The Deal

Chapter 26 - Part Two - Bloody Knuckles

  {Maybe I'm too busy being yours ~ to fall for somebody new 

Do I Wanna Know? ~ Arctic Monkeys} 

Chapter 26 – Part Two – Bloody Knuckles

"Damon, I swear to god if you don't pick up I'm gonna hunt you down and throttle you while you sleep - unless you're into that kinky crap, 'cos like I'm sorry, no – just, answer your damn phone!"

I hung up, riled. I didn't even know where he lived. Did anyone? How was I supposed to carry out my threats if no one had his home address?

I was schlepping my way through quiet suburbia, having upped and left Warren's place after enduring as much sullenness as I could take from both Warren and Oliver alike. Finally, after an hour of awkwardness, I managed to make a break for the door.

The day was scorching hot, the temperature pushing 40 as I sweated in places I didn't know I could sweat. I felt like I'd been rubbed down with a slab of butter. My hair – which I'd spent many seconds scrapping into a plait before heading off to Warren's - had reacted to this kind of weather much like it usually did; doubling in size and sending all the baby hairs on my head out at right angles and making me look like the local mad woman.

It was on a particularly empty stretch of road when my phone chimed, startling my sluggish brain out of its daze and sending my phone clattering to the ground from my hand. When I bent down to retrieve it, I discovered my clothes had papier mache'd themselves to my limbs thanks to the humidity, making it more difficult to fetch my phone than it needed to be.

The phone itself was fine, but as I examined the screen I caught sight of the message that had made me drop it in the first place.

Can't talk now, meet you at the market square in 20 – Damon

I pursed my lips, holding in the onslaught of profanities I wanted to hurl a him as I squatted there in the middle of the deserted street.

My fingers hovered over the screen, debating whether to call him even though he most likely wouldn't answer anyway, or spend the next ten minutes wording a lengthy text telling him exactly what I think of him.

Eventually, I settled on a simple fine.

Satisfied, I started walking with a renewed sense of purpose, heading in the direction of the local shopping centre.

*

He pulled up on his motorbike, wearing faded jeans, a leather jacket and a white button-down shirt that made is tanned skin almost glow. 

He was the definition of a heart breaker. And a deadly weapon.

I was fuming over what he'd done, so mad that I could barely think straight; and yet my heart still banged against my ribs as he climbed off his ride and made his way towards me.

But as he drew closer, my eyes drifted away from his face down to his hands which, unlike Warren's, looked as if they'd been scrapped against a brick.

Knowing how they got to be like that made my admiration for his face fade. I shook my head, grit my teeth and reminded myself as to why we were both out roaming the streets before sundown on a Sunday.

He walked with such confidence, completely at ease with himself and his surroundings that it made my dislike for him in that moment intensify. I envied him the ability to be so comfortable in his own skin. He could captivate a crowd simply by moving, whereas I got attention by tripping over.