He yanked me then, sudden and desperate, his hand tangling in the fabric of my hoodie, dragging me across the table until I was half in his lap, the glass tipping over, whiskey soaking into the wood. I didn’t resist, letting him pull me close, let him bury his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and uneven against my skin. He smelled of rain, cigarettes, violence and that familiar cologne I loved.
“I can’t lose her,” he whispered, the words vibrating against my throat.
“I know.” I held him, my hand stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. “You won’t.”
His lips sought mine, the kissed wasn’t gentle or sweet, but uninhibited hunger of a man drowning and grabbing for air. I kissed him back, matching his desperation, hoping in his state, he wouldn’t remove the mask. He’d made a promise though, and I trusted him. His hands moved over me, urgent, needing confirmation that I was real, that something in this world wasn't slipping through his fingers.
When he gripped my ass, sat me on the table, and stood between my legs, reaching for his zipper on his pants, he groaned. “Catsuit, Koro?”
My laugh soft, I guided his hand to the zipper I’d added between my legs to all my catsuits. “Just for you,” I whispered, relishing his chuckle.
And when his cock slid into me, hot, heavy and he fucked me savagely, his thrusts deep, hard and fast, I let him have this. I let him find solace in the shadow while the light disappeared. The room faded, the noise of the bar disappearing until there was only the heat of his skin, the roughness of his hands, the way he held me like I was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Love would never bloom between us, but survival was inevitable. Two broken pieces fitting together because neither could stand alone.
When it was over, he slumped back against the backrest, the tension finally leaving his body. I stayed for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the peace I’d given him knowing it wouldn’t last long. Gently, I eased him back against the booth, arranging his jacket over him, wiping the blood from his knuckles with a napkin.
I stood, pulling the hood lower over my mask, and walked to the door. I didn’t look back; it would make the lie hurt too much.
Stepping into the hallway, the cold air hit my face, grounding me again. I pulled out my phone, scrolling to a number I’d saved months ago under a name only I recognized. I typed a single message.
Me: Strikers back room. Now. He’s drunk.
Aware no reply would come, I slipped back into the shadows of the private room, blending into the darkness behind the heavy curtains where the light couldn’t reach. Minutes passed, the bass from the bar thumping against the floor, until the door creaked open.
A man stepped inside, his silhouette sharp against the hallway light. Handsome, tall, good built, his green eyes roamed and he wasn’t surprised to find the room empty except for Remo and the bodies I left on the floor. He kicked one of them lightly with his shoe, shaking his head before turning his attention to the table.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he slid onto the seat opposite Remo. “You owe me for this, Rossi. And I don’t mean money.”
Remo stirred, a low growl rumbling in his throat, subconsciously aware yet dead weight against the leather. The man reached out, gripping Remo’s shoulder with a firmness that bordered on civility. Only, his touch was careful not to jostle the injury on Remo’s hands. He tugged Remo’s arm over his shoulder, dragging him up with a curse under his breath.
“Come on, princess,” he sighed, shifting the weight until Remo’s feet found the floor. “Let’s get you home before Lorenzo decides to burn this place down looking for you.” He dragged him toward the door.
Just before he reached the threshold where the light from the hallway spilled across the floorboards, Remo opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, slowly trying to focus through the haze of whiskey and exhaustion and looked at the man holding him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he slurred, the words heavy with confusion.
“Saving your ass, apparently,” the man replied, carefully leading him to the door.
Remo made a grunting sound that signaled he’d drifted into drunken stupor once more and the man paused outside the threshold just long enough to look over his shoulder, his gaze finding the shadows where I stood hidden.
“I don’t think the chicken broth is going to work on him this time,” he said, his voice low enough that Remo wouldn’t hear. He walked away then, hauling Remo into the hallway.
I waited until the silence returned, a faint smile touching my lips. Stepping out of the shadows, I pulled my hood lower over my face and walked off into the night.
sixty-six
. . .
Remo– 36 years old
“Still not going to tell me what happened yesterday?” Lorenzo tipped his chin at my raw knuckles. We sat in his office, after concluding a merchandise call.
“Wrong place, right moment, brother.” I rubbed my knuckles, grinning.
Killing three of Veer’s bodyguards in an unfair fight and then downing a couple of whiskeys at an underground bar I usually visited when I wanted to let off some steam, sounded like a good plan when it began. After that though, I remembered shit all, not even how I landed in my bed last night. Fucked up as it sounded, I had the insane thought that I fucked Koro over a table and someone I knew took me home. I just couldn’t remember who.
“You still look like shit.”
I laughed, dragging a hand through the scruff on my face, having left it to run wild over the last three weeks since Ishika’s disappearance.
