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It was more just simple fear that this might all end badly if I put my heart on the line. But like a man who's nearly been killed, there wasn't a damn whole lot I could do about it.Yup. I was definitely falling in love, and in spite of everything that might go horribly wrong with it, it felt awesome.I lifted a pad of paper from the table on her bedside. She had written on it in swirly little girlish writing:Anthony Mitchell.If this wasn't real love, I wouldn't be so scared.???!!!???!!!???It was short and simple, but it said it all. I lifted the pen from the table and I turned the page over. I wrote a poem:Girl on a BedA clear and shining Jewelon the petal of a pure peach-colored flower, drifting precariously on an uncertain streamabove the sparkling ripplesthat carry her courageously to unknown ends -She loves me...The depth below is scary though.One slip and she could fall under, lost, beyond my reach forever, leaving an empty petal, drifting down the stream alone -She loves me. He stood out in the room like a sore thumb. The other guy was the poster child for a Russian gangster. With the way everyone in the room looked at him when I walked in, he was also clearly in charge.“So you are this cowboy little Renata has had so much to say about,” he said in accented, but completely fluent English.Before responding I looked into his eyes, trying to evaluate the man. The easy, confident way he talked spoke of intelligence and came across as almost friendly. His eyes, however, were straight sociopath.“I don’t know, I never liked horses much.”“Ha,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, horses. You are a funny man, Mr. Taylor. May I call you John?”“Seeing as how I am standing here in handcuffs,” I said looking briefly at my manacled wrists, “you could call me ‘Mary, ‘ and there wouldn’t be much I could do about it.”One thing I had learned from my time in the desert is that, even being at someone’s mercy; you had to keep a hard front. If you acted like.
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