Page 79 of Vicious Souls

There’s something to be said about living and working in the same building. The sheer convenience of it is remarkable. And having all the facilities I need inside the Penthouse makes life that much better. I do yearn for something more scenic, maybe some land with a quaint garden, but Dante has assured me this is only a short term arrangement until any and all threats have been contained. It makes more sense, he believes, for me to restrict my movements around the city to only those that are absolutely necessary. It helps that Dante is situated right across the road. If he doesn’t pop in daily, he at least calls, and we have fallen into a comfortable familiarity where we tap dance around one another every chance we get.

I make my way up to the Penthouse just after 6pm, showering quickly before throwing on sweats and a t-shirt and clipping my hair up high atop my head. Dante is punctual, a habit I find endearing for a man. He is one of the few I know who is so regimented when it comes to schedules.

“What do you feel like eating?” I ask him, picking up a menu. Another thing I love about the Tower is the 24-hour room service. The kitchen never closes, and no matter what I want, the food here is always amazing.

“Are you kidding me?” he jokes. “You invite me to your place for dinner, and you’re not even going to cook for me?”

I laugh with him and settle into the couch, folding my legs under me like I love to.

“For that, I get to choose what we’re eating.”

After we polish off our steaks and steamed vegetables with extra mash and gravy, one of my favorite dishes, Dante falls back into the sofa and extends his arms across the back, throwing his head back and sighing. Something which I know he picked up from me, because he’s watched me do it a hundred times before.

“I just want to know if doing that gives you as much satisfaction as I get when I do it?” I ask, genuinely curious. When I throw myself into the couch like that, I feel the giddiness all the way down to my soul.

“Probably not,” he says. “I think I took a leaf out of your book and over-ate.”

“I told you to stop eating.”

“I’m going out to the terrace.”

I give him a few minutes, rinsing out the glasses and placing them in the dishwasher, then follow him out to the terrace. His hands are clasped over the rails and he’s looking out at the city, breathing in the cool night air. It is so peaceful.

I stand beside him, leaning my back into the rails, and turn to face him. I study his profile, like I haven’t already committed every ridge and valley to memory. His whisky eyes still glisten with humor at every turn, his finely chiseled face angular and peppered with his 5 o’clock shadow. He never gets rid of it. He wears his black hair slightly longer in the back now, and I know if he didn’t cut it soon, it will be only a matter of time before it starts trailing down his neck. Tonight, he seems a million miles away, and I wonder what is occupying his mind.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask, cutting into his thoughts.

“Are you doing okay, Kingsley?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

“Don’t do that, Dante.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t answer one of my questions with one of your own. Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not deflecting.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Dante! Are we back to this now? Just tell me what you’re thinking, tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t avoid my questions and make the conversation about me. Again.”

I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated, and storm into the house. I have a mind to close the door and lock him outside on the terrace. But I won’t. Instead, I slump against the couch and hold a cushion to my stomach like it is body armor. Thirty seconds later, he follows me in, sitting opposite me and taking a deep breath. He hangs his head, perhaps thinking about what he wants to say, and takes forever about it as my anger continues to consume me.

“You can’t keep doing this, Dante. It’s like we’re running circles around each other.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“That’s my point.”

68

KINGSLEY

Iam in the mood from hell. And hell hath no fury like a woman on the warpath. To save myself a whole lot of heartache and to avoid destroying everyone and everything in my sight, I call my assistant Fiona and tell her I’d be working from home today. All in house meetings are suspended. All external appointments cancelled. I hear her take a deep breath before she opens her mouth and tries to “but” me, but I shut her down quickly.

I sob into my pillow for two hours. I have a tub of ice cream for breakfast. I switch on the television to a mindless reality show then promptly switch it back off again. Until I finally throw on some clothes, and head in for a workout just before midday.

And this is where Dante eventually finds me, headphones on and running on the treadmill like my life depends on it. It had been decided when I moved in that Dante would have fingerprint access to the Penthouse. Just in case there was ever an emergency and he needed to gain access to reach me.Someonehad to be able to access the place. Even though it was built like Fort Knox, he still had concerns for my safety.

I hit the emergency button on the machine and wait for it to slow before jumping off, wiping my towel across my face. I take the headphones off. I notice how his eyes linger too long on the skin that stretches tightly against my midriff in the space between the top of my pants and my crop-top. My arms are bare, my tights sticking to my thighs and legs like a second skin.

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