TWISTED ꜜ LOUIS PARTRIDGE

⟾ 15 | RED-EYE

LOUIS🗡

Friday, 11:54pm

_

SHE STILL HATES ME.

It's not even a question, because I can see the distaste in her expression whenever she looks my way, and I can hear the annoyed tone in her voice when she speaks to me. She's still mad, and we're supposed to be 'working together'.

We're proving to be dysfunctional already.

"Shut up," she'd tell me.

When I opened my mouth to say something, she'd cut me off.

"Shut up," she'd say again.

I'd narrow my eyes. "Why?"

"Because I'm pissed at you for nearly getting me killed," she'd scoff, "and it's already terrible that I have to drag you along to help me find my parents, so try not to make it worse by speaking."

It was obvious that attempting to defend myself was out of the question. She was right—I did nearly get her killed, because I was the one who helped put her in that cell, and I was also the one who let a double-agent fool me and the agency for four years. I felt like an utter fool.

But I'm not an utter fool, so get that idea out of your head. I was simply using it as a temporary example to my current state of emotions.

Considering we had to see her parents—for whatever crazy reason that may be—we had to figure out a way to get all the way from Europe to the carribean (which by the looks of it, would take an 8 hour flight). She didn't have a passport, we didn't have money for a plane ticket, and we couldn't risk getting spotted by an SIS or Ember scouting the area for us.

We were both 'criminals' on the run.

Although, I am not the criminal, bear in mind, that's her job.

Speaking of her, I was relying heavily on the success of her plan. She dragged me out of my hiding place in Winchester with nothing but the clothes on my back (which was all I really had to begin with), and was now leading me to an airport in Southampton where we'd illegally board a plane and smuggle ourselves out of the country.

"While you were sitting on your bum all week," she said, handing me the lighter from her pocket as she tied her hair back, "I was actually getting something done."

I frowned. "I was not sitting on my bum."

"It was an expression, Partridge."

"I know it's an expression."

"Then why did you take it so literally?" She scoffed, "I was simply stating that while you were eating beans in a sad, little cottage, I was here in Southampton, actually doing something productive."

I gave her a pointed glare. "Productive?"

"Yes, and that's why I know how we're going to get to Barbados," she nodded, snatching her lighter back, "try to catch up, will you?"

Sometimes I wanted to remove that smug grin off of her face, but I don't think I'd be able to reach her with all the hate that separated us. She was the most insufferable person I've ever met, and I've killed and captured people far worse than her.

But, I digress, I can complain about her later. We have to break into an airport at the present moment.

"There's always two workers who leave out the back entrance on their breaks," she told me, walking down the pavement, "I've decided that we can take their uniforms and clearance tags to get inside."