Lovers & Devils [BxB]

Gang-over

     Day seventeen.
     Beep. Beep. If I had to listen to this godawful ringtone a jiff more...Beep. The call connected, screen lighting up. I rolled my eyes heavenwards as if I could perceive him on his little fur-topped office chair, sipping his planetarian coffee sugary and smug but before me was an ceiling made sallow from the blighting morning sun, the lightbulb lifeless like a tongue hanging down the side of a parched mouth. The black phone bore slack in my hand near my stalled mouth, my brown hair chafing the grey headboard and I was certain it could kindle enough energy for him to answer his phone.

     "Bonum diem, my dear. Can you hear me alright?" The holed speakers hummed for his voice dulcet by all the star anise and cinnamon blends he tested.

     The rustle of my sinkingly soft sage pillow replied. A tiny green circle gleamed at the top of the phone. "Yeah, I can hear you. How're you doing?"

     "Busy. Busy. Christmas assessments are next month for Schola Uriel, but I managed to secure a break for another one of my mother's sororitas soirées. I quite liked the attention, and of course, the magnificent food."

     I scoffed. Ezekiel and his cherubness. I didn't realise anyone could hear the whispers of my bloated belly, the constant swallowing of acerbic oil shooting up to scald the back of my throat—simply from yesterday night's portentous takeout. Flat wings doused in spicy sauce that got in your nails, steak chips drenched in herby mayonnaise, burgers penalizing fluttery lettuce with oozing cheddar cheese and grease that scattered sesame seeds of disarray in my upper abdomen, the dynamic four gobbled them down like a prison last meal—fitting since it was an underground fight they were celebrating. "Don't talk about food. I had fast food for the first time last night, and I think I'm going to be sick."

     It was a far cry from the tossed apple-mushroom salads and full-bodied pigs roasted in golden honey with a wreath of popping pearl tomatoes and seared vegetables I had at Eva's sumptuous banquets.

     Ezekiel chuckled. "You're lucky you're in Ireland. I had a conversion in the United States, and it truly is the haven of a glutton. Salads cost more than burgers!"

     "Is the coffee at least any good?"

     "Goodness no. A 'grande' of pure sugar and crushed ice. I'm not one for waste, so I had to finish the culinary monstrosity. Anyway—" I heard him sigh and in the background a fireplace cooed my senses. It made me forget about the tension in my hunched neck. "I'm sure you didn't call me to hear about my coffee 'capades."

     "I wish it was about that!" I scrubbed my hairline with my fingertips then threaded fingers through. "Mammon does underground boxing, rather, did. He retired. I went to his last fight."

      I scooted my languid legs down the pliant sheets, the shifting weight reeling my thin mustard shirt up my arching back. A sanding sound mingled with his judicious and fluctuating hum as I dropped my head on the waved pillow, feeling the sides balloon like bread loafs and meet the shells of my ears.

     "Well. Compared to what else he has done, underground boxing is rather tame."

     "Right. We never got to talk about that...Neither in the hotel nor the café."

     "Mammon is in a gang—Vandits."

      It was so abrupt. I had a clumsy grip on the heating mint-cased phone, and though it didn't fall flat on my face, buckets of shock that scooped up my colour in turn did. I blinked as if it was in my eyes, beading on my lashes like the flashy blue and brusque online headlines and pictures of celtic-ie gold Gardaí crests did in front of me. Garda shot in an alley. Mammon couldn't be involved in that, could he? No, he's not a murderer, he said so! I couldn't stay lying down. The smudgy phone screen showed the minutes and Caller ID when my jaw hovered too close. It was his fact against my prayer. Mammon was well capable, no, prone to violence. I saw it in the ring. I saw it with Ezekiel. I saw it with me.