The Model Spy

Chapter 22 - An Unlikely Ally

The rain fell hard and fast, forming deep puddles along the gutters of the streets. Barely anyone was outside that morning and those who were struggled to hold their umbrellas up against the strong wind and rain. Even the café was nearly empty as the rain pelted the green canopy above the outdoor patio.

I sat at a table for two and looked around. An elderly man in a brown hat pulled tightly over his ears drank his hot mug of coffee while reading a newspaper with damp and wrinkled pages. Three young women were at a table by the café's door, talking quickly in French and wearing fashionable rain boots that kept the water off of their designer jeans. Not even a storm could stop them from their daily cappuccino. Zach, sitting quietly at the adjacent table, caught my eye and nodded. I adjusted the warm scarf around my neck and returned the curt nod.

So he wouldn't be recognized, Zach was in disguise. Perhaps disguise wasn't the right word. Zach's daily fashion choices were probably considered disguises since he usually dressed as if he was a member of the president's secret service. What Zach had on at the café was what any normal boy would probably wear. A polo shirt and jeans made him look like the nineteen years he was instead of the thirty he looked like before. To top it off, he kept the gel out of his hair and let it sweep across his forehead in that fringe only boy band members could pull off. I had to admit, he looked very handsome.

Dylan made his way towards the café. He walked slowly as he struggled to keep a grip on the handle of his umbrella. One of his arms was hanging in a navy sling and resting gently against his chest. A few yards away from the café, he gave up with the umbrella altogether and snapped it closed, allowing the heavy downpour to soak his clothing and hair.

I felt sick as he came nearer. He wasn't Dylan anymore, the same boy who was awkward and charming and cute. He was a murderer and a liar. All of the feelings I had for him erased as quickly as it took him to sit down in front of me, water dripping down his face and neck, weighing down his unusually wrinkled clothing.

Zach slipped on a pair of reading glasses and removed a pocket-sized poetry book from his jacket. The typical French hipster.

"Sorry I'm a little late, love," he said as he leaned across the table and kissed my cheek. I flinched, his kiss burning my skin, his lips dry, and his normally smooth face prickly with the beginnings of red whiskers. His face was pale as he removed his foggy glasses and cleaned them on the hem of his shirt.

"Dylan, you look as if you've seen a ghost," I exclaimed as I watched him rub his glasses again and again against the sopping wet fabric. His hands shook slightly as he repeated the motion over and over.

He jumped as if I had caught him in a despicable act, which wasn't far from the truth. He quickly put his glasses back on. They hung crookedly from the bridge of his nose. "I'm just not feeling well." He used his hand to wipe the water and damp hair from his forehead. He held his head in his palm for a moment before fidgeting with the straps on his sling.

"Oh Dylan," I managed to say, my voice tinted with a feigned concern. "What happened?" I gestured towards his injured arm.

"Sprained it," Dylan answered quickly, saved by the waiter as he approached our table.

The young man gave us each a bored expression as we glanced over the menus, the cold rain blowing underneath the canopy and drenching his white uniform.

I ordered the first drink I saw, Dylan helping me with the French pronunciation. The waiter nearly ripped the menus from our hands.

"Merci," I called after him cheerily. He froze. I saw his shoulders rise as he took a deep breath, probably counting to ten, to stop himself from lashing out with a sarcastically laced retort, all the while the rain causing his white shirt to stick to his body.