The screen of the text message dims, my fingertips hovering above the burner phone.

                I'M SAFE, DON'T WORRY. 

                But I can't send that to her—telling her I'm safe is like saying, I'm not suspicious. Too obvious. 

                I delete it, letter by letter, and type out, I LOVE YOU. 

                Except that sounds like a goodbye text—as though I am about to be murdered.

                And under any other circumstances, the thought would be laughable. 

               But now that I have stared a Yakuza boss in the eyes, seen someone die, and had a gun trained to my temple—I guess maybe murder doesn't seem so impossible.

               "Are you ready to go?"

               My head snaps up—Veah.

               Her glittering black eyes soften. Her dark brown hair is unpinned from its messy twist, and I like the way it falls over her shoulders, luscious and glossy. What would it feel like, to run my fingers through it?

               Don't even think about it. 

               I only kissed her once. An hour ago.

              Maybe she's forgotten by now.

              Did she get a concussion between now and the time when you kissed the life out of her? 

              Well, no. But it's possible.

              Even still, her eyes on me makes my cheeks burn—a blush. A ridiculous, infuriating blush is warming my face. 

             "A game," I say suddenly. She is driving. I don't know where we're going. "Let's play a game."

             After she stole a car from the airport parking lot, she opened the car door from me. I had only stared at her, surprised. I've never even had a boyfriend who went that far.

             We were just chased by gun-toting Mafia hooligans, and you're opening the door for me? 

             She had paused. Hooligans?

            That's what you're focusing on?

            I'm a gentleman. What can I say?

            I shouldn't have blushed then, and I shouldn't blush now.

            "I'm just . . . trying to figure out what to say to my sister."

            "Cassie," she acknowledges, and it shouldn't make my stupid, stupid heart skip a beat that she remembered.

             I stare down at the screen. I LOVE YOU is still waiting.

             Letter by letter, I delete it.

             HOW IS IT GOING? 

              Sometimes, I worry—now that I'm gone, now that I'm not there to protect her . . . how is she? 

              Is my stepfather the same abusive asshole as before?

              And then I shake myself—a chuckle that is almost hysterical. Of course he is. 

              Cassie is not okay yet. Cassie won't be okay until she has her scholarship.

              Except, for that, she needs money.

              "Will they keep looking for me?" I finally ask, dreading the answer. Knowing what she will say, even before she nods grimly.

              They knew my name. They knew my history.

              Why did they want me? 

              "A game," Veah says, repeating what I said minutes ago. Surprising me. "What game did you have in mind?"

              Distraction—she's giving me a distraction.

              "How about . . ." I pause. "It's a game Cassie and I made up. I ask a question, any question, and you have to answer honestly. You can only pass three times before you're out."

              "Who starts?"

              I look down at the burner phone.

              HOW IS IT GOING?
              -K

             She'll know it's me. There's nothing suspicious about that, is there? 

             Santa Monica University won't have contacted my parents. I'm an adult now—I handle everything. But all that tuition money, going to waste . . . it makes my head spin.

             "Did you say something?" I ask.

             Veah's eyes flicker to mine. Her hands on the steering wheel, a faint breeze fluttering her dark hair . . . I could almost pretend it is a summer day in California.

            My girlfriend and I. Cruising down the West Coast. Playing an excitingly ordinary game.

            "I asked who starts," Veah says. 

            "You can," I say, distracted as I press send. "If you want."

            "Okay . . . what's your favourite season?"

           I snort. "That's what you asked? Why would I pass that one?"

           "I'm not trying to get you to pass. I just want to . . . know you better."

           I am so grateful her eyes are on the road, because the blush that heats my cheeks should be illegal. Does she have any idea what she's doing to me? 

           "Summer," I say. "My turn."

           Veah makes a thoughtful sound. A hum.

          "Why are you being chased?"

          "And that's what you ask me?" Her expressions morphs into a dark scowl. "You know I can't—"

          "Tell me?" I say sweetly. "Why not?"

          "It would put you in danger."

          "More danger than the Yakuza boss knowing my name and wanting me to work for him?"

          "Pass," she says through clenched teeth. Her jaw looks sharp enough to cut.

           "Are you sure? You only get three—"

           "I'm sure," she grits out. "How about . . . why were you dressed in a slutty pumpkin costume?"

            Easy. "Because Lindsay, my roommate, forced me to."

           "How did you even make a pumpkin costume slutty?"

           "Sorry, one question per round." I laugh at her scowling expression. "Why did you run away from the Yakuza?"

           Veah's storm-cloud eyes swirl with thunder. "Kaya," she warns. "You know I—"

          "Can't tell me? How much more danger is it possible to be in?"

          "Pass. Why did you run away from me?" 

           Shit. I clear my throat. This game requires honesty and I . . . I don't know how she'll take this one.

           "Because I blamed you for the whole thing. I didn't want to be on the run. And I had to get back to Cassie, because . . ." No, I can't tell her. "I just figured maybe, if I slipped away, it would all stop. No more gun-carrying hooligans."

            At the word hooligans, I see the faintest smile curve her soft mouth.

           "I'm sorry," I add suddenly, startling even myself. "And . . . thank you. For protecting me this whole time. I'd probably be dead if I didn't have you."

            "If you died, it'd probably be because of me."

            She isn't laughing anymore, but gently, I say, "I don't blame you. I mean, actually, I kind of do. But . . . I don't hold it against you."

            "Thanks for that logic."

            "No problem," I say, unable to wrestle the grin off my face.

            Veah's eyes glaze with the midday rays of sunlight, reflecting the outskirts of the Santa Monica city. "Your turn." 

            "How did you know Imai, that Yakuza boss? And everyone else there?"

            Veah hesitates. Three passes and you're out. 

            My breath is held. Waiting. Is she going to play by the rules?

            Tension unfurls like a rose, petals blooming with stark silence.

            If I win now, it is because she forfeited. Because she is giving up.

            But then she opens her mouth. Her fingers tightening on the leather of the steering wheel.

            "I know Imai and Enji and the rest of them because I used to work with them." She draws a breath, her lightning eyes still fixed on the road ahead. Reluctantly, she says, "They used to work for me."

             Which means . . . which means . . . 

             Before I can come to the conclusion, Veah says it for me.

             "I was the Yakuza boss."

>>>

I mean, no wonder she can beat all their asses up.

From the moon and back,
Sarai