Diavolo

xxxviii

PRESLEY

Something was wrong. Fucked up. Twisted with a sense of illusion. He was here. Lurking and moving slowly over the shadows of the dark.

        It was bizarre becuase he wasn't supposed to be here. Wasn't supposed to be waiting outside or even persisting to get me to hear his side of the story.

He was stubborn as hell. Usually he would have left by the time the clock struck nine but as I glanced at the clock which read 11:30 p.m, I knew something was wrong.

I stood by the window, peeking through the blinds and watching as he sat in his car, the heat on full blast and steaming, fogging the windows but I could still make the clear outline of his beautiful, rugged face.

The tinted windows were rolled down slightly, just enough for the smoke from his lit cigarette to dance through and into the dark night.

He ran a busted knuckle through his black air, inhaling a heavy breath and his chest heaving a consistent rhythm.

It was in the middle of March and one of the coldest nights which was an effect of the brutal winter in Chicago and I knew that it wasn't sustainable for the man to be cooped up in the car with the heat on full blast all night.

Especially as I watched him reclining the leather seats all the way back, his feet propped on the dashboard and a finger constantly twiddling the cherry cigarette.

I knew what that meant. He was prepared to spend the night outside, cooped up in the black Audi of his with the heat on full blast if it meant I would eventually talk to him. Damn it.

With a small groan, I reached for my phone and typed out a furious message.

Presley: Go home, Silvio.

Do not text this number: If you talk to me, I will. Five minutes is all I'm asking.

Presley: No. Leave.

Do not text this number: As soon as you talk to me. Otherwise, I'll be forced to resort to extreme measure.

Presley: You wouldn't dare.

Do not text this number: Just five minutes. That's all I'm asking and after, I'll leave you alone. Forever.

My heart throbbed, pounding and flushed as I read his message over and over again before I groaned lowly, mentally smacking myself in the head as I typed out a response.

I knew I was making a fucking huge mistake, kicking myself in the gut and ripping out all the bandaids I'd plastered on myself to keep my emotional state together and putting myself in the front line to take the damage but I also knew I needed to hear him out.

I needed both sides of the stories and the full story because a part of me—a misguided and deluded part—still refused to believe that the man standing in front of me, shivering slightly and rubbing his hands together in an effort to produce spontaneous heat would break my trust.

"Hi." His deep, warm voice spoke, toasting my insides and melting every single muscle in my bone.

        He quietly slammed the doorway shut, taking hesitant steps into the room when I didn't respond to his greeting.

I breathed in a deep breath, willing my body to relax and not fucking jump every single time he moved an inch of that hard big body.

        It was quite ridiculous because he was much too big for everything.