Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Out of the deserts of Afghanistan when we all made the decision to leave - when we knew we couldn’t do the horrible things that were asked of us anymore - and dive head-first into the unknown. Aimless, penniless; hell, fucking country-less. And through the whole damn thing, that tough bastard kept us going.
And you fucked his sister. Nice work, shithead.
A man in white linen meets us at the front door of the cafe where we're meeting our turncoat contact from Blackriver and quickly nods and bows as he hustles us past men in similar garb sitting drinking black tea and smoking from hookahs. He ushers us through the back door of the cafe and out into a half-shaded, tiny little courtyard with a small table with three chairs around it.
“Please,” He says haltingly; “Have a seat. She'll be with you shortly.”
She? Fuck.
Peyton sits at the table facing the cafe door and toys with the edge of it; “So do you know this contact? From your Blackriver days?”
I sure fucking hope not.
“I don't think so.”
Peyton fidgets in her chair as I sit across from her; “I don't like it. Why's she switching teams?”
I shrug; I don't like it one bit either, but it's all we've got right now if we're ever going to figure out where Benson is with Logan; “If Lawson trusts her, we should t-”
“Bryce, darlin, how are you?.”
Fuck. I can feel my jaw tighten at the sound of the Aristocratic, Queen’s English voice I mercifully haven't heard in years. It's like I'm instantly yanked back in time, back into the darkness and back into the grey clutches of addiction. Yeah, it's her. I grit my teeth as I stand, taking maybe a moment longer than normal before I steel myself and turn around to face the woman I'd hoped I'd never see again; “Hello, Sasha,” I say icily, hating the smirk in her eyes and the familiarity of her face.
She looks healthier, I’ll give her that. It’s amazing what not injecting chemicals into your veins or shoving them up your nose will do to your skin and general health and well-being. From the looks of things, she’s probably clean, which is certainly something.
But she’s still got the same jet-black hair, the same dark eyes like twin black-holes dragging in the light and warmth from a room. She’s still pale, still vaguely vampiric looking, which is sort of right on the money considering the bloodsucker she is. She’s still got that crafty, cold smirk on her face, like she’s sizing-up prey, or looking for a weakness, or chink in the armor with any and every social encounter.
There’s a coldness that seeps into me, seeing her like this. It’s not a comforting familiarity that her presence brings, it’s all the dark parts of my life from way back then; back when I was another man in another time. Sasha is a ghost from a time in my life that I just want to keep in shadow. She's like the remnants of a bad dream that you get another passing glimpse of in your memory, weeks later.
It's not what I can tell Peyton thinks it was from the look on her face, even if I am getting a guilty twinge of satisfaction letting her think that. But that’s not what Sasha and I were. Heroin does lots of things for you. A libido is not one of them. Ours was - fuck, I don't know; an arrangement of convenience?
But whatever you want to call it, that woman had me in her fucking clutches, and I hate her for it.
“What's your angle here, Sasha.” My voice is leaden and cold, almost as if being near this haunting from my past has me right back to the empty nothingness of heroin addiction all over again.
“Oh calm down, tough guy,” Sasha says with far too much familiarity in her voice as she laughs obnoxiously and dismisses me with a wave of her hand that has me bristling. My eyes dart to Peyton, and the icy grip on my chest tightens as I see the recognition written large across her face, her eyes narrowed as she follows the back and forth between Sasha and myself.
Fuck; this plan sucks already.
“I'm here to help, Bryce; nothing more.” She smiles at me, as if we're old buddies; “You look well, by the way.”
“I'm clean.”
“Me too.”
“Wonderful,” I say shortly, my voice tight.
“So, you two apparently know each other,” Peyton says with the most fake, most insincere smile in the world on her face as she darts her eyes between the two of us.
“Oh, dear, Bryce and I go way back, you know.” Sasha is giving Peyton the fake smile right back, and I'm slowly shaking my head over her shoulder as I lock eyes with Peyton.
“Super. So where's my brother?”
Tact; Jesus Christ, Peyton.
Sasha laughs; a cold, jagged sound; “Jumpy, are we?”
“Let’s just get to it, Sasha.”