Two security guards from the hotel rushed into the middle of the circle and pulled the two men apart. Both were bleeding, disheveled. Mikhail’s shirt had come unbuttoned, and Patrick’s was ripped across the front, exposing his tanned and muscular chest. Both men had their teeth bared at the other, and neither noticed Anita’s anger or the crowd’s presence.
Anita watched for one more moment as the security guards broke up the fight, then, seething, spun on one heel and left them to themselves.
Chapter Thirty-One
Anita paced her room for nearly an hour. At one point, she tried to remove her makeup using her beloved cold cream, but then she tore one of her false eyelashes, which just added to her irritation, and she tossed her makeup towel on the floor of the bathroom with disgust.
Boys. Children.
After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the gentle click of the neighboring door closing, and she stood by the adjoining partition, tapping one foot repeatedly on the floor.
No. She was not going to do it. She was not going to open that damned partition. This was his fault and his mess. He had gotten into a stupid bar brawl instead of staying with her.
She could hear him, breathing too loudly. Of all the inconsiderate, shitty things a person could do.
She whipped open the door, prepared for a full-on headmistress drilling, and immediately her ire deflated.
Patrick looked awful. His carefully gelled hair now pointed every which way, and his hands were cut and bruised. She could see the cut above one eye, the shiner making its appearance underneath the other. He had stuffed tissue paper into his nose which was now crusted with dried blood.
“I’ll call room service for ice,” Anita said stonily when it became abundantly clear he wasn’t about to say anything.
He moved shyly into the room behind her as she called for ice and food.
Stupid, stupid men and their games.“Sit down.” She opened one of her suitcases and removed a large travel case.
He perched in the armchair by the window. What an ass. He wasn’t even going to apologize.
She busied her hands by removing bandages, antibiotic ointment, arnica, and ibuprofen from the travel case.
Never. Never again.
“I’m sorry, Anita,” she heard him whisper. The crack in his voice stilled her movements. “I am so, so sorry.”
He was sorry? Sorry for what? Getting into a fight the night before a professional competition? Sorry for being her friend? Sorry for the most sensual dance she had ever experienced and then denying her satisfaction?
No, she didn’t want satisfaction. Notthatkind. No. Of course not.
She didn’t move for a very long moment, then sniffed and took a seat beside him.
“Let me see.”
Patrick just watched her as she ministered silently to him, checking his wounds, applying arnica here, bandages and ointment there. She traced the laceration on his eyebrow with her fingers before cleansing it with a damp hotel washcloth. The water washed over her hands, and the tumult of the night drifted away with the blood and grime.
Patrick didn’t say a word. She no longer expected it of him. He had told her he was sorry. That was enough. For now.
Room service arrived, and Anita brought the tray to the desk. She filled a napkin with ice and handed it to him. “Are you hungry?” She removed the silver lids from the plates, showing a chicken Caesar and a club sandwich.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
She saw now the tears in his eyes. She hadn’t noticed before, but his ribs looked bruised. Through his ruined shirt she could see the purple starting to throb against his muscles. “I don’t deserve it.”
It reminded her of all of the moments he took care of her. The soups and the ginger ales and the witty rejoinders and the easy companionship, the effortless aid.
She sat beside him and took his injured hand in hers. “You’re an idiot. But you’re still my friend.”
A shadow darkened his features, but he put the ice pack over his face to hide it. “Your friend, right. Right, of course.” His voice sounded thicker than usual. Anita wondered if he had hurt his mouth in some way. God, she hoped not. An injury to a mouth like his would certainly be a shame.
She pulled herself away from him, trying to keep the rising heat in her body to a minimum. She preferred fury. It was a cleaner emotion than desire.
