Safe Haven ↠ h.s

Chapter Thirty-One

"No fucking way."

The air is knocked out of me as the 6'4" man in front of me pulls me into a bear hug and lifts me in the air, swirling me around in his arms. I laugh loudly, kissing his cheek. He grins at me like a maniac as joy fills both of us at our first reunion in a very long time.

"It's been four years," he breathes. "And fuck, does time ever suit you," he grins. I blush at his compliment.

"Careful of my arm," I chuckle. "And thanks." I blush again.

"I've missed you," I murmur, stepping down from his hug.

"As have I," he smiles. "You look really good, Aubrey."

"Thanks," I blush again. "So do you."

"What happened to you, girl? You look like a mess."

"Did you not just say I looked good? Make up your mind!" I tease him, hitting his arm.

"You know what I mean. What the fuck happened to you?"

"I got attacked," I shrug. "By yours truly. Martin," I explain.

He stares at me. "He broke your leg?"

"Not Martin himself, but another one of his guys fractured my ankle, yeah. Luckily I can walk on it now. He dislocated my shoulder and I was bruised up for a while."

Elijah gapes at me. "How the hell could you not mention to me that you're back in shit again!" He throws his arms in the air. "I would move back to protect you, you know that, right?"

I look to the floor. I actually didn't know that.

No more words are spoken as I step into Eli's house. I've been here once before, but not for four years. When he came over to visit me all those years ago in London, he brought me back with him for a week, paying for the round trip tickets. It's a small house, semi-detached, with the entrance opening up into a small front room with a couch facing a television near the front windows and a desk on the opposite wall.

The windows, three sets of dual-paned glass, are cloaked by thick, dark drapes to keep the light out and to stop people from being able to look in. Privacy is a major factor in life and death while participating in criminal acts.

A large tan-tiled hallway leads to the rest of the house, passing by a carpeted staircase upwards and a few small steps down to a basement door and a half bathroom. The walls are covered in a dirty dark blue paint which could use a good wash. I know he doesn't take good care of his house; he couldn't care less as he rarely had people in here.

The kitchen is to the right of the end of the hallway, sharing the same tan tiles but switching into a darker tan colour for the walls. White appliances blend in with the oak cabinets, the wood of which appears a bit shabby. A few chips litter each panelled door. And in the centre of the room, a matching oak table in an ovular shape. It fit six people but he never had the need to use it, as far as I knew.

The living room, connected in an open-concept manner, was to the left of the end of the hallway, a light cream carpet flooring the ground beneath my feet. Dark brown walls make the room feel smaller than it is. Two old brown couches with holes and rips in the seams back the wall touching the staircase and the wall opposing the kitchen. At the end, another flatscreen television is mounted, with a short table of movies and video games lining it.

"You really never clean in here, do you, Eli?" I ask, picking up four used cereal bowls and bringing them to the dishwasher.

"You really never lose your tone, do you?" He teases back. "You know I couldn't give a shit if this place is clean or dirty."