Does It Hurt?
H. D. Carlton
Author’s Note
I did work closely with someone from Italy for all aspects concerning Enzo’s culture and language, but please note that some of the translations are contextual, and not literal. The translator did take some liberties as to portray the same meaning, even if they don’t say the same thing literally. There is a glossary in the back of the book with the English text and these translations.
Enjoy!
Some days I’m the ocean. Some days I’m the ship. Tonight, I’m the lighthouse: at the edge, alone, and burning.
-Vasiliki
Prologue
Sawyer
Stop staring at me, fucker.
My leg bounces profusely, and I force myself to stop for the millionth time. I’m making it obvious that I'm nervous, but how can I not be when my mother's cousin's husband's niece is staring at me?
She looks like she's seen a ghost, and I practically have been for the past six years. But if that were the case, I wouldn't need to get on this damn flight.
We’re both sitting in chairs across from each other, waiting to board a plane to Indonesia. What the hell is she going there for anyway? It’s nearly Christmas, for fuck’s sake.
I suppose it could be a work trip considering she’s wearing a skirt, a matching blazer, and Louboutin heels. Who travels in fucking Louboutin heels?
Doesn’t matter. What matters is that she noticed me, and that’s so not cool right now.
Sweat is pouring down my back, and I'm almost positive I have pit stains.
I'm trying to be inconspicuous, but so is she. Appearing nonchalant, yet not nonchalant at all, she slowly slides her phone out of her pocket. Normally, not a red flag, but she also has pit stains, and she's glancing at me every two seconds.
Carefully, she brings the phone to her ear, attempting to hide it within her pin-straight hair. The strands are so thin, they’re basically translucent—she's not hiding her phone beneath them like she thinks she is.
Bitch.
I have no idea how I'm supposed to escape with her watching, but I don't have a choice. It's either I leave, or they find me.
Fuck being inconspicuous, my life is on the line. I grab my carry-on bag, stand, and attempt to calmly walk away.
“Hey!” she calls, but fuck that and fuck her. I slip through the crowd, on the verge of tears. I’ve put off leaving the country for so long, convinced I’d be caught, and that’s precisely what might happen.
Heart racing, I head directly to the gift shop, purchase a zip-up hoodie, along with sweats and a ball cap, then find a bathroom to change in, all the while checking over my shoulder.
Even the restroom is crowded, so I keep my head down and quickly duck into a stall. Hands shaking, I wind my hair into a low bun, shove the hat over the top, and then slip on the jacket, flipping the hood over my head to cover the rest of my hair. Lastly, I pull the sweats on over my shorts, already sweating from the layers and adrenaline.
Then, I wash my hands and rush to the ticket counter, out of breath and practically panting in the agent’s face. She looks up at me, startled by my sudden presence.
“May I hel—”
“I need a ticket to the next flight out,” I interrupt, nearly tripping over my words.
She blinks at me, then focuses on her computer screen, clicking around with her mouse and tapping a few keys.
“A flight to Indone—”
“Not that one,” I cut in again. “A different one.”
She shoots me a glare. I’m pissing her off, but I’m sure a big glass of red wine will soothe her woes, whereas I will definitely be meeting my maker if I’m caught.
“A flight to Australia is departing in forty minutes.”
“Sold,” I say, slapping a wad of cash and my ID on the counter. Giving me an unimpressed look, she processes the ticket and counts through the money. Albeit very fucking slowly.
“You’re $8.09 short,” she clips.
I’m not usually a snappy person with customer service. They deal with enough shit. That being said, if I get caught over $8.09, I’m pointing directly at her and screaming she did it before bolting.
Muttering beneath my breath, I fish out a ten-dollar bill from my pocket and slap it on the counter.
Giving me the evil eye, she takes the bill and continues.
I’m constantly checking over my shoulder, but thankfully, the airport is crowded, and I don’t see any angry faces wearing a uniform and a gun headed my way yet.
“Do you have any luggage?”
“No, just my carry-on,” I reply.
After a few more minutes, she finally slides the ticket to me, along with my change and ID.