Did that not imply the same for him? That he would be here Every. Fucking. Night?
I slam a coffee cup down on his glossy black counter and pour a full cup. Yeah, that’s right, coffee. Not tea. Tea is not the answer to all of life’s problems. Sometimes dark, bitter as fuck, American-style coffee is the answer.
I glare at the door as I take a defiant sip, then wince. I actually don’t like black coffee. I’m more of cream and two sugars gal.
“Fucking tailored-suit-wearing Brit, making me drink black coffee,” I mutter, grabbing the sugar and cream. A blob of cream lands on the counter. I ignore it. Ha. I can imagine his sneer upon seeing it.
Unfortunately, petty, pathetic victories aren’t very satisfying.
I’m clutching my mug and curled up on one of the armchairs when he texts me. Apparently, I’ve lost all shame because I leap for the phone.
His message is a kick to the chest.
Sunshine: I’m away on business for a few days. Have already notified others. See you in Rome. Play nice with my boys.
A few days? He’s already told everyone else?
It’s embarrassing how disappointed I am. How…hurt.
This isn’t good. He’s doing his job, and I’m ready to stomp my foot like a disgruntled child.
Biting my lip, I answer him.
Me: I’m throwing a party in your coach with the band while you’re gone.
So clearly, being petty is not out of the picture yet.
There isn’t even a pause before he answers.
Sunshine: Good. You shouldn’t be alone. Have Jules charge everything to me. Or find the black credit card I have tucked in my sock drawer.
That…that… My teeth snap together. I can’t think of a bad word to call him. Paying for my party as if he’s my dad or something. Off you go, Sophie. Behave now while I’m away. But he’s being nice. Great gravy, he’s actually agreeing to let people into his bus. Or is he calling my bluff?
Fine. I tap out. But I’m not going in your sock drawer. I might get the colors out of order and then where would you be?
The implacable jerk responds easily.
Sunshine: Reorganizing my socks. Have the party, chatty girl. It will be good for you. See you in a few days.
So that’s that. He’s left.
I need to nip this clingy feeling right in the bud. Setting my phone aside, I finish up my coffee and go to get dressed. I’m not going to mope around anymore. I’ve a party to plan.
* * *
Gabriel
* * *
An elbow catches me on the cheekbone. The pain is white, exploding like a camera flash behind my lids. It crackles through me, rings in my ears. A kick to my side has me staggering back.
Jeers and shouts surround me, a blur of screaming faces. This I know. This joy of violence and greed, fed to me since childhood like milk and buttered toast.
Another punch flies. I dance away, and it misses me. I block a kick with my knee. Pull it together. Focus.
My opponent is hardened, likely fighting nightly. In my youth, I was better than him, but I’m now softened by a comfortable life. Yet I know how much I can handle. I can wear him down, wait for him to tire. But I’ll have to take a beating.
Bruises I can hide. Open cuts and split lips are another issue. This is my second night of fighting. I’m already battered. If I get cut up any worse, I’ll have to stay away from Sophie for too long.
Sophie. Sophie elbowed in the face. Twice.
Rage pulses hot, pushes through me.
Hold it.
Another punch flies, grazing the edge of my jaw. Were this a professional fight, I’d already be knocked out. But we’re amateur entertainment, fighting each other in a pristine, white living room—marble floors, wall-to-wall windows overlooking the harbor—as rich, bored people watch.
It is perverse. Stinks of privilege. Blood splatters stark against white leather walls.
I don’t give a shit about them. All I need is the pain.
The man before me is a Spaniard, long and lean and fast. My mind morphs his appearance. He’s a cameraman, stocky and bloated, and hitting Sophie.
I promised I wouldn’t retaliate. She made me promise not to hurt him.
I won’t. But this man here? He wants the fight.
All the rage, all the helpless fucking frustration builds, growing tighter, stronger. Anger goes cold and silent.
My fist connects with fleshy meat and bone. That’s another kind of pain, a bright, clean release.
Again, again. Controlled hits. Punch to face, knee to kidneys, elbow to jaw.
Sweaty, hot skin, metallic blood. Solid flesh giving under my knuckles. I revel in it.
There is a point in fighting at which you are no longer a man. You become a machine. No more thinking, just reacting, giving yourself up to muscle memory and technique.
We grapple, locking up and breaking away. He stumbles back before charging.
A roundhouse kick, taking him on the jaw, ends the fight.
My opponent falls back and hits the floor with a slap.
He remains down, chest heaving, head lolling.