But I was fine. Fucking perfect. Except for bugging Jer to give me problems to solve and being at the fight club on a daily basis, everything else was awesome.
I don’t deal with complications, so removing the major complication from my life was the most logical decision I’d ever made. I was proud of myself for making that choice. For extracting the tumor that was growing inside me. I no longer had to deal with his grouchy presence, his push-and-pull games, and his stupid mixed signals.
There was just his pesky fucking ghost that followed me everywhere and wouldn’t leave me alone, but I was handling it.
I was fucking okay.
Until he sent me that goddamn text.
Just like that, the thin layer of ice I’d surrounded myself with melted away.
The asshole was right. I can’t stay away from him.
I can force myself away, I can try to be the very thing I’m not—logical—but then I’ll stalk him on social media and sometimes in real life.
From the shadows, like a motherfucking creep.
Now is one of those times.
I lean against my Harley, arms crossed and helmet on. I’m even wearing a leather jacket to be anonymous.
My gaze is on an NGO’s building. This is his favorite charity—the one that organizes marathons and performs volunteer work around the island.
Naturally, Bran is one of their top volunteers since he has that kink for running.
What I love about this building is that the windows are large and I can see what’s going on inside, even if I’m across the street pretending to be having coffee. I haven’t touched the cup since I bought it, considering the helmet and all.
My eyes track Bran’s movements as he carries some chairs to the other side of a giant hall and smiles at something his colleague, a rosy-cheeked curvy brunette, says.
It’s his golden-boy smile, not exactly fake, but it’s not genuine, either. He’s mostly polite as he listens to her blabbering on and on like a fucking chatterbox.
He better stop smiling at her or she’ll do a fast climb to the top of my shit list.
Would she stop fucking talking already?
I need to chill for one second, because we’re not even together anymore.
Not that we were before.
He says something to his male colleague, and I also think about ways to make him die in his sleep, but the guy is not the problem. He mostly seems to engage in the conversation politely like most British people do.
The brunette, however, keeps following Bran from one end of the room to the other, buzzing around him like an annoying fucking bee.
She’s obviously flirting—her eyes are droopy and she keeps twirling her hair and giggling like a fucking schoolgirl. Bran’s body language never changes, though. He’s smiling, yes, but he’s in complete control of the situation.
I know exactly what he looks like when he’s interested, and the girl isn’t getting anything. Not a flaring of his nostrils, a bobbing of his Adam’s apple, or even continuous eye contact.
Either he’s too oblivious to her attempts at catching his attention or he doesn’t care.
Now, it’d be interesting if it was the second option—
She places her hand on his arm and I narrow my eyes. If she doesn’t remove it, that hand will be broken into fucking pieces.
We need to rectify this situation.
I pull out my phone and stare at the text he sent me after the last time I saw him in the Elites’ mansion basement.
Bran
I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out before everything that happened. I’m also really sorry about what my family did. I wish I could’ve stopped it.
Are you okay?
I know you don’t want to talk to me, but can you please tell me if you’re doing okay?
?
I ignored him.
If he really wanted to check on me, he should’ve gotten his ass to the hospital.
Not that I’m salty about that or anything.
Now, I type.
Me
What the fuck is up with your ‘friendship’ with Mia?
He’s still exchanging pleasantries with the girl as he takes out his phone from his pocket. His smile disappears upon looking at the screen and I take pride in how he looks a bit distraught at receiving a text from me.
There are more emotions in his face now than in the past hour. And yes, I’ve been here for that long.
Call it an unhealthy fucking obsession.
He distances himself from the girl—in your face—and leans against a table, ankles crossed, as he continues staring at the screen. He does that for a full fucking minute. I know, because I’m looking at the time.
Finally, my phone lights up.
Bran
We’re just friends. We love gaming.
Dry as the fucking desert.
Bran remains in the same position, watching his phone. From the outside looking in, he seems composed and unaffected, but the fact that he’s waiting is a sign of his messed-up equilibrium.
Me
You want me to believe that?
Bran
Why wouldn’t you?
The fact that you suspiciously became friends with MY sister? How do I know you won’t use her to get revenge against me or as your fucked-up version of camouflage like you did with Clara?
He glares at his phone and I can see the fire spreading from his eyes in waves.
Bran
I won’t do that. Mia is really just a friend. Besides, why would I want revenge against you? We’re already over, aren’t we?
As I read his text, I watch him pulling at the hairs on his nape, his face tight, his shoulders hunched.
And the scene does something to me.
I know I’m falling back into the same pattern that I left—or pretended to. I’m letting him have his way because I can’t fucking stay away from him.
Because ever since I sent him that text, I’ve been thinking about him more than if I were meeting him every day.
Because I haven’t been able to fucking breathe since he disappeared, and now, I watch dumb Agatha Christie episodes because they remind me of him trying to explain the bland characters.
Me
Do you want it to be over?
He stares at the phone, lips parting, and the incessant pulling at his hair comes to an abrupt halt.
Bran
What is that supposed to mean? You’re the one who told me we’re done.
Me
But you never told me what you want.
Don’t fuck with me, Nikolai.
You’re the one who fucked with me first. You texted me and were talking big on the phone and even came to save me. Maybe you’re the one who can’t stay away from me.
You’re right. I can’t. I tried and it’s not working.
My jaw hits the floor as I read and reread his text to make sure this isn’t another one of my delusional episodes.
Fuck. I can’t believe he admitted that out loud.
Through text. But it still counts.
Me
Does that mean you’re miserable?
Bran
Are you enjoying this?
Maybe. Gotta up my asshole game so I can match your energy.
Rub it in, would you?
Oh, I will. You can count on it.
Are you okay? Glyn said you were, but I want to hear it from you.
Meet me in the penthouse and I’ll tell you.
When?
Now.