wrong with this picture. I frown. "Your shoes," I say, "what happened to them?"
"Got stolen." He raises his shoulders, "Shit happens." He scratches his jaw—which is cleanshaven? That's what it is. I glance down at his feet again. His toenails are clean and cut short, so I hadn't been mistaken. This guy is finicky about his grooming.
"Take mine." I reach for my shoe, tug it off and offer it to him.
He eyes it warily, then takes it from me and slips it on. "Imagine that; it fits." He chuckles.
I slip off the other one; he shoves his other foot into it.
The shoes do look good on him, actually. I tilt my head, stare up into his features. His eyes are clear...a glitter of intelligence in their depths.
"What happened to you?" he asks.
I frown, "What do you mean?"
He points at my middle finger in its splint.
"That?" I crack my neck, "Someone ran me off the road."
"The world's a dangerous place." He nods. "Gotta take care of what's yours."
I nod. "You're onto something there."
"Thanks for the shoes." He shakes his head and the bells at the end of his Santa hat jingle. "Merry Christmas."
"Sure. Whatfuckingever, man."
I rise to my feet. A man jostles my shoulder as he passes.
"The fuck?" I turn to watch him hurry into her apartment block. I frown. Clearly, this isn't my day. I turn to leave.
"You've got to see what's in front of your eyes," Homeless Guy calls after me.
I pause.
"When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years," his voice fills the space.
I turn on him.
He holds my gaze.
"Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this," he recites.
"What the fuck was that about?" I growl.
"Byron." He blinks.
My heartbeat ratchets up, "Who the fuck are you talking about?"
"Lord Byron, the poet," he replies. "Who did you think it was?"
I shake my head. Of course, it was the poet. This fucker has no connection to the Byron that the Seven had identified as the head of the Mafia... The ones responsible for kidnapping us and changing our fucking lives. Does he?
"Don’t delay." He turns to stare up at the apartment block.
I follow his gaze to the window on the first floor, her apartment. A man's shoulders fill the space.
"The fuck?" I straighten, stare at the window. There's no one there. I didn't imagine that. I didn't.
Had she replaced me that quickly? I'd barely left and she'd found someone else to take my place? Someone else to bring her to orgasm, to hold her when she shatters, someone else to gaze into those baby blues of hers and declare his love for her as he holds her in his arms? "How dare she?" I stalk forward, retrace my steps to the apartment block.
48
Amelie
What the hell had happened? One second, he'd been tickling me and we'd been laughing together. The next, he'd rolled off me, off my bed, headed out of the apartment—and what the hell was that whole thing about not having a future together? Did he mean it? That that... Dumbass fruitcake. That... Mother-trifle... Argh! I can't even get my insults together.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen surveying the remnants of the apple pie—now crumbled all over the dining table. I fold my arms around my waist, over the shirt I'd slipped on, his shirt... Because Mr Alpha dickhead had marched out leaving it behind. I glance out the window. He had to be cold with that bare chest of his exposed to the elements. No doubt, every woman who passed him would ogle him. No doubt, he'd indulge them too and preen.
I curl my fingers into fists and my fingernails dig into my palms. The hell is wrong with me? Why do I already miss him? Do I want to see him again? Why the hell do I want to spend time with a man who is an obnoxious, full-of-himself prat of the highest order. I lean forward, scoop up a crumb of the apple pie. I suck on my finger and the familiar taste of sweet and savory fills my mouth, interspersed with that edgy, darkness that is him. I stare at my wet finger—
That's what it is. He is the contrast to my forced self-confidence. I mean, I can try to pretend to the world that I have it all under control. I can live by the “fake it 'til I make it” motto, which I had embraced as my own so long ago— Except, I could