Page 62 of Violent Possession
And yet... I remember. Him finding me in an alley in Fresno, months after the amputation. Me, a fucked-up guy, smelling of infection and cheap booze. He didn’t have to help me. But he did. He was the only parasite who stayed when I had no more blood to give.
I stand up, ignoring his panic. I look at Marcus. Betrayed and terrified.
“I’ll call you later,” I say. It’s another lie.
I follow the men in suits out, with the sound of Marcus’s desperate voice calling me
Alexei’s eyescatch me the instant I enter. He’s across the room, different from that executive automaton who made me sign my soul at dinner. The expensive suit is gone, and in its place, he wears a dark dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, all put together to give off a casual air that only works becausehe’snot casual. I see the bluish translucent veins of his arms, and the feeling it gives is like seeing a piece of porcelain that could shatter with any wrong touch. He holds a wide glass of neat whiskey with ice.
It hasn’t even been two hours since I was dripping blood, and now I’m part of another kind of show.
Alexei’s men took me from the locker room to a hotel suite that smelled of money and lemon. A doctor cleaned my cuts and gave me a few stitches on my eyebrow. It wasn’t the same as last time, but it came from the same mold: efficient, no questions asked, and never looking me in the eyes. New clothes werelaid out on the bed. Someone else’s clothes; someone formal, luxurious. A dress shirt that makes me uncomfortable, but that is exactly my size without anyone asking anything beforehand. A costume.
The elevator was panoramic. As it went up, I tried to understand the script. Fight, blood, quick wash, VIP party. The cycle never changes, only the role changes. Luxury mascot, domestic monster to impress some big shot in a suit.
Now, clean and patched up, I face a private lounge on the top floor of a luxury hotel. Vania is there, in a corner. He doesn’t look like the same guy from dinner. Here, he’s smiling, gesturing, and talking loudly with another guy. The same men in suits I saw on the mezzanine are scattered around, talking quietly. And Alexei.
All eyes end on him, even when they pretend not to look.
I approach the group, and he turns to me. The smile is the same as on the mezzanine, small, contained, only now warmer. He studies my face, and before I can come up with any phrase, his hand rests on the small of my back. Firm, warm; raising the skin, igniting some nerve in me.
I lean in and whisper just for him to hear. “What the fuck is this now?”
“The celebration,” he whispers back. “Youimpressedthem. All of them.”
The way he pronounces the words sends shivers down my spine. He’s too close.
I think about grabbing the glass from his hand, throwing the liquid in his face, and raising the hell he expects so much. But no. I just stand there, still. An idiot with tachycardia. I try to convince myself it’s just post-fight adrenaline, but that’s a lie. That adrenaline never came. There’s a growing urge in me to do the opposite of what I should.
I can feel the warmth of his body through the fabric of his shirt, his scent. Whiskey and some expensive perfume. He’s elegant, dangerous, and, in this light, fucking handsome.
I want to shut his mouth with mine and see what the hell that arrogance tastes like. It’s a stupid, suicidal idea.
And I’ve never wanted to do something so much in my life.
It’s Alexei who breaks the spell.
The warm touch on my lower back hardens into a command, guiding my body from where my will ends and his begins, to face the room.
“Gentlemen,” Alexei’s voice rings out, calm and projected, drawing the attention of the other men. “I’d like to introduce our champion of this cycle.”
His hand on my back tightens slightly.Stand still. Let them look.
“Griffin.”
And they look at me. They see the stitches on my eyebrow and I see the dollar signs forming in their eyes.
It’s Vania who approaches first. I instinctively brace for impact, but instead of a threat, he breaks into a wide, brutal smile. He slaps me hard on the back.
“Good fight, Iron Arm,” he says. “You broke that guy in half.That’sfucking entertainment.”
A pat on the back is a gesture that would be of friendship anywhere, except here. I’m tempted to return it, to give back with double the force, just to see where it goes. This is the same man who threatened me with death a few days ago. The same one who looked at me with pure hatred.
One of the men, an older one with a gold watch, smiles at the corner of his mouth as he watches me, looking first at my face, then at the prosthesis, then at my face again, waiting for a reaction. He begins to approach us with a glass of brandy in his hand.
“He wanted to know about your arm,” Alexei whispers to me, discreetly. “Make something up. I’ll fix it later.” His hand pushes my lower back in a quick, intimate, and corrective touch.
The phrase hits me on two levels. First, the realization: he knows it’s a shitty subject for me. Second, the order: he’s giving me permission, or rather, aninstruction, to lie.
