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Droga’s smile grows. “Don’t you track it all on your cameras?”
Fair enough. “You really like that shower stall, huh?”
“Creep.”
But his smile is growing.
“You know,” I say, wondering for a moment if I should say it or not, then finally do. “There is a joke among the surveillance team that the outside shower on the Eastside is the wettest place on the island.”
Droga breaks out laughing, and the sound of it floods me with memories—how we used to be, the trips we used to take, how drunk we used to get, acting stupid without having to worry about others.
That was the thing I missed about our friendship—not having to pretend to be cool or important. I could just be myself and not play the fucking king, dangling carrots in front of puppets so that they bowed to me.
I chuckle, relieved that we can be like this again—easy with each other, to a degree at least.
“Maybe you are right and I’m just jealous you have someone like her,” I say quieter, cursing myself in my mind for the words that make me look weak.
“We are fucking like bunnies,” Droga says without looking at me. A smile on his lips is vague but dreamy. “I still can’t believe I have her.”
It’s a confession and an accusation.
If I didn’t get jealous back at Deene years ago, if I didn’t steal the girl my best friend had a thing for out of spite, if I didn’t let my injured ego flare up to the size of an atomic bomb, the last four years would’ve been way different. If I were a better man, I wouldn’t have fucked up my best friend. But I am not a good man. I get it. Droga is. And he’s not afraid to say how he feels.
This is change.
Droga is talking to me like he used to. I want to think he forgave me. Forgiveness is a weapon, and right now, I am unarmed. I think only now, letting go of anger and booze, I finally start understanding what he went through all those years.
I nod. “Good.”
“How is Miss Lara Croft?”
The mention of Katura makes me stiffen. I can’t control rolling my eyes and tonguing my cheek at the thought of her. And the fact that he called her exactly what I did. We still click. We still think the same. Down to the fucking vocabulary.
“Wow,” Droga says quietly. When I meet his eyes, he leans back arrogantly, giving me a long mocking stare. “You already tapped that, didn’t you, Crone?”
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I smirk,knowing that only Droga will understand the full tragedy of what I am about to say.
“I have to admit with humiliation that it was the other way around.”
His face freezes in shock for just a second before he bursts out laughing.
He’s always had a contagious laugh. I can’t help but grin, shaking my head.
“I won’t ask for details, Crone. But knowing Katura, I can see… yeah… I mean… She can be devastating to your ego.”
“Yeah…” I echo. “She is… fuck… everywhere. Like the chewing gum you step into with brand-new shoes, you know?”
She is addictive, and only staying away for days more or less curbs the craving for her.
“Listen,” he says, his smile fading. “Katura came here for a reason, yeah?”
I nod.
“She is nice. But keep your eyes on her. I know you like skirts and I have a feeling she likes a good lay. So you might’ve found a perfect match. But she brought a satellite phone with her to the island, which is still in her belongings if you want them.”
