I won’t fucking tell anyone you don’t hate me as much as you pretend you do.
Truth is I don’t hate Rocco Shay. Not even a little, and that’s a bitch of a reality check to swallow. He’s the closest thing to a friend I have in this world. Someone who sees the broken pieces of my mind, the fractured shards of my soul and accepts them all without question. Moreover, he seems to appreciate them.
Since the tumultuous end to my last relationship, I threw myself into work. Work couldn’t harm me, not in the way trusting another person could. My work couldn’t raise havoc in my life. It never made me question everything about who I am, about who I used to be in the way another person could.
My career took me in like a guardian angel, keeping me busy enough in an attempt to forget every horrible facet of my life.
Only recently has the brutal reality of loneliness crept in. Years spent alone in the darkness of my nightmares finally catching up to me. Codi and my father aside, I have no one. Dad has his work and Codi now has Parker to steal away her free time. That leaves me with the company of only me, myself, and I. Not to be a bitch, but me, myself, and I can be a total cunt to chill with at times. She’s jaded beyond belief and can be downright negative. Not to mention she is boring as fuck.
Enter Rocco Shay. The absolute brute that fell into my life, bleeding and seemingly as broken as I was.
The man I’d sworn to hate for the rest of my days.
The man who could have stolen the life of my sister away from me.
My best friend.
Jesus Christ. I deserve to be stoned to death.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath.
I came here to check on a friend. One, that from a simple look into his slate grey eyes, is not okay.
“Fuck,” I exclaim, apologizing to the middle-aged woman walking into the building on a graceless smile.
He’s occupied, I concede. Happily so. Maggie is beautiful—I don’t let myself read into the pain that slices into me at that—she’ll gift him some peace. Even if it is for the limited time it takes to get his rocks off.
I should leave, I tell myself as I move toward the lone couch in the lobby, dropping myself down.
I’m a fucking idiot, I think, settling into the soft leather and making myself comfortable while I wait.
Stalker much, Camryn? I curse myself as the elevator sounds.
Maggie steps out, waving over her shoulder as she steps from the giant metal box, a smile on her pretty face. She notices me immediately, offering me a quick wink before stepping through the exit doors and disappearing down the street.
Once I can no longer see her, I glance back at the elevator, a silent and somber Rocco braced against the frame, keeping the doors from closing as he watches me.
I stand without invitation, keeping his eyes as I approach. I step past him without speaking, standing at the back of the small space, my lower back pressed against the glass as I wait for him to move.
He presses the button to his floor silently. Standing with his back to me the entire way up, his eyes remain pinned to mine in the reflection of the door. Indecipherable in the metallic blur, but poignant enough to make me swallow.
He doesn’t wait for me as the doors slide open, stepping onto his floor, expecting me to follow.
Which I do.
I feel like the ultimate third-wheel as I step into his loft, Maggie’s presence screaming at me for being the loser I am. Rightfully so.
Rocco watches me cautiously, moving into his kitchen to place the counter between us. A shield of sorts. From what, I’m not sure. But I appreciate it as much as he seems to need it.
“Why are you here?”
I lift my shoulders, only to let them fall heavily in indecision. “To check on you.”
“Why?”
I lick my lips. “Because Dad said you were hurt.”
“Lie,” he accuses. “You’re a nurse. You know what a taser does. You know I’m fine.”
I exhale purposely. “I was more concerned about this.” I tap my temple, looking away, too afraid to see what’s in his eyes.
“Careful,” he warns. “Someone might think we’re friends.”
“We are friends, asshole,” I bite out. “Likely the only ones either of us have got. I hate myself for it, but here we are.” I throw my hands up in the air, growling in frustration.
“Taser aside—which I would’ve paid money to see hit you—you lost her. It’s gotta be playing heavily on your mind. Thought I’d make sure you’re not murdering helpless animals to cope.”
He looks as shocked by my admission as I feel.
Rocco Shay and I are friends and I just admitted it to him.
What the fuck world do I live in?
“You were worried about me.”
“I shouldn’t have been,” I scoff. “You were clearly fine with your friend Maggie.”
“Jealous?” He rounds the counter.
“No,” I groan. “Put your ego back in place. More worried about your friend and whether she knows you’re not capable of deeper feeling.”
His loud laugh booms out, even his genuine amusement cut down by the rage begging to escape.
“Ah, fuck. I can’t wait to tell Mags that.” He sighs in exasperation. “Maggie uses me more than I do her.”
I look affronted and don’t care to hide it. “I doubt it.”
He shakes his head at me, retrieving the bottle of whiskey, holding it in his lap like a shield.
“Maggie is married to some seventy-year-old foreign investment manager. Guy is fucking loaded, but he prefers dipping his cock in twenty-year-old men. Maggie is for show. She’s down for it. She came from nothing. She pretends to be his devoted wife until he carks it and she’s an instant multi-millionaire. Win-win for them both.”
The judgment within me eases, understanding tipping my bottom lip out in appreciation.
“I’m not the only cock she likes to ride. Not that we talk about it, but I go months without seeing her and then she pops up for a quick fuck. She’s got plenty of money, a cushy companionship with a nice guy and a selection of cocks she can service herself with. She ain’t complaining.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “Oh.”
Unsure of what else to say, I choose my silence, watching him carefully.
He does much of the same.
“So are you?” I finally ask. “Okay?”
He drops his head, letting his feeble act of composure drop away. Lifting his head, his eyes look black in savagery. A storm of violence overtaking, making his large frame quake with barely held onto restraint.
Head tipped back, he releases a yell so broken down with agony, I step back in fear. The bottle of whiskey he had in his hand is thrown across the room, smashing against the wall on a loud and haunting shatter.
I didn’t see him stand, too focused on the glass exploding against the plasterboard. But I watch him pace. Up and down.
He throws anything that stands in his way.
A table.
Chairs.
A vase.
His phone.
Only stopping when he reaches the mantel. His mom staring back at him from the worn photograph.
“Do I look okay?” he roars. “Does this fucking look okay?” He gestures around his apartment.
“No.”
Most people would leave him. Let him descend into madness, afraid he’d cause them harm. But it shocks me to realize I’m not scared. Not for myself. For him, absolutely.