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I barely make it to my building. The doorman greets me and I summon all that’s left to nod. In the elevator, I realize I might feel better if I take off my shoes.
But once they’re clutched to my chest, I don’t feel better. Paris and Sydney don’t know, so I can’t talk to my sisters. Not yet. I have to talk to my dad first and confirm what’s going on.
The elevator opens up, and I attack the first outlet for my anger and helplessness I find. As my bare foot connects with the pile of boxes, no relief comes. I might have broken my toe, but the stupid stack hasn’t budged.
I drop my bag and my shoes and push against one of the columns. The boxes tumble down, but I don’t stop, kicking and shoving. Giving each move all I have, needing the distraction. Getting the poison out, so I can breathe.
Instead, with every desperate, compulsive move, I access a new level of despair. The burning defeat doesn’t stop me. The unhinged energy doesn’t recede, it multiplies.
By the time a pair of hands grabs me, most of the boxes are strewn around the hallway like blocks of Lego. I whip around to kick whoever’s halting my destructive mission, and my eyes lock with my neighbor’s.
He holds me at arm’s length, his gaze heated, and something unexpected happens. I sag in his hold and start sobbing. A brief jolt of shock passes through his face and then he pulls me close.
His gesture should piss me off, but instead I bawl even louder. Soaking his T-shirt with tears, saliva and mucus, I ugly-cry while he stands there like a supportive pillar, not really hugging me, more like holding me steady. Sobbing provides slightly more catharsis than the thrashing.
Eventually, my wails turn into hiccups and my body gains awareness of the solid muscles surrounding me. Of the faint scent of citrus and something very masculine. Of the warmth that seeps into my bones, caressing my wounded soul.
I absorb all the pleasant sensations his closeness stirs and pounce without thought.
He is taller than me, but I hook my hands around his neck and crash my lips against his. He hesitates for an instant, but then welcomes my attack. I channel all my frustration into devouring his mouth, desperately seeking relief.
Release.
Respite.
Or simply oblivion.
We stumble and he hits the wall, tripping over one of the boxes. My body collapses against his as he pulls me toward him, never disconnecting the frantic kiss. I attack with all the selfish need I harbor, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
He grabs my ass and my leg swings up to his hip. I fist his hair, desperately hoping he can give me what I need.
You don’t sleep with your neighbors, a little devil snarls from my shoulder. I jerk away to find confusion in his eyes. We glare at each other, our chests heaving.
What the hell is wrong with me? Part of me actually wants to drag him to my bedroom and let him make me forget, let him improve my day, but somehow that seems too intimate. Too visceral.
He reaches for my hand and the touch burns me. Not in a bad way, which scares the shit out of me. I jump away like he hurt me for real. I look at my door, and before I can make this day even worse, I grab my purse and rush inside.
Chapter4
Dominic
“Fuuuuuuck!” I kick the stone pillar outside the courthouse and curse again because it’s a fucking stone pillar. Great way to break a tiny bone.
I look up. My faith goes as far as occasionally attending church with my family when I was a boy. Not often. Not voluntarily. And definitely not since I’ve been on my own. And even if God does exist, He’s been a real asshole lately.
A mother shields her child and an elderly gentleman takes a wide berth around me. Yeah, that’s who I’ve become. A menace to society. Not that I was an upstanding citizen before. But still. I rein in my temper and hop down the stone stairs.
My therapist suggested I try to sit in the courtroom. In the audience. I need to replace the dickhead. All that achieved was a sweaty T-shirt and humiliating myself when I ran out of the building.
Mission failed. Therapy failed. Self-esteem boost failed.
Wanting to avoid my empty apartment, I enter a coffee shop to grab some java while I decide what I want to do next.
“Dominic?” A male voice surprises me.
“Ben, hey.” What are the odds? Putting Ben in charge of Rocco’s clubs was the last legal task I did for my friend.
Ben has done well, with the clubs, for himself, and for the other owner who wouldn’t take any other result kindly. Five years later, Ben is still alive and thriving.
