I don’t.
I keep my eyes on Yvon’s.
“There’s no need to have a problem here, Yvon,” I insist. “We can all leave here unscathed.”
“There’s always a problem with you faggots,” he sneers.
Before I can get a word out, before Carmine can lurch forward and do something even more stupid, Yvon folds backwards like a lawn chair. His arm is grabbed and the gun quickly taken from his hand as he’s shoved to the floor by three armed guards.
He swears at them, fighting them, but they hold his arms behind his back and then shove his face to the hard floor.
I exhale the breath I feel like I’ve been holding for hours.
Carmine’s body relaxes, his back against my chest.
I whisper into his ear, breathless and deep. “I’m going to kill you for that.”
9
Carmine
“Are you sobered up yet?” Soren asks me.
I’m sitting on a dingy couch in an old warehouse that my family uses to store our illicit stock. Large wooden crates full of weapons, drugs, and the occasional smuggled art piece.
“You didn’t need to come with me,” I grumble.
Soren steps closer to me and hands me the second cup of coffee he’s given me tonight. A pot of it sits on a small table nearby. I take the cup and down it as fast as possible, it burns down my throat. Unlike alcohol, it’s because it’s still hot.
“The fuck I didn’t,” he says while waving a hand. “How do I know you wouldn’t just go off and get yourself in even more trouble.”
I stare at him, ignoring the aching of my throat. “You threatened to kill me; I think I’m in more trouble here.”
He scoffs. “Can you be serious for one fuckin’ moment.” He grabs the mug from me and walks over, slamming it down on the table.
I sigh and lean back on the couch. “I don’t understand why you even care,” I tell him. “I could’ve won in that fight, and you didn’t need to stop me from?—”
“This isn’t about the fight. It’s not about tonight. This about your entire life,” Soren snaps. He slaps the mug off the table and it crashes to the floor, the handle breaking off.
I flinch ever so slightly, but I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s beyond anger. His eyes flare with a deep heat that makes my entire body just as warm.
It’s wrong, I know it. I should not feel so aroused by a man yelling at me. By this man in particular; but I am.
“You’re in over your head, Carmine.” Soren’s hands ball into fists.
I clench my teeth, ignoring the tightness of my throat and stinging of tears in my sore eyes. I’ve cried enough as it is tonight. I won’t let it happen again.
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask him. I slowly stand up from the couch. My legs feel slightly weak, my foot still hurts inside of my shoe and my head is aching from the hangover that’s already threatening me. “Do you really think I don’t know how bad I’m fucking everything up right now?”
He looks me up and down. “Sometimes I don’t know,” he replies. “You’re certainly acting like you don’t care.”
“Not caring and not knowing are two different things, Soren,” I remind him. “I’m sick of everyone telling me how fucked up I am. I know!” Now I’m waving my hands around, they swing down to my sides in fists. “I’m an alcoholic asshole who can’t keep his family safe, who wants to drown in his own self-pity, and won’t take help from anyone. I know that! I fucking know!” Tears are hot and heavy in my eyes, and it’s difficult to keep my voice even slightly composed. Emotions are thick in it.
Soren sighs. “Then take the help! I’ve been trying to help you for weeks. I told you to call me when you think you’re gonna gooverboard, so what do you do? Go to the fuckin’ fight club and try to get yourself killed.”
“I don’t need your help! How many times do I have to say it, Soren,” I yell at him. “You keep telling me, I keep not listening. How stupid are you?”
Soren growls and lunges forward, grabbing me by the shirt. As he pulls me onto my toes, heels off the floor, my breath catches in my throat. His eyes are so hot that they may as well melt right through me.
