“Tris,” he sighs, “you should leave.”
“I’m not leaving until you feel better, or you let me take you to the hospital.”
“No hospital. No.”
“Fine, do what you tell me. Rest your head. Rest it on my lap.”
He responds, and then the app tells me, “I need to be on my left side. I cannot move. You should leave.”
I slide off the bed and hurry around it. Then I slide back in and pull his head onto my lap. “What hurts, Matteo?” I ask softly.
“Everything.”
“The worst?”
“Head.”
“Okay.” With one hand, I begin to rub his head nice and softly, careful not to pull his hair. With the other, I scrape my nails gently over his scalp.
“Tris,” he sighs.
“Hush. Rest.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
“Alma hermosa.”
“Anytime.”
It feels like forever, like an eternity, before his breathing evens out and he falls asleep.
When my phone alerts me of a message, I cringe, thinking it may wake him.
I toe off my shoes, knowing I can grab it with my bare toes without much hassle and do exactly that. I finally inch it to where I can grab it and quickly silence it before responding to what I assume is Momma Joe’s text.
It’s not. It’s an unknown number.
Youre new BF is a fucking dick. Tell him check himself. He comes at me again, I’ll come back with more than a fucking paint brush. (Italian flag emoji & black rose emoji) M.E.
Me: First, stay out of my inbox. As you know, it’s now filled with a hot Spanish flair. Second, check your class rank and your grammar. “You’re” slipping vale-dick-torian possibly (only because I’m not there. Still waiting for that thank you). And lastly, *laughy face emoji, laughy face emoji, laughy face emoji* okay, “capo dei capi.”(middle finger emoji) Not Yours.
“Fucker,” I hiss as I hit send.
“Tris?” Matteo says, and I look down. “Thank you.”
“You’d have done it for me.”
“Anything.”
“Then kiss me.”
He does. He kisses me softly and sweetly, and I take a picture, memorializing the non-stage kiss.
When he pulls back, he looks up and sees me holding my phone in selfie position. “What are you doing? I feel better. You should go.”
“After you fall asleep, I will. Rest.”
“You should—”
I hold my finger over his soft lips. “Hush. Rest, por favor.”
He nods once and rests his head against me again. This time, however, he pushes his arm behind me and wraps the other around my waist.
I begin rubbing his head again. His hair is so soft and thick. I really hope this feels as good to him as it does to me.
My phone vibrates.
Unknown Number.
You’ve gotten your revenge. Come home. Stop fucking around. You’re supposed to be mine. (black rose emoji) M.E.
I reply with a picture, the one I just took.
I’m his. (middle finger emoji) NOT YOURS
I quickly block him then smile because, right now, for the first time in forever, I think I’m going to be all right.
Calm, at ease, monsters MIA, even with the monster instigator cranked up to WOW today, I am blissfully exhausted.
I lean down and inhale his scent—clay, leather, and musk. I instantly want to curl up with him and sleep. Instead, I tap out a message to Momma Joe.
He woke up with an awful headache and took a pill. He’s asleep now. Love, T.
Her reply: I’m glad he’s feeling better. I’m getting off the elevator now. Shall I knock or will you open the door for me? Love you, M.J.
I groan as I slide out from under him, careful to replace myself with a pillow, and then slide off the bed.
When my bare foot hits something, I look down.
The pill bottle.
After grabbing it, I read the name on the bottle, Arthur Schindler. The address on it is London, England. The name of the drug is peeled off but ends with an EN.
A light tap on the door startles me, even though I know it’s Momma Joe.
I should probably tell her, but something inside of me tells me not to.
I open the nightstand drawer, shove it in, and then I see a dozen more pill bottles. I glance at the labels, and the ones visible all say the same name, Adam Schindler.
Another knock, this time louder.
I shut the drawer then hurry out of the room to open the door.
“Are you all right? You look pale.” Momma Joe touches my forehead.
“I’m good. I think he’s okay. We should go.”
She scans the room, not looking at me when she says, “Let me just check on him, and then we can head up.” She’s suspicious.
“You don’t trust me?” I accuse her.
“I never said that,” she says, walking toward his room.
“But you don’t.”
I’m trying to start a fight with her now? Fuck.
“Momma Joe,” I say as she is about to step inside the room.
She looks back at me skeptically.
I sigh. “Please don’t wake him. He obviously needs to sleep it off.”
Back to Black
Tris
As soon as we leave his room, I desperately want to erase what damage I had just done, but I know I crossed a line, and anxiety begins to creep in.
In the elevator, Momma Joe asks, “Are you all right?”
I look up at the white lights, counting up the floors. “Yeah.”
“Let’s not dwell on this, but it can’t be ignored. It’s already gotten back to your parents, and your father is very upset with me.”
I look over at her. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything wro—”
She holds up her phone.
Fuck.
I close my eyes when I see the screen shot of the picture that I took when I asked Matteo to kiss me. And then I read the text.
Zandor: Where is this taking place and why is it being allowed?
I roll my eyes. “I can kiss whoever I want to kiss. I’m not breaking any laws.”
“No, I suppose not, but you sent it to Marcello Effisto, and now he’s wreaking havoc on the Shore.”
“Yeah, well, he sent me a picture, too, so fair is fair, right?”
The elevator opens, and I step off as quickly as I can.
Momma Joe says nothing, but her heels clicking against the floor as she follows me down the hall, which feels a lot like I’m heading into a cage where I will again be on twenty-four hour watch, are like a death march.
Once inside the suite and the door is closed, Momma Joe says, “She’s here, and she’s fine.”
“Why the hell did she send the damn picture?” Dad’s voice comes through the speaker, and I turn around.
“Seriously?” I throw my hands up in the air.
“Seriously, Tris. You were raised better than to pull that shit right there,” Dad snaps.
“Yeah, well, newsflash: I grew up into my own imperfect person. Forgive me if I don’t fit the Steel mold. I’m tired. I’m going to bed and—”
“She’s covering for him,” Momma Joe interrupts me. “He is a—”