Starbursts and Assassins (John Wick)

Chapter six: Crazy Bitches and Dead Davids

When I wake up, the crogginess makes me slow. I briefly wonder where I am and remember that I'm in a dirty, off the road motel room with a deadly assassin. I stretch out under the covers, peering across the dark room.

There's a slimmer of grey light streaming in from the crack in the purple curtains. The bed beside mine is empty, well made, as if no one slept in it at all. There's light under the bathroom door, the sound of a shower running echoing behind the walls.

If John Wick is washing his hair with my Herbal Essence shampoo, I'm going to murder him, no matter how long that takes.

The clock beside the bed says six in the morning, and I groan internally. When John had said early, I didn't think he meant the wee hours of early morning.

I bring the covers over my head, curling into a ball to keep my toes from freezing. I'm comfortable but not as comfortable as my bed back home. The thought of home – the smells of my mom's perfume and my dad's favorite coffee, the perpetual warmth beside the upstairs bathroom, the creaking floors in my brother's room – makes a ball lodge deep in my throat. Tears rise in my eyes and I close them to avoid sobbing, to avoid John walking in on me curled like a fetus and crying like a pussy.

I hear the door to the bathroom open. He's quiet because I don't hear him step out. I slowly peek one eye out from under the covers, keeping the foul-smelling duvet close to my face. My eyes widen when I see John, standing with nothing but a towel hanging on his hips by the desk, sorting through his gear bag. He's dry, but he's basically on display for me and it would be a crime not to stare.

He has a back tattoo. A huge cross with clasping hands, light seeping from the cracks in the fingers. Above, across the broad and strong planes of his shoulders, reads Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat. I frown. From my time as a literature student, being flexed on by university teachers who knew Latin, what John Wick has written across his back means fortune favors the bold. Or brave. Depending on how you want the sentence to sound.

I make a mental note to somehow Google where that comes from, or maybe John had tattooed his back as a teenager. Or maybe it meant something else, something more.

I stare at his shoulder blades while he rummages through the bag. His triceps are bold, strong as he uses one hand to hold up the towel. His hair is wet, hanging in raven locks before his eyes, his usual gelled look switched for this more rustic, straight-out-the-shower vibe.

I can't help but bite the inside of my cheek.

He holds a jar of hair gel from his bag, then turns and stalks back for the shower. I don't move. Afraid he'll see me. I'm like a deer caught in headlights; eyes round, fingers clutching the duvet, breath caught in my throat.

I think I'm safe when he doesn't even look at me, but then his voice, gruff and scratchy from sleep, sounds loud in the room. "You should get dressed. We're leaving soon."

Then he slams the door shut behind him.

My heart is beating twice its normal speed. Of course, he knew I was awake. This guy is a trained hitman. He probably knew I was awake when he was still in the shower.

I groan again, hiding my flaming cheeks under the covers. "Not a big deal," I mutter to myself. "Doesn't mean anything."

I do as John says. I get out and brush my hair with my fingers, tying it in a braid. I put my socks on and curl my lip at spending the day in the same clothes I slept in while John took a shower.

When he gets out of the bathroom, he's dressed in full assassin regalia, topped off with his signature gelled back hair. He doesn't look at me and I can't figure out if it has affected him too; that I stared at him while he was practically naked.