Page 119 of Diamond In The Rough

“Shit.” He breathes out the last of his rage and does what he does best—protects his brothers. Stepping up behind me, he sets his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “It’s gonna be okay.”

I drop to my ass, exhaustion eating away at my soul, and rest my arms on my knees.

Lix lowers in front of me and cups my face. “Everything is gonna be okay. I promise.”

“I’m no better than Timothy.”

25

TIIA

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

Heartache is supposed to make a hard woman soft, right?

Like solid steel hammered until it becomes weak. Like strips of metal bent at the same stress line, time and time again, until eventually, it snaps.

Heartbreak should make me softer. But all it did, I think, was make me numb.

“The hold this summer has had on New York City is finally backing down,” the weather reporter yammers on the television, her red suit, a power move, and her sleek hair, proof she has money. Glitters dangle on her wrists, and lipstick glints under studio lights. If she’s not careful, some entrepreneurial soul might meet her in the parking lot after work and take what they want. “We can expect relief in the coming days,” she continues, “with a cool front moving in and rain, breaking that humid spell we’ve been experiencing lately.”

“Are you hungry, Tiia?” Jazzy wanders from my tiny kitchen and stops at my couch, her eyes, somehow, impossibly, sadder than mine. Like she’s taking my pain and swallowing it down for her own greedy consumption. “Tiia, honey? Did you hear me?”

Slowly, I break my stare with the television and look at my too-tall, too-beautiful friend and frown, because she wears a baggy shirt three sizes too large, and little shorts that cling to her like skin. It’s not like her outfit is bad. It’s just… not her. Not flashy enough. “Huh?”

“You have to eat.” She comes around to the front of the couch and plops a plate on the coffee table. Her sweet perfume filters past my numbness and tickles my nostrils. And because that penetrates, the smell of fresh-cooked egg rolls follows, stirring what may distantly be described as hunger somewhere in the depths of my stomach.

My eyes follow the smell over to the dish my best friend set down, until I notice the pyramid of fried snacks and the tiny bowl beside them, filled with sweet chili sauce.

“I haven’t seen you eat in days. It’s not healthy.”

‘I’ve eaten.” Defensive, and yet, not all that enthusiastic in my rebuttal, I frown and bring my focus back to the TV. “Not eating for days would make me weak. I would end up in the hospital.” I drop back against the cushions and just… breathe. “Sending myself to the hospital for no reason at all would be foolish.”

“Did you go to that clinic today?” She sits beside me, her knee touching my thigh and her shirt fluttering against my skin until I feel the print on the front, cooler than the rest of the fabric. It’s an odd detail to notice. A peculiar element for my mind to stick to.

But the alternative is undesirable.

And these days, I’m all about avoiding the unwanted.

“Did you get the results from your tests?”

“Yeah.” I blindly search the cushions for the television remote, then flip the channel to some other news station that, thankfully, isn’t reporting on the weather. “My hearing isn’t getting much better. But I’m not so deaf that I need to learn sign, so…” I listlessly lift a single shoulder. “It’s fine. I can still hear.”

“Yeah?” She stands again, still talking, but she purposely walks away, knowing my ears won’t register the words she speaks when facing away from me. Something about tests. Pigheadedness. There might even be mention of my ass melting into the sofa.

“You’re being an asshole,” I mumble. But I don’t get up and chase her down. I don’t even turn in search of the lips we both know she hid so I can’t read. “We adapt, Jazzy. It’s not such a big deal for you, my best friend, to look at me when you speak to me.”

“It’s dangerous!” She stomps back my way, her feet clapping the floor and her weight… well, she doesn’t weigh enough to make a lot of noise. “The job requires you to hear!”

“My job is just…” I set the remote on my thigh and drop my hand to the couch cushions. “Not something I enjoy, anyway. They hung me out to dry after the Carbone case, then they sent me into a new project, no cares at all whether I live or die.”

“Tiia…”

“The only people who gave a shit were you and Roscoe. The Bureau wants Malone alive more than they want me alive.” I hate that his name burns on my tongue. That speaking of a certain family is like acid in my throat. “It’s always about money, Jaz. That family keeps the economy running, and the Bureau wants them protected. Even as they investigate and build a case around them.”

‘Tiia—”

“I’m bored with the hypocrisy.” I lay my head back and lick my dry lips. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

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