Heaven's Crime (gxg) ✓

five. stupid with a K

                  "You're bleeding." It's quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I could point out. Because, of course, she knows she's bleeding.

                   But she doesn't act like she knows she has a bullet wound. And I am thinking that perhaps I should inform her.

                    We sit in a stolen Jeep from my next door neighbours. As Veah leans over, I'm reminded of the blood that is soaking into her leather jacket. The bullet that she took for me, protecting me―when she didn't have to. When it would have been so much easier to just escape on her own. 

                     Veah grimaces, a twist of her beautiful mouth. My eyes flick down unwillingly as she smooths her tongue over the curve of her lower lip.

                      I don't think she's going to acknowledge it―not because she's dismissing what I said, but because if she thinks about it, she'll feel it.

                     Jesus. How can I know that? 

                     She steps on the gas pedal, and this time, I brace myself. I'm ready for when the Jeep takes off in a deafening roar of thunder, the engine growling. The sound reverberates through the seat, buzzing against my legs. Between them. 

                      Blood pumps through me.

                      Hysteria rises inside of me. A tidal wave.

                      The Yakuza shot up my living room. The oldest crime syndicate in Japan is chasing after the girl right next to me. I have no idea what her real name is. Or why they're after her. Or where she's from.

                       Where are we going? I don't even know.

                       This is crazy.

                       "We need to find a place," I say. Numbly. "Somewhere that can break iron. Like―like a blacksmith."

                       "We don't have time," Veah says, glancing at me as we speed past cars down the freeway. "They probably had other men watching us. Likely, they're sending backup. We have precious time to lose them now." 

                        Without warning, she jerks the car into another lane. "Watch this," she says.

                       In the rearview mirror, I see a black car do the same.

                        Shit. She's right.

                        "We're being followed," I say, and she nods swiftly. "Where do we go?"

                         "To the next gas station." Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. A gathering storm. "We ditch the car and steal another one."

                         This is insane. But as long as we're handcuffed, I have no choice.

                         Veah―is that even her real name?―jerks the car into the right lane, scraping against the Ford behind us. Swearing―I hear swearing and the long, drawn-out horn of the car as the driver snarls.

                        "We can't just go around damaging other people's cars!" I don't know why I'm focusing on this. But I need to concentrate on something. Anything.

                       Veah shrugs, but I see the glint of her smirk, even with her eyes on the road.

                      "As a rule, people who drive a Ford Ram 4x4 are assholes."