Page 39 of Riot Reunion
“Hey,asshole. You’re drooling on the couch.”
I jerk awake.
Michael looms over me like an unkempt sentinel. Shadows gather beneath his eyes, and his bottom lip is split wide open. Most worryingly, there is a trail of blood down the front of his shirt, and his beautiful Tom Ford suit is conspicuously rumpled.
“The fuck happened to you?” I groan, attempting to drag myself into an upright position; I manage it on the third try, wincing as I realize I now have a crick in my neck, and my shoulder is killing me. There’s a reason why I don’t sleep on couches, even if they are nice, deep, expensive sectionals like this one.
“Tijuana,” is all Michael says. He spins and heads off in the direction of the kitchen. “I was hoping you’d have a pot of coffee going,” he grumbles.
I drag myself up and follow after him. “Iwas hoping you’d actually come home at a reasonable hour so I could get back to my girlfriend.”
“I don’t like you calling her that.” Michael thumps a bag of coffee grounds down onto the kitchen counter, then rubs his forehead, wincing against what looks like an impressive hangover.
I go about hunting through the kitchen cabinets, searching for the mugs, purposefully slamming the doors as I go. “What would you prefer I call her?”
“For the love of god, please stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
SLAM.
“That.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My back is killing me. What the fuck is that sofa made out of? Concrete?”
He eyes me dourly. “There are four bedrooms in this very large apartment. You could have slept in any ofthosebeds. You didn’t have to crash on the couch.”
“Like hell. I don’t know whose bodily fluids are in those beds.”
“It’s been a while since anything rowdy happened here, but I can promise you, there’swaymore DNA embedded in that couch you slept face down on. You can go now, Lovett. I texted Colt’s mom two seconds ago. She’s coming to get him, so we don’t need you anymore.”
“Oh, I’ll gladly leave, don’t you worry. But we’re going to have a chat first, you and I.”
“I’m really not in the mood to chew the fa—HEY!”
I grab him by the lapels of his suit jacket, shoving him against the counter. I will never forget the expression on his face—shock, mixed with nausea and a heaping dose of rage. He swipes my hands away, livid, ready to lay into me, but I grab him again, stepping in close. “I know you care about her. I know you love her and want to protect her. I know I’m young, and English, and I’ve led a very privileged life, but be under no illusions, Michael. I am not a weak, arrogant little pushover. I am not a fucking punching bag that you can humiliate and mistreat to make me feel small. I’m not going anywhere. Carrie’s more precious to me than my own fucking life. I love her so much that it’s actually sent me a little mad, which is why I’m going to do something I know to be really fucking stupid right now, and I’m going to threaten you. If you fuck with me again, or try to make a fool of me, or you try to come between Carrie and me, or you undermine me in any way in front of her, I will fuckinghurtyou. Do you understand?”
Michael doesn’t make a peep. His hands are locked around my wrists, as if he’s about to yank them off him again, but he just stands there, looking at me. After a long, tense beat, he blinks. “All right. I can respect that. Won’t happen again,” he says. Dropping his hands, he claps me on the shoulder. “Now, please, deargod, make some coffee before you leave. I feel like I’m about todie.”
“I’llmake the coffee.”
I whip around, a shock wave of adrenalin rocking me to my nerve endings. I didn’t hear anyone come in. Neither did Michael; he looks like he just about jumped out of his skin, too. A woman stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Maybe thirty or so. Her long brunette hair is the same color as Colt’s. The shape of their noses are similar, but where the little boy’s eyes are dark, the woman’s are blue. She’s beautiful, there’s no denying that. And she’s…familiar?
“Wait. I know you.” I step away from Michael, facing her properly, taking her in. “You…You’re…” Why can’t I put my finger on it? I swear I’ve seen this woman before.
“I’m Sloane,” she says, smiling warmly, offering me her hand as she enters the kitchen. She’s really fuckingtall. I can smell the fresh suede of her jacket as we shake. “I think we may have come across each other in a hospital once upon a time. I’m here to collect my very precocious son.”
“Damn. You got here quick.”
She laughs. “Oh, I slept next door last night. We own that apartment, too.”
“I’m sorry,what?” The glare I send Michael’s way could wilt flowers. I could be mistaken, but the fucker doesn’t look the slightest bit remorseful as he goes back to trying to find the coffee.
“You didn’t seriously think we’d leave such precious cargo in your care, did you?” he asks. “Half of Seattle would pay ‘fuck-you’ money for that kid. There were two armed guards by the elevators all night. Plus one outside the door. And yeah, his mom was next-door.”
“Why thehellwould you make me come here to babysit, then!”
Michael sags with relief, hands braced against the kitchen counter, when he finds a box of Keurig pods. “We wanted to see if you’d play ball,” he says simply.
