Page 30 of Repluse

“Sam?” My name sounds like a question.

“I don’t often get angry,” I tell her. “When I can’t find the remote, Melbourne traffic, rude people… they all piss me off, butI wouldn’t say they make me angry. But every time I catch sight of your bruises, I can barely breathe with the anger seething inside of me.”

“Sam…” This time my name’s almost a whisper. She says it with reverence and tears in her eyes.

“What the fuck’s happening here, Mila? Because I’m fucking lost right now.”

“I don’t know. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. None of this has turned out the way I planned.”

I shake my head because she has no fucking idea, and my biggest fear, as the alarm sounds to let me know the gates are opening, is that I’m about to lose her when I’ve only just found her.

I’m out of time. There was so much I wanted to say before Frankie got here, but we fucked instead, so now… now I have to let him explain, because that’s what I promised, and I’ll deal with the fall out as it unfolds.

We stare at each other. She silently wipes a tear from under her bruised eye. I silently watch, fighting with everything in me not to go to her and kiss those tears away.

Again, what the actual fuck is going on with me?

The PIN pad at the front door bleeps as Frankie enters the code, and I listen to his footfalls as he climbs the stairs up to the kitchen. Our gazes meet the instant he hits the room, but Mila stares back down into her tea.

Despite looking his usual debonair self in a black Armani suit and white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, I know by the stubble on his chin, the set of his jaw, the frantic look in his eyes, and the state of his hair he’s undoubtedly dragged his fingers through a thousand times on the drive here that he’s a mess. He’s been a mess since Mila left on Sunday—probably before then—but I only discovered the state he was in once she left us, and he confessed everything to me.

Frankie pauses in the entryway. We silently converse with a shrug from him, and a head shake from me. He’s carrying a bouquet of roses, with paper and a bow wrapped around them.

My miserable as fuck business partner, who despite his good looks, has most of the girls in our employ running in the opposite direction due to the frown permanently worn on his face and the tight set of that perfect fucking jaw , is carrying a large bouquet of roses, which he obviously had to stop somewhere to buy. I can barely contain my smile at the thought of how awkward that exchange must’ve gone. What I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall of that florist.

Without a word, it takes him just four long strides before he reaches Mila. After placing the flowers down on the bench and moving his hands to either side of her face, he tilts it up towards his.

He saw the photo she sent us this morning, but I know first-hand the shock that seeing her bruises in person elicits.

Like me, he keeps his face neutral, but I don’t miss the tick in his jaw.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says through gritted teeth, and I wonder for a moment if he’s going to cry. I wouldn’t blame him. I wanted to when I first saw her. Now? Now I just want to make some calls and put a contract out on the people who did this to her.

I watch Frankie’s throat move as he swallows down the emotion I know from experience is ratcheting through him, and I wonder how he’s going to handle it.

My Scandinavian genes mean that I’m mostly calm and level-headed. Frankie, on the other hand, is a combination of Irish and Middle Eastern. When he blows, the whole fucking state usually knows about it.

Today, though, he’s different. Today, he has other issues to address before he loses his shit because of Mila’s bruises, and Iwatch as he reigns in his infamous temper that’s been known to bring grown men, and sometimes women, who misbehave at our club to tears.

With his hands still holding either side of her face, he leans in and kisses the top of Mila’s head, leaving his mouth resting there for a long moment.

When he pulls away, I realise Mila doesn’t look the least bit moved by his rare show of emotion. She looks thoroughly fucking pissed off.

“You done with all the cloak and dagger bullshit? Is your grand entrance performance over? Now, you gonna elaborate on exactly what’s going on? Why I’m here and not at your apartment? Why you ignored my calls?”

Her shoulders are back, and she’s sitting upright on the stool. I can’t help the smirk on my face at the ice-cold glare she’s directing Frankie’s way over her mug of ‘joy’ tea.

Her brows raise and she gives a small shrug in a ‘well?’ gesture, and I wait.

“I-I got you some flowers,” he says quietly, sliding them towards her.

“Thanks. Roses? They must’ve cost a fortune at this time of year.”

“You’re worth it,” he says with a shrug.

In the almost twenty years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen the man so humbled, and as cringy as it is to watch, it’s no less than he fucking deserves.

“Worth a two-hundred-dollar bouquet but not a return call,” Mila states.

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