Page 17 of Fearless

Correction. Sweating like a pig on a spit. That’s a better phrase. Not quite as close to the bone.

It’s hot in here though. Cole must have left the heating on, which is about as homely as this place gets. Everything is so clinical, which I suppose reflects how little time he spends here. He made a big song and dance about getting his own place—we’re grown men and shit—but I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes him a few months to notice the stain on the carpet.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around wherethatlittle outburst came from.

Maybe there’s a bit of fire inside her I didn’t see before. Even so, it’s well and truly extinguished now.

I glance over at her little knocked-out body while I pick up my phone and start scrolling through my contacts.

I’ve made up my mind about her, and decided she is stunning after all.

To be honest it was probably the tears that did it. Such extravagant displays of emotion fascinate me.

Aye, I’m aware that makes me odd, and more than a little fucked up. There’s probably a Wikipedia page out there for whatever the fuck condition I have.

It’s one of the reasons why I mostly stay away from women and let Cole do the fucking for both of us. That, and the fact I’ve never met one yet with an ounce of loyalty.

I’m not a psychopath. I know what right and wrong are. Good and bad. It just never occurs to me to do, or not do, something based on whether it’s good or bad. I do what my gut tells me, and sometimes that just happens to be bad. As long as it’s not bad for me, or Cole, I don’t tend to lose any sleep over it.

Sleep.

I could be doing with some of that right now.

But I still have a long night ahead of me.

I’ve not even completed phase one yet.

I feel like one of those night shift workers, the ones who dress the fancy department store windows and put the mannequins in all these unholy positions.

That’s me tonight.

And my little doll has only just started her shift.

The photo I took earlier was a spur of the moment added extra, because when opportunity knocks, I always answer. And because, yet again, she rejected me. She’s beginning to make a habit out of that.

Maybe I should have been more patient with her.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

It doesn’t even matter, at this point she’s stuck with me. For better or worse. Probably worse.

* * *

Ipull up in front of my house. Cole’s BMW X7 is parked diagonally across the double garage. He thought he was being the big man buying the X7, when I drive an X5, but he’s the fool because I personally think the X7 looks like a big ugly hearse. And we both know my house is nicer, so I’m still winning.

It wasn’t part of the plan for him to be here. He has a bedroom set up, because he frequently forgets he doesn’t live here anymore, but he knows that Sarah isn’t allowed in my house.

My rules on that are final.

I slam the car door behind me, not worrying about waking my cargo. She’s been bouncing in and out of consciousness but seems to have given in, finally. She’ll be out cold for hours now. I had her bundled up in a blanket on the back seat, and she’s exactly where I left her after our final stop on our Magical Mystery Tour of Coercion.

I lift the little thing into my arms and kick the door closed behind me, heading for the front door. The sun is on the rise, but there aren’t any neighbors for miles so nothing to worry about.

I bought this place years ago off a footballer friend who needed to settle one too many cocaine debts. It’s about forty minutes away from the city, which roughly translates to the middle of nowhere, and that suits me perfectly.

It’s an old building, all stone and gabled roofs, though completely modernized. All except the front door, which I remind myself needs oiling every time I walk through it.

The living room door creaks open to reveal my brother lying on the couch in a pair of gray sweats, a bottle of Peroni in one hand and the remote control in his other. He’s watching the boxing, and Sarah is curled up at his feet like a cat, sleeping.

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