhale, flinching when I feel every bruise on my skin from the bullets ricocheting off my skin.
"I need to stop in a pharmacy," I sigh, fingers to my temples.
"No."
"Um, I need sustenance, John," I answer brusquely. "And, from what I'm getting of your whole vibe, we aren't headed to the place you first thought."
His only response is a frown.
"We ain't going to no airport," I begin. "And we're travelling in an unknown minivan so that means you don't trust the airport nor your car. That means we need to hide. And, if I really need to add more, you just said you're taking us somewhere safe."
He rolls his eyes. "Nothing gets passed you," he mumbles, shifting in his seat, white-knuckling the wheel. "People were after us, right after leaving the Continental. I have a bad feeling. I don't trust the streets or the airport, so we're travelling underground. I think other assassins want to take you in so they can get the money themselves." That is the most words I've ever heard him speak.
My brows raise, opening my mouth to speak but think otherwise. After a few awkward seconds of silence, I clear my throat.
"I'm not sure though," he says, maybe trying to soothe the oncoming panic. "That's why I'm taking precautions. I'll make some phone calls."
"I still need to go to the pharmacy."
"We're not going."
"I need some stuff, John!"
"No."
"I swear if you don't – "
"You won't even get scratched if you jump out the car," he barks, "and I'll just go back and peel you off the road. Or maybe leave you to those guys shooting at us earlier? Doubt they'll treat you as nicely and politely as I have."
I gulp. Maybe he's right. John may be a pain in the ass and a huge dick, but he's kept his hands to himself and defended me all this time, even if it's just to get his fingers around a wad of cash.
I stutter a bit trying to find the right words. "John," I start slowly, as if talking to an upset toddler, "I am a woman, and sometimes, well, what I mean is, once a month – "
"Okay," he deadpans. "We'll stop at the next exit."
John stops the van near the door of the pharmacy, and I'm told I have five minutes or he will leave me here. He hands me a crisp hundred-dollar bill. I start to ask him if he even knows how much pads and tampons cost but decide I might just go and buy more stuff. So in addition to the female necessities, I add six bags of Starbursts, two bags of Twizzlers, shampoo and conditioner because I'm sure that wherever we are going, there will not be any. Soap, razors, and I find a pack of underwear in the clothes section that I add to the basket. I find the sunglasses rack and pick a pair for me and one for John. When I get to the cash, I add a bag of cherry lollipops to the mix. The total is $89.48, and I feel like a bad bitch handing over the hunny.
When I get back to the van, John grunts when he sees me hauling in the bags. I'm wearing my sunglasses and already have a Twizzler hanging off my lips.
"I send you in for two things and you come out with the entire store," he grumbles, starting the engine.
"You gave me a hundred-dollar bill," I sigh, closing the door. "What did you expect?"
John refuses to put on the sunglasses I got him. He refuses any of the candy I offer him.
"At least let me put some vibes up in here," I say, opening the radio. He doesn't stop me, probably figuring out that not fighting with me would be better than fighting me because I'll eventually win. I find a good radio station and blast some throwbacks, but John doesn't chime in with me when I sing.
The ride is mostly in silence. John answers my questions with either yes or no but offers no more explanation about our final destination. He doesn't answer my questions about the High Table, telling me I'd rather ask them when we get there. When I ask where this there is, he ignores me.
The sun is orange on the horizon when John pulls up in a sketchy, off the road motel. He tells me to stay in the car while he deals with reception. I chew on more candy while I wait, examining the cars in the lot. A rundown Sunfire. A sparkling Volvo. A bright blue Jeep. A dusty, rusty red Ford pickup truck.
When John comes out and signals for me to follow him, I take the bags with me and haul ass. "We should rob that red pickup," I tell him as he guides me to our room.
"Why?"
"Because it looks like Bella Swan's from Twilight."
He sighs, opening the door.
Inside, it smells of dirty air conditioner and hotdog water. There are two beds with a musty purple duvet. A desk with key marks all over it in the corner. A TV the size of Pluto facing the beds.
"I get closest to the bathroom!" I shotgun for that bed, flinging the bags onto it and flopping down. The bed makes an awful squeaking sound as I watch John double lock the door and close the curtains.
"You should sleep," he says. "We're up early tomorrow."
I hum but ignore him, turning the TV on and flitting through the channels. On the news, there's coverage of the shooting in New York, and a close up of John's car speeding down the intersection, while bullets clink and splinter against the frame. The camera angle is from straight up, another from the side, but none catch either mine or John's face. I'm glad. I probably look like complete shit.
John dumps all his gear on the bed. Guns and knives and things I couldn't even name. I stare in awe as he rifles through them, examining them up close. I watch as he puts them all on the desk, lining them up in an order only he knows.
Then he sits at the desk and begins cleaning them, his back straight, shoulders tensed and pulled back. His profile is relaxed, but his eyes are keen, and as I watch him do his little assassin routine, I can't help but examine him again.
He's not unattractive. His jaw is squared, and his beard gives it a sharp, shadowy edge. His eyes are dark, but an enticing, seducing, and captivating dark. As if someone melted chocolate from those Laura Secord commercials and poured it into his irises.
He must see me staring – or feel me – because he puts his weapon down, huge hands covering it, and turns to me. We stare at each other for a few seconds, me sitting on the edge of the bed with a Twizzler in my mouth like an eight-year-old and him cleaning his guns.
"Go to bed," he says, voice softer, the edge loosened.
I don't say anything. I go to the bathroom and wash my face. I don't have any pajamas except my own clothes, which is gross, but I'll have to deal with it. I put my hair up in a bun.
When I get in the bed – which smells of rotten food – I settle in and stare at John. His suit vest is off, probably when I was in the bathroom. His back is to me now, but I can still see him working. His hands are diligent. Fingers nimble. There's something enticing about watching him clean his weapons. Almost magnetic.
When I fall asleep, it's to the sounds of clinking metal and the sight of him.