Page 106 of Heartfelt Pain
“You want something?” I ask, ignoring his ever-present scowl at anything good food-related.
“Your friends bitched at you about not eating enough vegetables and now they’re sending you sugar?” he asks, swiping it up from the floor. “What are you doing?”
I shove past him. I’ve never been to any of myneighbor's places before. It’s spartan thanks to the previous tenant having left a while back.
“Wow, this is. . .” There’s a fold-out chair and a box has turned into a makeshift table. “This is some serial killer vibes.”
“It is not.” He closes the door, not that he’s happy I’m here. I’m the customer, though, so he puts up with me.
I drop into the metal chair. “You couldn’t have found one with a cushion?”
There are only a few lights on, the sunlight streaming in from the windows doing the hard work. I notice a glass with the remnants of a green smoothie. He seems the type to immediately wash his dishes but who am I to judge?
“There’s all kinds of stuff.” I point to the basket. “Help yourself.”
He picks through it and finds dark chocolate-covered almonds.
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re kidding right?”
He pops a few into his mouth.
“You’re weird.”
There are a few laptops open, and camera feeds of my building play, but there’s nothing else. No music or reality TV shows. If it weren’t for the serial killer vibes I’d classify it as peaceful.
“Russet sent it to me,” I say of the basket. “You know the one from the party.”
He nods, throwing back a few more almonds.
“She, um, she. . .”
“Wants to know about her friend.”
“Jesus. Did you bug my apartment?”
“She kept staring at me the other day. Like she wanted to ask question.”
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.” A lot happened that day. “I never got the full story either.”
I hold my hand out and he grudgingly throws me a chocolate bar.
“There’s not much to it.” He remains stoic like always but I wonder if it’s hard. Talking about it. He didn’t witness Daisy after Marissa pimped her out, but he dismantled her business piece by piece before Russet took a bomb to it.
“What happened to all the women?” I ask. I saw footage from the attack. Trevino helped over a dozen women get out of Marissa’s. The bratva didn’t even make a move to stop him.
He shrugs and I think he’ll put a stop to the topic but after a second he clears his throat.
“There’s a church. They help out women who’ve been trafficked.” He picks up what looks like a protein shake, apparently done with his handful of almonds. “One of the women had the note. That’s what I thought it was at first. A letter someone wanted sent off. When I looked at it, though.”
He tilts his head back, to take a drink. Even the mundane task is enough to show off the powerful muscles rippling down his arms and shoulders.
“You did a good thing,” I say.
“I provided a legal means for the Zimins to adopt a child they would’ve kept anyway.” He sits down on the floor, loosely pulling his knees to his chest while leaning back on one arm. He almost appears relaxed.
“Russet’s a good mom.”
He nods but I’m not sure what’s going on in that head of his.
