Page 23 of Petrichor

“Not dreaming,” he whispers, before focusing his gaze on me again. “I’m sorry.” He tries to sit, but winces and falls back down with a light thud.

“You can barely move. Stay the fuck down.” I toss the wet towel in the bowl and grab the ointment from the nightstand.

“Here.” I pass it to him. “Put it on your lip and eyebrow.”

“What happened to your hand?” he asks, instead of doing what I told him. He noticed my puffed fingers. It happens when I hit someone without my gold knuckles. I wanted to feel Jerry’s bonesbreaking under my hands, and the gold knuckles would have dulled such a delightful sensation.

I don’t answer as I move away from the bed and grab the bowl from the nightstand.

“You sure you don’t want me to leave?” He wiggles and squirms, probably due to the discomfort of his injuries.

“I do. But you can’t like this,” I reply.

He snorts while trying to keep his eyes open. “Being an asshole is one of your most endearing qualities.”

Asshole? After helping him? The corner of my lips almost curves upward. His fearless attitude is indeed refreshing. But if he’s looking for comfort, he knocked on the wrong door. Being reassuring isn’t in my blood.

“Don’t you know that it’s okay to be angry but not to fester alone in your anger,” he states, like one of those moronic gurus on TV. I send him a glare and turn my back to him.

“Don’t leave.” His soft whisper stops my advance toward the bedroom door. When I look back, his eyes are closed and his breathing even once again. Did I imagine his pleading voice?

I give him one last look and close the door behind me.

The next morning I’m making my second coffee when Fly walks into the kitchen. He’s only wearing the torn, blood-stained midnight shirt. He left the first buttons open, on him it looks like a loose dress. The cuffs dangle from his arms, hiding his hands and the ruined black nail polished.

“’Morning.” He gives me a small smile. There’s no trace of embarrassment or hesitation on him. “Your non-friend Luca coming?”

“Why?” I ask, crossing my arms and leaning my back against the counter.

He just gives me an indifferent shrug. “Have you got any ice cream?” he asks instead, making his way toward me. He doesn’t look in pain, or maybe he’s used to enduring it.

Ice cream for breakfast? “No.”

He pouts. “I really would love some cold pistachio right now.” He touches his puffed lip. The cut looks better.

“Not my problem.” I turn to grab the coffee cup and hear him opening the kitchen cabinets.

“All you got are stale crackers and coffee, are you trying to fill a new plot in the pet cemetery?”

“Between the two of us you’re the one covered in bruises,” I counter, grabbing my phone to read a text from Luca. I need to let him and Seb know what happened with Jerry last night.

“What’s in the containers?” Fly is standing in front of the open fridge now.

“Parmigiana.”

He blinks at me with a confused expression.

“An Italian dish made with fried eggplants, tomato sauce, basil, parmesan, mozzarella?—”

“Ohhh, can I try?” He looks at me expectantly.

I growl a no, as I move to the balcony and light up a cig.

“Come on. I love to taste new things, and…and need food to get better.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Maybe I can lock him somewhere until we get some information on him. Only three days have passed since Seb told me he needs more time to check Fly’s background.

“Food shuts me up every time.” He pushes his tongue piercing between his teeth, reminding me how good it felt on my cock.

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