Page 27 of Petrichor

“That’s debatable,” I reply, as I look at him enjoying the new flavor. Where’s the whipped cream and the small biscuit? The gelato my nonno bought for me from his friend's shop when I was a kid always had both on top.

“Try it and prove me wrong,” he challenges me, licking the milky cream from his lips.

“Will you stop blathering and give me a straight answer if I do?”

“Do you really want that?” The smirk he’s giving me has a hint of derision in it.

“I never fucking lie about what I want.” I give him a severe look as I talk.

“Right.” He sighs. “We came all the way here, Marco. Fucking try it, and I’ll do my best at answering your invasive questions.”

I could turninvasiveon him very quickly, if I wanted. Should I?I take a scoop with zero enthusiasm, but fuck, it is good. The bitter coffee hits my tongue followed by the rich, nutty hazelnut.

His hand lands on the sleeve of my jacket. “Amazing right?” He's beaming at me, his face filled with undiluted joy.Pretty,again.

I hum noncommittally. He’s very tactile. His fingers are always brushing over every surface, while his eyes study his surroundings, nose smelling the air.

He suddenly pinches the back of my hand. “Would it hurt you to admit you like the gelato?” He huffs, pushing his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the table.

“I like it.” My next words stop his low mumbling, something under his breath about hard heads.

“Sorry what?” He turns his head to the side, hand cupping his ear, a mocking expression on his face.

This playfulness feels weird. “You heard me, little shit!”

“I’m Fly, not a little shit.”

“Flies like shit.” I raise my brow at him.

He blinks, probably taken aback by my joke. “Are you calling yourself shit, Marco?”

The way he says my name, trying to roll the R while failing grandiosely, it makes me want to smile and grab him by the neck. He just boldly told me he likes me while comparing me toshit. Who does this guy think I am? I push my forearms down on the table to feel the bullet pendant on the leather bracelet digging into my skin.

“Don’t forget who I am, little Butterfly, or you’ll end up pinned on a board.”

“Butterfly?” he echoes with knitted brows; it’s like he has focused only on the word and chosen not to hear the rest.

“Did you go eat ice cream with that fucker from Rino’s, Jerry?” I ask him.

His eyes dim for a moment as a frown takes over his forehead. But then he bites the corner of his lips playfully. “Iseating ice creamcode for sex?”

“You should know by now I call things what they are.” I remind both of us about our encounter in the hot bar’s toilet.

“Oh, I remember it vividly.” Look at him going all flirtatious and shit. The way he slowly slides the teaspoon full of ice cream in his mouth, though it could look innocent it gets a whole new meaning after seeing the heat in his eyes. A quick glance at his pink tongue, and I have a half chub in my pants.

“By the way, I don’t think Jerry is the type,” he adds. “To sit and eat gelato.”

They must have spent some time together, though. “And what type is that?”

“The scumbag type.” His brows furrow. “He was a very wrong distraction.” He drops the spoon heavily inside his half-full cup, looking suddenly disgusted—I suspect not by the sweet treat.

“He won’t distract you anymore,” I state, letting my eyes move over the dark shadows on his face.

“What do you mean?” He looks confused.

“You can’t pay me back if you end up in the hospital, can you?” I push my back against the chair and spread my legs a little wider, projecting strength and control. “He’s been dealt with.”

“Dealt. How?”

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