The couch is soft and familiar under me as I sink into it.
“Hey, everything okay? You guys just kinda ran out of here,” Cam says, appearing at my door. The light from his office casts a soft glow around his form, but I can barely make out his face. He reaches for the light.
“No. Please, leave it off. I… I have a migraine.”
“Oh, no. Can I get you something?” He perches on the arm of the couch and presses his palm to my forehead. “Hey, hey. You’re burning up. Are you sure it’s just a migraine? Want me to grab a Tylenol from my office?”
“No. I’m okay. Do you mind staying?”
“No, sure, of course.”
I give him a soft smile before I close my eyes and lay my head back.
He might have Ram and Kaine. But I have Cameron.
And maybe, maybe that’s what we’ll have to be happy having, for the rest of our lives.
I knew I should never have told him.
But it turns out, neither of us has ever been really good at protecting the other.
Him
“Hey. Dickwad.”
The giant turns, slowly, from the waist, his biceps protruding like two baked hams from his shoulders, his forearms dangling by the elbows. I can’t help but wonder how he can reach behind to wipe his own ass. He blocks most of the light from the main road into the back alley where I’m leaning against the paint-cracked wall.
“You better not be fucking talking to me,” it growls, as it tries to place my face in the dark.
“I don’t see any other dickwads around here, do you?” I push off the wall, the vibrating from the club music on the other side causing too much fuzz in my brain.
“No, but I see a little shit about to get his brains pounded out.”
“Well, that definitely can’t be you then.”
He growls again, and I can see the rumble of the wide expanse of meat, muscle, and bone up his barn door of a chest as he takes a step toward me. There’s a ripple across his reddening forehead that suggests he’s a little surprised that I don’t move back in response.
He wouldn’t be surprised if he knew why I was here. And running away isn’t a part of it.
“You got a death wish, you fuck?”
Yes. But that’s beside the point.
“I heard you caused a bit of trouble for my guys at the construction site.”
“What do you know about that?”
“I know I don’t want anything getting in the way of that youth shelter being ready in a month.”
His eyes narrow and I know he knows why I look familiar now. “Well, I don’t want that bleeding heart tax write-off around the corner from my apartment building. Those little shits are going to cause trouble. Let them go litter the streets with their overdosed stinking corpses somewhere else.”
There’s a pounding behind my eye that mirrors the pounding I want to give him.
Not yet, Xave. Not yet. I tell myself.
“Wow, you’re a real gem of a human, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, you bet I fucking am. I’m not trying to lower anybody’s real estate value just so I can sleep at night. Don’t you stand there in your fucking Armani and Rolex and lecture me about charity, what the fuck do you know about being on the streets? Give me a break, fucking savior complex. You and your buddy and that blonde whore strutting around Harlem like you’re God’s gift to the poor.”
He spits straight ahead. And I’ve got to give it to him, it takes some balls to do that without even feeling the need to turn his head. His phlegm lands about a foot from me, and the repulsion quickly replaces the grudging credit I might have given him if he wasn’t a complete fuckbag.
My hands pull out of my pockets as I walk up to him. He smells just like I imagine, a combination of over-sprayed cologne, testosterone, and bourbon.
I walk up to him, and I don’t stop until I can count the number of clogged pores on his nose.
“Stay. The Fuck. Away from my employees. And away from my youth center.”
He snickers, and the bourbon fumes almost knock me off my feet.
“Or what?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“Too bad. I’m a curious fella. Come to think of that, that blonde, she is a cute one, isn’t she? Why don’t you send her to do your negotiations next time? At least there’s something from her I want. Or maybe I can just take it.”
He barely finishes his sentence before my fist connects with his face. Experience tells me, I should feel the burn of my knuckle-skin tearing and the jarring of my whole arm, but I feel nothing. In slow motion all I see is his face turning back toward me, blood already dripping from his nose, the startled look on his face already turning to something like bloodlust.
If he wants my blood, he can have it. But not without paying with his own first.
I pull my hand back and swing it toward him again before he can react. This time it rams into his chin and he barely stumbles to the side before I feel a giant fist slam into my diaphragm. Every ounce of air in my body leaves me, and I feel the bile push up into my esophagus.
Before I can steady myself, I feel my arms pulled backward, two hands around each wrist, like vices.
Fuck. He wasn’t alone.
“What? You can’t handle me on your own, you gotta bring your goons in on this?” I taunt him, trying to struggle against them, but there’s no point. It’s three giants against me now.
He just grins, nostrils flaring at the pheromones seeping from his own sweaty skin as he pushes the sleeves of his shirt up as far as they can up his baked ham forearms. He walks up to me, his rough sausage fingers gripping my chin as he bares his teeth.
“It’s going to be such a shame to fuck up this pretty face. Your little blonde isn’t going to recognize you once I’m done with you,” he pants.
“Still going to be prettier than that overcooked meatloaf you’ve got on top of your shoulders.” And this time it’s my turn to spit straight at him.
His eyes narrow and his lips tighten against his top row of yellow teeth. It’d be almost comical if I wasn’t thinking about how it’s going to be the last thing I ever see. He draws his fist back and slams it into my stomach, and it feels like a truck driving into my guts.
I try to double over, but they hold my broken body up.
I’m wrong, the last thing I’m going to see is stars.
And the last thing I’ll say is her name.