Trapped In Your Bleeding Heart (Riff x Reader)

Chapter Twenty Six - Negotiations

Sorry for the week absence everyone!!! I had to work full time over my spring break, and had no time to write 😭😭😭 anyway happy reading!!!!

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"So," Riff began, immediately leaning on the counter again. "There's this storm."

I sighed. "Yes, I've heard."

"... Okay."

There was a beat. "Was that it?" I asked.

Riff glanced towards the ceiling, as if he was debating what to say next. "Look, Little-T has these shaky hands– it's some kinda' tremor– doc says it's called 'Parkinson's' or something like that."

Parkinson's disease. I was familiar with it. It was a progressive disease– one that starts out slow, and unnoticable. But as time goes on it gets more and more severe. But what did it have to do with me? "Who's 'Little-T'?" I asked.

"T. Tony. Blonde. Slicks his hair back like it's the twenties." He paused. "Maria's guy."

Tony had Parkinson's disease? "Okay." I said. "What can I do to help?"

A smile pulled on the edge of Riff's mouth, but he remained focused. "Cut my hair."

I deadpanned. "What?"

"Little Tony's hands are getting too shaky. Plus– you're a doc, so you probably have real good hands for that kinda' stuff."

"Are you kidding? Go to a barber!"

"What, you think because I work uptown I can afford that?"

"Then do it yourself!"

"W–" he halted. "I want it to look good!"

Conversation echoed from the kitchen. I tried to shoo Riff away with my hands. "Then just don't get a haircut!"

"I need one!"

"Why?"

"I told you– the storm!"

"What does the storm have to do with anything?"

He exhaled, and brushed my hands away. As if I were dense, he rubbed his eyelids in irritation. "My hair's going to get wet." He stated.

My hands dropped to my sides. "Big deal, Riff."

"I can't have my hair long enough to get in my eyes! How will I fight?"

"Move it out of your face?"

"I can't let my guard down." His tone became grave. "I'll die."

"No you won't." I dismissed. He didn't waver. "Don't be so dramatic."

Riff's tongue pushed the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. His dead-set eyes bored through me. I shook my head. "You're such a child." I insulted. "I'll cut your damn hair."

Riff shrugged. "Okay." He said it with a lack of interest, but a triumphant grin grew on his face. "When do ya' get off?"

"Eight. No time near now. And I don't want you hanging around like a sick puppy."

His eyebrows drooped with impish play. "But I am a sick puppy, doc."

"Then I'm kicking the puppy."

True entertainment painted his face. "You're too fun." He began walking backwards, towards the exit. "I'll pick you up at eight."

"You'll-" I started, but he was already gone.

It was as if I never learned from my mistakes. And Mr.Jet seemed to be included in every single mistake I made those days. Still, butterflies fluttered inside of me, and caused my stomach to churn in anticipation. He was so immature. So set in his ways, and brief, as if he had no concern for anyone but himself. It was infuriating.

Nonetheless, I waited with the same thrill of a child before Christmas. Every thought was occupied by excited expectations, which I had promised myself to never make again. And with the knowledge of his return, hours passed with no speed, and customers spoke slowly. Clarise's stories began to sound continuous and noisy. Maybe I secretly liked the chaos– the risk that Riff brought with him everywhere he went.

..

"-and you can't leave without locking up, obviously. When I was new, I didn't know that– and so I didn't know where to find the key! Chef Anton was actually there, too. He really didn't like me back then! 'Geez, Clarice, haven't you ever locked a door before?' Gee, what month was that... May? No, maybe-"

"Lock up. Got it." I slung my apron over my shoulder.

Clairce looked at me. "Oh, yeah. Always lock up!" She took the key out of the handle and slid it under the door.

Cold air blew through the night. It was getting darker earlier, and colder, too. Winter must have been coming. "Will you be coming to work during the storm?" Clarice asked.

"Isn't it supposed to come tomorrow?" I asked.

"Yeah, tomorrow night. I'm lucky I live within walking distance, but we might have to close anyway– because of short staff."

"Well, who would go out to brunch anyway– in a storm like that." I looked down the street, imagining what it would look like covered in pools of rain. "It's supposed to be pretty intense, right?"

"Remember the hurricane season last year?"

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm dead serious!" Clarice began walking away, probably in the direction of her apartment. "It's supposed to be huge! Think tornados! Flooding!"

"I'll practice holding my breath!" I called after her.

A large engine roared behind me. I shot around, and was greeted by flashing headlights, and a rolled down window. "If you're done bashing ears, I'd like to get on with my night."

I scoffed. "Are you the same man that was pleading for me to help you earlier? Because it doesn't seem like it."

"Why don't you get in the car and find out?"

"You're not going to open the door for me?" I asked, approaching the red truck.

With a tired sigh, Riff leaned over the passenger seat and pushed the door open from the inside. "There. It's open."

I climbed into the large vehicle. "Such a gentleman." I grumbled to myself. "So where are we going, Jet?"

He glanced to me. "My apartment, where else?" He paused, and then clicked his tongue in a brief manner. "Geez, buckle up. I thought you were a doc."

Irritable now, I pulled the seatbelt over my chest and clicked it into its slot. "Just drive, tough guy."

Authors note: I want them to BANG. Maybe it's too soon. Maybe I'm projecting. Anyway.