Reaper by Katrina Monroe Page A

found out,
though, and put a stop to it. I was devastated. She didn’t even try
to see me. I felt that, without her, my life was meaningless and
I—”
    Cora paused to rub her sleeve across her
nose.
    “I met Bard shortly after that. He was my
reaper.”
    “I’m sorry,” Oz said.
    “I hardly remember the pain.”
    Oz grimaced.
    “So if you determine sexual orientation based
on who I’ve been involved with, then sure, I suppose you could say
I’m a lesbian by default.”
    “I’m sorry,” Oz said, again. It hurt to try
to think of anything else to say.
    Cora patted his knee. “Me too.”
    “I don’t think I can do this.”
    “I know. But I don’t think you have a
choice.”
    “I was afraid of that.”
    “It’ll be okay. Promise.”
    Oz wanted to believe her. She was kind and
beautiful, so he should. But he felt like nothing would ever be
okay again.
     

 
    Chapter
Eight
     
    He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. The
cold wetness stabbed his nasal passages and forced itself down his
esophagus, deathly near his lungs. He flailed—he reached—
    Oz shot up in bed, soaked and gagging.
    “Rise and shine, Princess.” Bard held a
bucket aloft and shook. Water sloshed inside. “Need a second
dose?”
    “The hell is your problem?”
    Oz wiped his face with his hands. He and his
pathetic little bed were drenched.
    “We’ve got a pick up,” Bard said.
    “I gathered that. Is this going to be a daily
thing?”
    “The worst is death, and death will have his
day. Out of bed and downstairs in two minutes, Princess.” Bard
tossed the remaining water over Oz’s head and strode from the
room.
    Oz sat in his sogginess, momentarily and
crazily thankful for someone to despise other than himself. And
glad that Bard hadn’t brought up Mark. He didn’t want to relive
it.
    Mark’s death struck him on a deep level, not
only because he’d been his best, really his only, friend, but
because he’d died in a way that Oz designed. And Jamie. He still
couldn’t believe that Mark had a son. A son who wasn’t a complete
twit. Oz had so much he could share with him about Mark, but he
wasn’t sure that Jamie would want to hear anything from him. And on
top of that, Oz was responsible for Jamie. He must have been crazy
to agree to it, but what choice did he have? The rollercoaster of
emotion from guilt to anger to pity had Oz reeling.
    Bard waited on the sidewalk while Oz dried
himself, changed into the clothes from yesterday, still wearing his
damp boxers because he had no others, and left the apartment.
    “I need clothes,” Oz said.
    “You have clothes.”
    Bard wore the same jacket, tattered slacks
and shirt he’d worn the day they met. Oz would ask Cora the next
time he saw her. Of the two, she seemed the only one with a sense
of humanity.
    After an hour of walking along the highway,
away from downtown, Oz asked where they were going. His feet burned
and he could feel angry blisters forming at his heels.
    “Airport,” Bard replied.
    If Oz remembered correctly, the airport was
at least a forty-five minute drive from downtown, which translated
to a two-hour walk, or more.
    “We couldn’t have taken a cab?”
    Bard stopped and gestured to the oncoming
traffic as if to say, Go for it.
    Oz sighed. No cabs would stop, no matter
where they were, because the reapers would always slip the cabby’s
notice; would slip everyone’s notice. This whole unnoticeable thing
was becoming less and less impressive.
    And so they walked.
    * * *
    The Tampa International Airport arrival
terminal crawled with people. Husbands hugged pillars, clutching
bunches of grocery store roses. Kids tugged on their parents’ legs
anticipating the arrival of grandparents. Line-weary travelers
bonded over the pain-in-the-ass security protocol. Oz tried not to
look at them.
    The reapers breezed past a pair of TSA agents
through the exit gates marked, ‘Do Not Enter.’
    A legion of baggage-less people stood at the
end of the main concourse,