Never having been a bacon fan, I pulled the liner from the garbage can to take it to the garage or outside. Anyplace, just so long as I wouldn’t have to smell the package it had come in.
I entered the garage and found a large garbage can, a BMW SUV, and a motorcycle cover spread on the ground beside the SUV. I dropped the bag of trash, experiencing one of those connect-the-dots moments. Several sets of keys dangled from the nail on the wall beside me. I grabbed them, both sets labeled with the blue and white BMW logo, and opened the garage door.
My hands were shaking when I approached the motorcycle, already knowing what I was going to find. I inserted the first set of keys; they didn’t fit. Maybe I was being absurd . . .
I positioned the second key, drew in a breath, and heard the key click into place. I turned it over and the engine exploded, igniting a cascade of emotions and questions. The bike was William’s. Had we taken his escape vehicle, leaving him stranded in Paris? I remembered how long it had taken Paul and me to cross that half-mile distance and, with William having a head-start, he could have been back to the bike and flying out of Paris before Paul had gotten up.
So had he left it behind—intentionally—so Paul and I could make an escape? I wanted to believe this, but why would he? After everything I’d done, and his obvious disdain for Paul, why had he appeared in the cool Paris air to protect us and then leave his bike behind to aid our escape?
He was the most compassionate person I’d known, but he was still a man—subject to jealousy, rejection, and revenge. Had he really been able to put everything I’d done to him aside? Again, I wanted to believe this, but something that was more likely jumped to mind. The Council had sent him. Perhaps anticipating an attack or knowing John’s men were closing in and afraid I’d spill more Immortal blood given the opportunity, they’d sent him to deal with John’s men, so I wouldn’t have to.
I closed my eyes, picturing the glow of William’s eyes, the placement and precision of his strikes, and the sway of his shoulders when he sho-cd bolted from me that night. I pulled the key out, letting the engine die.
I hid the motorcycle key in my jacket, not wanting to explain another thing to Paul, and hung the SUV’s set over the nail before heading back to the kitchen.
“Darn it!” I shouted, noting the burning smell before I turned the corner to find the smoke billowing from the pan. “Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.” I grabbed the pan and pried the scorched bacon free, throwing it on the plate beside it.
“Something’s burning,” Paul’s voice crept into the kitchen, right before I scraped the last few pieces from the pan. “Um, are you using your fingers to pull bacon swimming in grease from a hot pan?” he asked, stalling in front of the island.
Super, something else I’d have to come up with a lie on the fly for. I was going to have to become an adept liar if Paul and I lived together for much longer.
“The pan’s already cooled,” I said, dropping it into the sink. It sizzled when it came in contact with the droplets of water dotting the sink.
“Oooooo-kaaaay,” Paul said, pulling out a chair under the island. “It’s too early to delve into the topics we were feuding about last night . . . so, how did you sleep?” he asked, manufacturing an elaborate smile.
“Super.” Sleep was a stretch, but I had slipped into William’s bed, where I’d spent ten hours breathing in his sheets. He hadn’t changed them from when he’d been here last and it was like ending up in heaven when I found him waiting for me between the sheets—if in one sensory detail alone.
I flipped the three pancakes in the fry-pan, careful to use a spatula this time. They were so black I couldn’t differentiate the batter from the chocolate chips. I moaned.
“I like my pancakes like I like my bacon,” Paul volunteered. “Black, crispy, and served up with a smile.”
I plastered on an overdone smile, spinning to him. “Cooked to order, then.”
I piled three pancakes on a plate, interspersing charred side up and golden brown, before making a teepee of bacon. I poured half a bottle of syrup over the plate that looked like it was more kindling than food, hoping it would mask the flavor.
“Olive branch?” I said, handing him the plate that was more carcinogens than nutrients. Cora would be mortified.
“Accepted.” He tucked a napkin in his shirt. “I’ll even do something we men aren’t known for and admit I was a jerk last night if you make me some coffee.”
“One step ahead of you,” I retrieved the French press from the kitchen table where I’d almost polished it off and poured the remains in a mug.
He took a sip, and the n another. “Delicious. Maybe you should stick to liquids,” he said, hustling his breakfast in a circle. The bacon screeched across the plate. “So, I’m gonna say it . . . I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his fork. “I didn’t mean to take out my frustrations on you.”
I held up my hand to silence him. “I think I’m going to quote a very wise woman”—I smiled, unable to help it when I recalled that last night of my Mortality sitting beside Paul at Newport Beach—“and say, ‘no apologies,’ okay? I’ve got ten times more than you to apologize for, so let’s forget it and move on.”
“You sound so grown-up,” he said, taking another sip of his coffee. “Are you sure you’re only twenty?”
I choked on the coffee I’d been about to swallow. “Last time I checked,” I answered, realizing I’d be saying the same thing ten thousand years from now.
“As delicious as it’s been,” he said, eyeing his plate that was untouched. “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. So, may I be excused?”
“I’m not your mom.”
He took another sip of coffee, looking at me over the rim of the cup. “Thankfully.”
His continued gaze, and what was behind it, caused my fidgeting to erupt. I cleared his plate and tucked it in the sink to occupy my attention.
“I suppose I’ll go take a shower,” he said, pushing off the island and rising. “And then we can go see the sights if you’re sure your friend won’t be serving us an eviction notice.”
“He won’t,” I answered, scrubbing the plate and gazing out the window, imagining William standing in this same spot, doing the exact same thing.
“Thanks for . . . um . . . breakfast,” he said under his breath. “If that’s what you call it.”
“Well, if you don’t like my cooking, you can do—”
The sound of shattering glass, followed by something thudding to the ground, made me drop the plate.
“Paul!” I screamed, rushing to where he’d fallen. I rocked his body, trying to rouse him. I reached for his neck, making out a pulse. A faint pulse.
“Paul,” I whispered outside his ear. “Come on, wake up.” I shook his shoulder gently. “Okay, if this is your sick idea of a prank to get back at me for breakfast, I’m going to throttle you.”
He didn’t budge, not even a twitch at the corner of his mouth to assure me he was joking around. I swept my arms under his limp body and lifted him, rushing down the hall into his bedroom. I set him down on the unmade bed, trying to figure out what to do next.
I needed a doctor, but had no idea where to find one, nor did I know a lick of German to be able to communicate over the phone with a 911 operator . . . and what exactly was the German equivalent of 911? Paul was going to die because of me. I was going to make John’s mission of killing those around me easy if I kept doing it first.
“Please don’t do this to me,” I said, pulling his hand into mine. “Don’t you leave me, too.” The idea of losing Paul became too much to bear. Twisted as it was, it took the idea of losing him to make me realize how much I cared for Paul and how desperate for companionship I was.
His head moved, just barely.
“Paul! Can you hear me?” I yelled, leaning over him, willing his eyes to open.
He groaned. “Kind of hard not to when you’re shouting in my ear,” he said, wincing as his eyes opened.
I threw my arms around his neck, not caring about the repercussions of whatever conclusions he’d leap to. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” I said, attempting to sound stern. “Or I’ll really give you something to faint over.”
Paul’s arms rung around me, pulling me tight to him—a little too tight for someone who’d been unconscious moments ago. “If this is the welcome I’ll have waiting for me, I wouldn’t mind making this a regular occurrence.”
“Many happy returns,” I said, winding out of our embrace without making it look too intentional. I scrutinized him, searching for the answers to what was going on, but other than the pale, sweat-beaded skin, I couldn’t arrive at any conclusions. I would have made a terrible doctor.
He propped himself on two elbows, gritting his teeth in the process. “So what’s on today’s agenda?”
I crossed my arms. “Quite a bit, actually. Starting with you telling me what is going on with you—the truth this time.”
Paul snorted through his nose. “Yeah, that seems fair. Since you’ve been so forthright and honest with me.”
“I’m not the one passing out into a coma,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Besides, you’re the upright, morally astute one. I’m the corrupt, rebel-without-a-cause type, remember? Honesty suits you better than it does me.”
He focused on the ceiling. “I think I’m coming down with something—”
“B.S.,” I interrupted, crossing my arms tighter. “The truth. Now.”
He cleared his throat, still not able to look me in the eyes. “I’m just so tired. I haven’t gotten my usual twelve hours a night the past few—”
“Crap,” I shouted. Paul was a worse liar than I was. “What’s going on—”
“Cancer, okay?” he shouted back. “There’s the truth. Happy now?”
“Wait,” I replied, sure I’d heard wrong. “What?” Paul was every Mortal standard for health and vitality. He couldn’t have cancer; grandparents got cancer—twenty-one year old, captain of the basketball team, friends of mine didn’t.
He stared hard at me. “Can-Cer,” he mouthed dramatically.
I shook my head, trying to put together a cohesive sentence, but nothing made sense. Not that things had made any sense for awhile. “So what’s the course of treatment?” I asked, realizing how lame I sounded. “What kind . . . do you have?”
“Do you really think I’d be gallivanting through Europe if there was a course of treatment,” he quoted back to me sarcastically. “And I’ve got the kind of cancer the doctor can’t look you in the eyes when he tells you how long you have left.”
My eyes stung, partly from the relief Paul hadn’t died on William’s kitchen floor and partly because it sounded like he would be dying in the near future. I couldn’t ask how soon that was. “There’s a treatment for everything. We’re going to get a second opinion and a third,” I said, standing up and fussing over arranging the blankets over him.