Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

the time I’ve know her, I’ve gotten snatches of what Annie would be like as a friend. Little moments here and there where we weren’t fighting, where we really connected.

Talking on the roof of Paul’s Boutique, the old office in Venice Beach, after the whole Jake thing blew over.

Inviting me for dinner at her mom’s house, which happened before the big quake. When Paul was still alive. She tried to pretend like her mom was making her do it, but you could tell she was kind of excited.

Singing the goddamn A-Team theme song in the van with me as we drove to one of our missions.

The links she’d send me on WhatsApp a couple of times a week. Cool songs and videos from hip-hop artists. Never any commentary, never a Hey, saw this and thought of u… but a steady stream of links nonetheless. Like the one time I talked about how awesome Benny the Butcher was, and she somehow found this old, super-rare pre-Griselda freestyle from like 2005. Sent it to me out of the blue. Shrugged when I thanked her, like it was no big thing.

Her surprised smile when I made the team chocolate brownies. Her sincere nod of thanks, mouth full, as she worked her way through two or three of the things, one after the other.

No. I am not doing this to myself. Those little moments are like brief snatches of sun behind dark clouds. They don’t make up for the unrelenting, endless wave of shit she’s sent my way. The anger, the contempt, the disgust. Maybe we could have been closer, but she pissed it all away. And for what?

So yeah. I’m going to leave. Right now.

But I don’t.

For a long minute, I just stand there, looking down at her.

Then I take her still hand in both of mine.

“I don’t want you to go,” I whisper, soft as a prayer. “Please. Stay with me.”

If the powers behind the universe had any sense of justice, this is where Annie would open her eyes. Say my name. This is where she’d squeeze my fingers in hers.

Instead, there’s only silence. Her hand, unmoving, under my own.

After a minute, I let it go. I sit back down in the worn chair in the corner, put my elbows on my knees, drop my head between them.

The door to the suite opens. One of the nurses maybe, or a doctor – and they’re probably going to give me shit again for being here. Well, that’s fine. Maybe it really is time to go.

I lift my head, and the Zigzag Man is right in front of me.

Standing in the doorway. Silhouetted by the bright lights in the corridor.

I blink. It can’t be him. There’s no way. He’d never just walk in here. It would be Jonas stepping through the door, or Carlos, or…

But there’s none of the same dreamlike feeling from before. No sense of unreality. Just this man, standing before me. Same leather jacket. Same heavy black boots. Same wild beard and insane, staring eyes.

Turns out, I do have a little PK left.

There’s a tray of surgical instruments against the wall. Scalpels. Scissors. Forceps. I snap them into the air in front of me, business ends pointed right at the Zigzag Man.

“Where’s Leo?” I say, through gritted teeth.

He smiles at me. He’s not wearing his bandanna any more—for the first time, I can see his whole face. And a little radar pings in the back of my mind starts to send a signal.

I ignore it. “I’m gonna count to three. Then all of this –” I gesture at the very sharp pieces of metal in the air between us “– is going right in your fucking eyeballs. One. Two.”

But I’m doing more than counting.

I’m seeing.

This whole time, I never really got a good look at the Zigzag Man. It was always in the heat of the action, masked by the insane visions he planted in my head. This is the first time I’m actually getting to look at him properly. And as I do so, my mind is making connections, putting together pieces of the puzzle.

I know this person as Harry. A scruffy, silent homeless guy who used to hang around my old apartment in Leimert Park. He never said a word to me, always kept his distance. He was a fixture on the street, a local figure, but one I didn’t pay much attention to.

But I’m looking past that now. And it’s not Harry I’m seeing.

My ability has evolved over time. I’ve gotten stronger. I’ve gained the ability to manipulate organic objects, not just inorganic ones. If my ability has evolved, then it makes sense that others’ abilities would work the same way.

The Zigzag Man has the ability to make you see things. He has the ability to make you… dream. The kind of ability that might have evolved from… from…

From someone whose ability was to never require sleep.

I’m fighting it, even as my lips form the word Three. I’m reaching. It doesn’t make sense. It’s a logical leap too far, my exhausted brain jumping to conclusions and—

—and I’m looking into the eyes of the Zigzag Man, and I’m seeing Adam.

My brother.

Harry. The Zigzag Man. My brother. They’re the same person. This whole time, all these years, and he was right in front of me.

My words fade. Choked off. I can’t speak.

A woman steps out from behind the Zigzag Man. She’s older, with a look in her eyes that speaks of hard miles and tough journeys, but there’s no question. It’s a face that looked back at me from atop her horse as we rode through the Wyoming wilderness. A face that I’d see when we hung out in her room, listening to music and reading magazines. A face that could turn cold and dark in a nanosecond if its owner was unhappy with me. A face that I thought I’d never see again.

The face of someone who should be dead.

My sister.

My real sister.

The surgical instruments clatter to the ground.