He leans forward. Our faces are inches from each other. My simmering fury becomes fucking pyroclastic when he sucks in a deep breath through his nose.
I shove him with both hands. Christ, it’s like trying to topple a marble statue. He leans back from my personal bubble but only because he wants to, not because I made him.
“No, I’m not drunk, you one-word asshole. I haven’t had any alcohol at all.”
He huffs.
“Well? Did you smell any when you were all up in my face sniffing my breath like a fucking psycho?”
That earns me a snort.
“Exactly. So thank you for your totally unnecessary judgments, Budget Batman,” I say as I flick a dismissive hand toward his neoprene unitard, “but I would never drink and drive. I’m not much of a drinker, actually.”
He rumbles what might just be a relieved growl. “Right.”
“And I’ll have you know that I’m an adorable drunk. Not an accident-inducing drunk.”
“Accident,” he grunts, and though it’s only one word, the sarcasm in his tone is undeniable. He gestures around us with the flashlight. “No skid marks.”
I snicker. “Wh … what marks …?”
A frustrated sigh spills from his lips. “Skid. Marks,” he snarls, and I clear my throat in a failed attempt to contain my amusement. “There should be skid marks from where you tried to stop.”
This time I can’t hold it in—I laugh out loud. And even though Budget Batman is wearing a mask, I can feel his flat glare on my skin.
“I know you’ve probably been living under a rock with all your other salamander kin, but it’s from a movie. Hot Fuzz. Skid marks. You know, the one with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost …? Timothy Dalton ends up impaled on the church spire in the miniature village? So funny.”
There’s a long beat of silence.
“Come on. The longest sentence you string together in your whisper-growl Budget Batman impression is about skid marks and you expect me not to laugh?”
“He’s not big on talking,” another voice calls out in the night.
There’s a flash of movement to my right. Before I can even turn, Batman’s arm wraps around my waist, pulling me behind him. My bag drops to the ground and my face smacks into the neoprene-coated brick wall that is Batman’s back.
“Motherfucker—”
“Put the gun down, bro. It’s just me,” the new voice says, interrupting the barrage of expletives I was about to unleash. New guy chuckles and Batman loosens his grip on me. Now that my head has stopped spinning, I make sense of what just happened. As though on instinct, he put himself between me and danger, keeping me out of sight.
I peer around Batman’s shoulder to see another masked man standing a few feet away. His hands are raised in surrender and his stance is nonchalant despite the gun my protector points at his chest.
Mygun.
“You fucker, that’s mine. Give it back.”
Budget Batman scoffs when I tap his bicep as the gun lowers to his side.
“No,” he says, then walks away.
He leaves me in the dark as he approaches the new guy, my bag discarded at my feet, the contents of my unzipped makeup pouch strewn across the asphalt. The two men speak in hushed tones and I catch the occasional sentence as I gather my belongings in the dim light. Tow her vehicle … Body’s in the lake … Was probably on her phone. Just a dumb accident …
A dumb accident.
My cheeks heat beneath the cake of white makeup. The urge to snap back with the truth is so strong it chokes up my throat, but I swallow it down and drop to the ground to gather the contents of my spilled bag, shoving everything inside as I shoot glares toward the two men that they don’t see.
And would it really matter if I set them straight? These guys are professional cleaners. They fix messes for people much more creepy and dangerous than me. I’m sure they’ve seen it all, from legit accidents to torture to everything in between. What harm would it do if they knew the truth?
But it’s a confession I can’t risk getting back to my family. They might not be the squeakiest and cleanest of people, but I have a role to play, and while chaos agent might fit the bill, murderer definitely does not.
So I plaster on a sunshine smile, hoist my bag up my shoulder, and stride over to them.
“I’d hate to interrupt this little budget superhero whisper party, but we should probably get this show on the road, don’t you think? It’s four hours and twenty-two minutes to sunrise,” I say with a flick of my focus to my watch. When I look up, the new guy’s head tilts as though he’s surprised by my quick calculation. Probably justified, given the dubious first impression. When I shift my gaze to Batman, his eyes are a narrow slash behind his mask. But I square my shoulders and raise my chin beneath, armoring myself against his judgment. “Well? The sooner we fix this, the sooner we never see each other again.”
“Works for me, Blunder Barbie,” my wet-suited Dark Knight snaps. I catch the cadence of an accent despite his attempt to hide it, though I can’t place its origin.
“Don’t drown, Budget Batman. What would Rhode Island do without your exemplary customer service skills and your empathetic medical diagnoses?”
The new guy snorts as I cross my arms and engage in a staring contest with Batman that feels about six years long. He finally relents and shoves my holstered gun at his sidekick with strict instructions to not give it to me. Then he turns on his heel with a huff and stalks toward his car to retrieve his scuba gear.
The new guy and I watch in silence as our disgruntled companion checks his tanks, hauls the gear to the shore, exchanges boots for flippers, and descends into the black water.
“I’m Conor,” my new companion says, not taking his eyes from the lake as he extends a hand in my direction.
“Badass Barbie,” I reply, accepting the handshake. “Also known as Harley Quinn, here for one night only.”
“I figured. Cool makeup.”
“Thanks. Not sure your friend would agree. Is he always such a dick?”
“Most of the time. Yes.”
“Great.”
“Usually he’s more of a piss-taking, button-pushing kind of dick. Tonight he’s just more of a dick-dick.”
“Multifaceted in his ability to be a dick. Good to know.”
Conor snickers and passes me the gun, but he holds it until I meet his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Cross my heart.”
“And if anyone gives you trouble, shoot them,” Conor says. I nod and he relinquishes his hold on the weapon. I pull it from his grasp with a slow and careful hand. With a final, assessing look, he turns to stride away down the deserted road.
“What about if it’s your friend who gives me trouble?” I call after him.
“Definitely shoot him. Just aim for the kneecaps. The rest of him might still be useful.”
I smile and slip the gun into my bag before I turn my attention to the lake. I can see the soft glow from a waterproof flashlight beneath the rippling surface. It’s not long before the sound of an engine approaches and a tow truck pulls up to my Escalade. Conor works efficiently to get it hooked up, and as soon as he finishes, he heads to the shore to wait for his companion.
It’s only a few moments after that when a body rises to the surface, followed by my disgruntled Dark Knight.
My heart rate spikes as he spits out his regulator and folds an arm around the corpse to tow it to shore. I find myself fiddling with the strap of my bag as I watch his progress. In this brief meeting, the scrutiny in his eyes has been like a brand on my skin. Even now, though I can’t track his gaze from this distance in the night, I can still feel it carving me up, a slice from an unseen blade.
Why should I care how he looks at me? What he thinks? He knows nothing about me or what this is or why it had to be done. He doesn’t know about the promise I have to keep.
“He’s a fucking stranger,” I tell myself out loud when my thoughts just aren’t enough. “After tonight, you’ll never see him again.”
I take a few steps forward to watch as Conor helps to heave the body ashore while Batman climbs out of the water to ditch his gear on the rocks. When he’s done, they hoist Merrick’s corpse into their arms, Conor grabbing hold of the limp legs while Batman takes the arms. With a few grunts and minor stumbles, they make it to the road, dropping the body at my feet.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of their panting breaths.
The two men watch me. I watch them back. A thick curtain of silence descends. It’s as though they’re waiting for me to break out in a song and dance routine, but I’ve forgotten all the lyrics. I can’t remember this choreography or what I’m supposed to do.
Conor’s head tilts, and the epiphany strikes me in the face.
I press a hand over my heart and gesture toward the body sprawled across the road.
“Oh … my God … that’s so horrible … what have I done …”
More silence. An owl hoots from the shadows of the forest.
“Such a tragedy …” I continue as I dab at my dry eyelashes. “So sad … I will never forgive myself.”
“Feckin’ Christ Jesus,” Batman whisper-growls. “Typical.”
“Excuse me?”
“Typical,” he says again, striding forward to stare down at me. “You’re somebody’s perfect little princess who gives literally no shits about some innocent guy who got caught in your path of destruction.”
The protest I start making about Merrick’s “innocence” is lost as Conor slides a hand across Batman’s chest in an attempt to diffuse him. “Hey man, come on—”
“Always depending on someone to come and clean up your feckin’ messes for you,” Batman continues, growling his way through Conor’s wary protests, his accent surfacing once again. “Sailing through life with barely a mark, no matter who gets in your way.”