I stayed in the bedroom for as long as I could bear it. The sun was already up by the time I even considered leaving the room. I wanted to stay there forever, huddled up under the covers and staring at the reflective gold designs on the marble floor that sparkled occasionally. The white bedsheets (I still hadn't fixed them onto the bare mattress correctly and instead decided to embrace my new identity as a human burrito) had the fragrance of laundry detergent and the barest hint of Wolfe's cologne.
The bag of cherry Twizzlers that Wolfe brought in with him was lying on a pillow next to the one I was trying to smother my face in. So was all the medical supplies. I didn't touch any of it except for the pain medication. I had to swallow two of them with water from the bathroom sink because the numbness was beginning to wear off. That was the only time I left the bed. For the past half hour or so, I buried myself and wallowed in self pity, trying to come up with a plausible explanation to give my parents when I returned to Brooklyn.
It's not like I could just tell them exactly what happened.
Oh, yeah. Wolfe and I trespassed to the basement of a law firm and he showed me this really cool underground lair. And then I got shot by some lunatics in a white van trying to kill Wolfe, but he rammed them into the guardrail on a highway filled with traffic. And then I woke up in his penthouse in his clothes in his bed and he kissed me. Anyways, LOL, no big deal. How are you, Mom and Dad? Yeah, no. Not gonna happen.
With a sigh, I clambered out of bed. I had to face him sooner or later. Unless he'd let me call an Uber to take me back to Brooklyn...
I didn't know what to think. I was at a loss of what to do anymore. I wasn't even going to try to explain anything to myself, because it was all so messed up and frustrating. What should I say? Should I acknowledge the kiss or just pretend it never happened? How the hell was I supposed to do that? Man, I really wished there was a manual that could explain the ins and outs of kissing globally notorious mafia bosses and what to do afterwards. Maybe there was. Maybe I could search Google...
I was getting pretty hungry and there were only so many rooms I could explore, so after a while, I decided to gather whatever was left of my dignity and go downstairs. This took about half an hour because I kept on panicking and running back into the bedroom as soon as I reached the top of the spiral staircase. Finally, I explained to myself how ridiculous I was being and slowly creeped down the stairs, making sure Wolfe wasn't there.
The staircase opened up to an enormous foyer area thing, with the same gold and marble floors as upstairs. There was a balcony on the second floor across from the staircase that led to a floor-to-ceiling length bookshelf. A door to my right led to what appeared to be a dining area and a door to my left led to some sort of living room. Where I stood had no significant piece of furniture except for a massive television screen playing a soccer game on mute and some chrome lamps carefully placed around the room. A big crystal chandelier hung above a table with a vase of white roses. Everything was very white and clean, opting for minimalism. The penthouse was beautiful, I could give him that. Must've cost a fortune. Although money was rarely a problem for Wolfe Sterling. I wondered if the rest of the Crowns had living quarters as luxurious as Wolfe did.
It was silent. Too silent. There was no hum of the refrigerator and no cars drove past, which creeped me out because I was used to the loud honking and roars of engines. There were no comforting sounds a home should have and it kinda freaked me out, although the sheer size of the room I was standing in was enough to make me uneasy. What did he need a place this big for?
The marble floor was freezing under my bare feet. "Wolfe?" I called softly. I was afraid to speak louder than a whisper.
No answer.
I waited a couple of more seconds, but was met with nothing. With a sigh, I began to venture through the rest of his penthouse. Everything was as pretty and expensive as I expected it to be, but no Wolfe Sterling. After a moment, when walking through all the rooms held no cute criminals, I began to get uneasy. He wouldn't just leave me, right? I mean, he didn't hate me that much...right? Standing around stupidly was getting me nowhere, so I tried the front doors. They were locked with a security system that required a fingerprint scan. I tried the backdoors, too, but they were bolted and needed keys to open.
"Wolfe?" I said again, this time louder as I walked back to the foyer. Still no answer.
I checked all the rooms again, just in case he wandered in while I was in another part of the penthouse, but he was still nowhere to be seen. I even checked upstairs, but he wasn't there either. Alright. Time to accept my second abandonment.
Suddenly, a faint thud caught my ears. It sounded distant, but not so far away that I'd think it wasn't coming from somewhere in the house. It sounded like something fell or hit something. A heavy sort of thud, it was. Hoping my sense of hearing was as good as I thought it was, I walked back into the kitchen again. This time, the noise was louder. A heavier thud. Like something being forcefully smacked into another object.
There was a door to the far left of the kitchen. I assumed it was the basement and I assumed that it held the source of the noise and I assumed that whatever was down there was going to burst through the door and brutally murder me any second now.
But the seconds ticked past and no crazy axe-wielding zombie came after me, so I forced myself to walk to the door and pull it open.
The stairs led down to a dim room. My courage almost failed me. Almost. Had it not been for the ache to see Wolfe again and return home, I think I might have run back upstairs and cowered under the bedsheets rather than face whatever dangers that awaited to decide my unfortunate fate in the darkness below.
Okay, I'm being dramatic. It wasn't that dark or scary. And it sounded like Wolfe was down there because I heard a third thudding noise, which was followed by a low, animalistic grunt.
Without giving myself time to change my mind, I stepped down the stairs one at a time until I was at the bottom.
Like all basements, it was chilly and dim, lit up by a single bare bulb. Unlike the rest of the place, which was all pretty and white, the room appeared to be more like a dungeon than anything else. The cement floor was cold under my bare feet. Some blue mats laid off to the side. There were several cardio exercise machines in one corner and a mass of dark clothes in a basket in one of the others. A beat up old punching bag hung from the ceiling, some of the stuffing coming out. And hitting it, punch after forceful punch, was Wolfe.
His back was turned so he didn't see me. Wolfe wasn't wearing a shirt. The scars on his muscular body was enough to make me cringe. Some were long and pink, like a knife wound. Others appeared to be burn marks, and there was a nasty-looking one that had scar tissue left over from stitches. Most of them were healed, or as healed as they could be considering the brutality of the scars. His back was covered in them. The skin on his torso was worse, each cruel slash and bite worse than the last. His love of fighting would get him killed.
Sweat clung to his back rippled with muscles and scars as he threw punch after punch to the bag, which swung wildly from the force of his knuckles but came back with twice the vigor. Wolfe returned the hate, his fists ramming into the hard leather as if it destroyed his very soul and he wanted revenge. The force that Wolfe fought with, the anger and the hate, should've been enough motivation for me to go climb a mountain to get away from him.
But it didn't. As I stood there at the foot of the steps, watching Wolfe throw every punch as if his life depended on it, I could feel nothing but an empty ache. Who destroyed this man? There had to have been someone. Someone who stripped Wolfe Sterling of every emotion, every feeling, every ounce of humanity. Wolfe wasn't born like that. He wasn't always so filled with rage and ice. A lone wolf, facing the world alone.
Suddenly, Wolfe tensed and stopped punching. I nearly stopped breathing. The bag came to a swinging halt and he had to put his hands out to stop it. His knuckles and wrists were wrapped with white athletic tape. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
"Get out of here, Florence." Wolfe said quietly. In the darkness of the basement, his voice was magnified and the warning edge to his tone was clear. For once, though, he didn't sound angry. It was more of an order than anything else. His muscles were still stiff and he spoke without turning around to face me.
My fingers gripped the banister of the staircase. I could feel the sweat forming in my palms. It was easier to look at Wolfe when he wasn't glaring me down. He had the dream body. Just with more scars than anyone deserved. And they weren't just the physical type either. I eyed the long pink bruise that went down the side of his torso with a sick sort of clench twisting my insides. "We need to talk." I muttered softly.
"There is nothing to talk about." His words were concise and clear. Wolfe still kept his back to me, speaking in such a low tone that I had to strain myself to catch all his words. "Go back upstairs. Your clothes are in the storage room, next door to the second floor bathroom. Get dressed and wait for me-"
"No." I shook my head even though he couldn't see it. "Come on, aren't we past this yet? All this ordering me around and 'you must do what I say or there will be dire consequences' crap? Please. The least you could do is sit down and give me a half decent explanation. About everything. I need answers. Please, Wolfe. Don't push me away." My voice cracked. Flustered, I cleared my throat and went on. "Not after what we've been through. Not after you-"
"You don't get it, Florence." Wolfe finally turned around. I was right, the scars on his torso and chest were worse. Sinewy muscles rippled under the harsh light. He had some sort of circular tribal tattoo on the upper left of his chest. Even though I was standing a good ten feet from where he was, Wolfe's eyes still had the same gut-clenching effect on me. "I'll always be the bad guy." He growled. "That's never going to change. I can't change who I am, and try as you might, you can't change me either. Your shining prince in a suit of armor is someone else. I can't ever be that guy. The hero of the story. And you deserve someone better. Someone a whole lot better than me or that college kid you're so in love with." He said bitterly. "Fuck. Can't you let me suffer in silence? Do you always need to look at me with those doe eyes and that little smile and test every ounce of self control that I have?"
I stared at Wolfe, at a loss for words. Shaking my head, I whispered, "I-I....I'm not- Wolfe...."
"And the worst part about it is that you don't need me at all," Wolfe continued hoarsely. This was a therapy session. This was a confession. This was emotional. This...was...not...him. "I knew I never had a chance with you. Why bother trying? What good thing would ever come out of me forcing you to spend time with me? I've held you at gunpoint." A weak chuckle haggardly escaped his lips, sounding more like a heavy breath. "I would not have hesitated to pull that fucking trigger. God, I wish...I wish I'd done it..."
"Are you high, Wolfe?" The things he was saying sounded all too much like lies. I couldn't believe what he was saying. He'd never say anything of the sort without some influence of liquor or drugs, no he would never.
"No."
"You want me dead?"
"I want you out of my life."
"Then do it!" My voice rose to a fever pitch and reverberated through the cold walls. "God damn, Wolfe, it's not that hard! I will gladly get out of your life. I will gladly leave you alone. I'd be so damn happy if I never saw you again...but you are not letting me leave. The doors are locked! You brought me here! I'm only here because you are making me be here, Wolfe!" Now I was yelling. "I'd never willingly spend a second of my time in your presence by choice. You want me dead? Then kill me! You want me out of your life? Then let me go! It's not that fucking hard!"
Wolfe turned around, his body rigid. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth, and it was a one word response. "No."
"If you had picked any other coffee shop in Brooklyn-" I chose my words carefully, trying hard not to let them crack. "-or, hell, even a Starbucks, we wouldn't be standing here, hating ourselves so much."
"You don't need to beat yourself up." Wolfe turned around again, watching me. The same look of fervid regret passed through his face before becoming passive again. "You did nothing wrong, Florence."
"But we're both to blame." I said bluntly.
"Most of that blame falls to me."
"No, it doesn't." I let go of the banister and wiped my hands on the shirt. After a moment's hesitation, I stepped closer to where Wolfe stood. He was breathing heavily and a trickle of sweat crawled down his abdomen. I swallowed hard. "I'm at as much fault as you were. I was...what's that phrase...poking the bear with a stick? Yeah, I think that's it."
Wolfe gave a rough, humourless chuckle. "I'm not a bear, Florence. And if you poke me, I swear it'll be the last thing you ever do."
"Noted." I said dryly, slowly inching towards the steps. The coldness of the cement was finally getting to me. Like my shoulder, my toes were numb. There was nothing more to say between us. He would tell me nothing. I would ask nothing more of an explanation or an answer. It was too fucking much, all of it. I was exhausted. "Where did you say my clothes were again?"
"Second floor, next to my bedroom." Wolfe shifted and smacked one of his fists into the punching bag, and then the teasing smirk came back to his lips. "Do you want to learn how to throw a punch? If I'm going to stick with you till the end, which I plan to do so, you're going to need to learn how to defend yourself in case I'm not around to protect you."
"Or I could just enter myself into the witness protection program and let the law defend me instead of these fists." I curled my knuckles in and looked at them. We were still standing a good few feet apart but the size of Wolfe's mammoth fists made mine seem terribly small. Which it was. Because I don't punch things. Unless it involved Twizzlers.
"Maybe later then." Wolfe smiled. His breathing had calmed now.
"Maybe never." I agreed cheerfully.
"I'll be up in fifteen minutes." He turned his focus back to the punching bag. I couldn't fathom how he could handle busting his knuckles over and over again, as if bruises didn't hurt. Maybe to him, they didn't. He wasn't looking at me anymore. "We'll have breakfast and I can take you back to Brooklyn."
I nodded but I don't think he saw. Wolfe began to unravel the bandages from around his hands. I watched for only a second, desperately wanting to ask if he was okay. A part of me knew the answer. No, Wolfe wasn't okay. He would never be okay. Maybe he didn't even know the answer himself. Was there even the barest shred of redemption a man like him could get after everything he's done? Granted, Wolfe never acted alone in his crimes. Brice, Dan, Jasper, Elliot, and many other unnamed Crowns members always had a part in it, too. They were bad people, too. But Wolfe...he was worse.
He was the Gru to the minions.
I think that's my worst analogy yet.