Page 165 of Bona Fide

I open the peroxide and tip it up to soak up the cotton on the q-tip. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me to pick you up at the airport?”

“It’s called a surprise, Tsarina. One I’m regretting because you’re—shit.” He rubs his ribs, exposing another glower in my direction after I pinch his side. “You’re still a fucking brat.”

“Aw—” I smile. “—I love you, too. Turn around.” I dap his cut gently, as he turns to study my space.

“This place sucks.”

My brows furrow. “Thanks, asshole.”

“No—” he shakes his head. “—I mean New York. You should’ve never moved here.”

I soak another cotton ball with peroxide. “Had to. And we’ve talked about this.”

“No, you didn’t.” He scoffs, one of many that I’ve heard him do every time he wants to breach the subject. “Who’s watching Mama?”

“She’s doing fine. And I lost too many clients.”

AKA, let’s stop talking about this.

“You didn’t like it anyways.” He begins tapping his foot along the metal legs of the stool. “We never did get along with people over poverty level.”

I smirk half-heartedly. “No, I guess not.” I steal another glance at my brother. “I’m surprised your commanding officer let you come home.”

“He said I looked homesick.”

My lips quirk. “You’re just now homesick?” I begin dabbing his cut, recognizing a purple bruise forming along his cheekbone. A swollen part of his lip meshed with a cut. “Taxi, huh?”

Another heavy sigh, his eyes look elsewhere. “We still on this?” I continue cleaning his wound in silence, giving him a pregnant minute to think about it. “I got drunk and had a nice conversation with the floor.”

“And got this gash?”

“Did I mention before I hit the floor, I smacked into the corner of the bartop?”

“Marty…it’s two in the afternoon...on a Sunday.”

“So?”

“So, you’re lying.” Marty jerks his head away from me before I can apply more antiseptic.

“You’re not a detective, Tsarina, so don’t act like one.”

“Then you promise?” I assert innocently. His green eyes pull from me again, stating he isn’t going to. That he’s hiding something that he doesn’t want to tell me. “You want to try again?”

“No. Drop it.” I tap peroxide to his cut one more time before letting it dry.

“We never used to keep things from each other.”

He scoffs. “You sure about that?” I want to wrap my fingers around his throat and rattle him, but I don’t want to spend our first couple of minutes together fighting.

That, and I wouldn’t win a wrestling contest with him either.

His phone rings, breaking the monotony of the room when I don’t respond. Sliding off the stool, Marty gives me his vast back and pulls it out of his back pocket.

“What’s up?” he answers, striding through my living space and to the window that overlooks the busy street. “I’m fine, with my sister.”

I toss the bloody cotton ball and grab another, doing the same thing and straining to listen to any hints of who he’s talking to.

He doesn’t feel the same, the tautness of his body vibes the room and something doesn’t feel right. As much as I love having him home, I’ve always known when he was coming back to the States.

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