Page 61 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“Ready?” he asks, and his smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all week.
“Ready,” I tell him, and for the first time in days, I actually believe it.
Chapter twenty
Liam
The weights feel good in my hands. Heavy and solid and uncomplicated in a way that most things in my life aren’t anymore. I’ve been down here in the gym for almost two hours, working through a routine that’s slowly coming back to me like muscle memory, which, I suppose, it literally is.
My headphones are blocking out the world, nothing but the steady pulse of music and the satisfying burn in muscles that haven’t been properly used in five years. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the person looking back. The expensive gym clothes Nicky bought me yesterday fit better than anything I’ve worn in months, all technical fabric and ergonomic design that probably costs more than most people spend on their entire wardrobe.
My hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and it’s a look old Liam would never have considered. I’m thinking about cutting it. It’s gotten long during my time inside. At first, it was an order so he could pretend I was a girl. Now, it feels like a part of me, and while cutting it might feel liberating,it would also be a lie. The past isn’t as easy to cut off. I’d still be Pretty Boy, even with short hair.
So maybe it’s not the right time yet. Besides, Nicky doesn’t seem to mind it.
I try very hard not to think about where Nicky is right now. What he’s doing. Who he’s with. What “work” means for someone in his position. The kind of problems that might need handling, the kind of solutions that require violence, or at least the threat of it.
Better to focus on the rhythm of my workout, the simple pleasure of pushing my body to its limits and feeling it respond. This is something that’s entirely mine. It’s not dependent on anyone else, not complicated by trauma or guilt or the weight of expectation.
Just me and the weights and the gradual reclamation of strength I thought was gone forever.
The gym clothes are beautiful, perfectly fitted, exactly what I would have chosen if I had unlimited money and the confidence to spend it. But there’s something about wearing them that sits strangely with me. On one hand, it’s sweet that Nicky was so excited about buying them for me, and it’s so kind that he wanted to give me this gift. On the other hand, being kept like this, fed and clothed and housed by someone else’s money, is a bit emasculating.
I snort at the ridiculousness of my own thoughts. I was emasculated a long time ago. Mere days after being led into Brixton in handcuffs. Besides, most of that masculinity stuff is toxic bullshit, designed to make men feel like they have to earn their worth through domination and control.
I was a mouthy little shit when I went in. Arrogant and obnoxious. Convinced I was destined to be the top dog.All the trappings of toxic masculinity wrapped up in an eighteen-year-old’s body.
At least prison knocked some sense into me. I’ve matured. Learned how to see through the bullshit. Mostly.
But I am capable of not completely freaking out and being bought expensive clothes, because it doesn’t mean I’m a kept woman, and there’d be nothing wrong with that if I were.
When I mentioned the cost of the clothes, Nicky had looked at me with that particular expression he gets when he’s trying to figure out how to explain something complicated in simple terms.
“If things had worked out differently and you were in a position to buy me stuff, you would,” he’d said, and he was right.
If our situations were reversed, if I’d been the one to build wealth and influence while he struggled, I’d want to share everything I had with him. Would want to see him comfortable and confident and equipped with whatever he needed to reclaim the parts of himself that had been stolen.
So I’ll wear the expensive gym clothes and try to focus on how they make me feel strong instead of how much they cost.
The elevator ride to the top floor gives me time to cool down, sweat evaporating in the air conditioning while I scroll through my new phone and pretend I’m not checking to see if Nicky has texted. He hasn’t, which probably means he’s busy with whatever work emergency required his immediate attention this afternoon.
I’m fishing my keys out of my pocket when I hear footsteps in the stairwell. The fire door opens just as Ireach our apartment, and a man emerges. Thirties, clearly Italian, with a small cut under his eye and an expensive suit that screams money and danger in equal measure.
He’s wearing a gold ring on his pinky finger that catches the hallway lighting, and everything about his presence suggests this isn’t a social call.
I slide my key into the lock, hyperaware of his presence behind me, trying to appear casual while every instinct I’ve developed over the past few years is screaming that this man is dangerous.
“Is Nicolo home?”
I whirl around, startled by the sound of his voice. He’s closer than I expected, close enough that I can see the details of his face, all sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that miss nothing, the kind of smile that could mean friendship or threat depending on the context.
He’s obviously Mafia. Has to be one of Nicky’s colleagues. Hopefully.
“No, he’s at work,” I manage, my voice steadier than I expected.
“Must be why his phone is off.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else. The man smiles, and it transforms his entire face from vaguely threatening to almost charming.
