Page 16 of King of Pain
But it’s the eyes. Not only are they a gorgeous light hazel that contrasts perfectly with his skin tone and dark hair, but they’re also full of mystery, depth, and something darker I haven’t quite pinpointed yet. Pain, maybe?
It’s probably best I try to ignore my attraction to him anyway. I’m fresh out of a situationship no one back home knows about, and I don’t even know if Anthony is into guys. Honestly, I’m kind of afraid to ask. He seems a little buttoned-up.
I’m going to see if I can get him to relax a bit with my undeniable charm, sharp wit, and impeccable sense of humor. I mean, I amme, after all.
Adjusting the speed on the treadmill for a cool-down, I grip the handrails and catch my breath, staring at my reflection in the dark window. My face is flushed, my hair damp and messy. I swipe my towel across my face, grab my water bottle, and head back to my apartment.
The shower is a welcome relief. I let the hot water wash away the tension in my shoulders, scrubbing the sweat and salt off my skin. By the time I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, I feel human again.
In the kitchen, I get to work making eggs, toast, and a protein shake. I pour myself some coffee, inhaling its rich, bitter scent, and set everything on the new dining table I had delivered. While eating, I check my work schedule for the upcoming week and open the same email I’ve looked at a hundred times over the past few days. I scroll through the pictures and break into a smile. Am I really going to do this?
Fuck it. Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone and text my neighbor, Lexi. She was one of the first people I met when I moved into the complex, her sassy personality making her impossible to ignore.
Lexi’s a beautiful creature. She’s freaking blessed genetically. She said her father is from Kenya and her mother is PuertoRican. She then proceeded to tell me the reason she runs her mouth is because she’s ‘Blurtorican’. I immediately needed to be friends with her.
But seriously, she’s stunning. Perfect light brown skin and bouncy curls that brush her shoulders and a smile that’s disarming. And her full-sleeve tattoos? They’re works of art. Both arms are covered in intricate designs crawling up her shoulders to the base of the back of her neck. All geometric shapes blending seamlessly with florals and abstract art. I need to find out who does her ink.
She’s fun and leaves no doubt she is not to be fucked with. We became fast friends.
Me:Feel like running an errand with me in about 2 hours?
The reply bubble comes up instantly.
Lexi:Does this involve snacks?
Me:Snacks are negotiable.
Lexi:I’ll allow it. See you in 2 hours, loser.
After cleaning up my breakfast dishes, I grab my phone from the table. It’s Sunday, which means it’s time for a video call with Ma. The phone feels heavier in my hand than it should as I take my coffee out into the living room and settle on the couch. Sundays are always for Mom. It’s a rule I insisted on before I left Boston. We text every day, but Sundays? Sundays I need to talk to her. To see her face.
I pull up her contact and hit the video call button. She comes through after a couple rings.
“How’s my baby boy?”
I break into a smile. Her Boston accent is mild, like mine, but hearing it gives me a small, comforting piece of home. “Hey, Ma. How are you?”
“Oh, you know,” she says lightly. “Busy with the garden. The tomatoes are taking over again, and I had to wrestle the neighbor’s cat out of my hydrangeas yesterday, the little shit.”
I chuckle, settling onto the couch. “Sounds about right. How’s the weather?”
“The leaves just started changing. It’s nice, but you know, it’s almost September, the cold is coming,” she says. “Never mindourweather. How are you holding up with the heat out there? You surviving?”
“Barely,” I admit. “It’s like living in a fuckin’ oven, Ma. I keep waiting for it to cool down, but my neighbor told me that doesn’t happen here until, like, November.”
“November?” she exclaims. “I’d melt before then. And language, Chance.”
I laugh, shaking my head. The world I come from isn’t exactly prim and proper, but she always tries to get me to tone it down.
“Sorry, Ma. But didn’t you just call the neighbor’s cat a little shit?”
“You’rea little shit,” she fires back with a laugh.
“I’m your favorite.”
“Yes, you are. You’re also an only child, Chance.”
She chuckles, the sound warm and familiar, but I catch something underneath it. A strain, subtle and unmistakable. I know it too well. I lived it for twenty-one years. That house is toxic.
