Diamonds Dancing

Thirty Three

Eight fucking hours. Eight agonisingly slow hours, and he was losing his goddamn mind.

Sweat trickled down his forehead and over his marked sculpted body. Withdrawals. He was in no mood to be nice to anyone, including the pest of man he called his good friend.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Slater Ivanov spat down the small device angrily, dropping his gloved hands and easing the swinging bag in place. "Fuck. Off."

Being sober for eight hours was proving to be more challenging than he thought.

It hadn't even been a whole day yet, and he was already craving a high. He needed to use something, anything to take the edge off.

Devin's voice came out in a sarcastic murmur. "I missed you too, man. Yeah, I'm good, thanks for asking."

The Englishman didn't stand the possibility to revive a genuine response, no, not with the current state of mind his recipient was in.

"I'm being serious. Block my number, you stupid dickhead. You've been blowing up my phone every hour of the fucking day. And for what exactly? You can't even find a fucking chick to suck you off. Are you that fucking desperate to get off that you need to listen to the sound of my voice or something?" He replied gruffly, the wireless earphones in his ears making it easy for him to rip his boxing gloves off and reach for his water bottle. "Fucking cocksuckin' motherfucker."

His colourful array of words achieved a string of loud unfiltered laughter. "Shit then, I see you're struggling to do this whole cold turkey thing, huh." It was said as a statement rather than a question.

When he chose to stay voiceless, another comment filtered through.

As if to rub salt on the sore wound, the entertained man proceeded. "My guy. I'm proud of you for finally doing it."

"Past' zabej, padla jebanaja." Shut the fuck up, you fucking bitch. The producer licked his dry lips before downing the water in one large swig.

"Aw. Love you more, bro."

Rolling his chestnut eyes, the exhaustion started to creep in slowly. "What do you want from me?" He asked more seriously, crushing the now empty bottle and throwing it into the bin without a second glance. "I don't have the time or energy to listen to any of your bullshit stories today."

Thump. It landed perfectly.

He didn't need to double-check, knowing he had gotten it in on the first throw. Countless years of playing sport taught him one thing and one thing only, and that was to have one a hell of a good aim.

Devin's low accent followed. "I need a favour."

Slater's jaw ticked. "Did you try asking someone who cares?" He turned to sarcasm, uninterested in what the man had to ask him.

There was a slight shuffle. "You know," the line crackled a little more. "one day. One slow and painfully long day, there will come a time when you need me and I will make sure to tell you to go fuck yourself. How would you like that?"

"Wouldn't care. You honestly believe I would waste my time calling you if I needed help?" The older man was growing irritated, he was bored of the drag of a conversation.

"Alright, whatever. I need to borrow one of your jets tonight."

Ha. Now, this would be a straightforward phone call. Perfect, it was exactly what he was hoping to hear.