crave | 16+

XXXII

ELIJAH

I OPEN HER APARTMENT door, with her in my arms, her legs draped around my waist. Despite her being 5'8, she's still tiny in my arms. Gently closing the door behind me, I walk toward her bedroom and lay her in her bed. I pry her coat off her body, and then her socks. Slowly I lean over her, and lift her with one arm, before unclasping her bra with the other. I pry it off her body and throw it onto the floor. I lay her back down, and pull her sweatpants off her feet, before covering her with the blankets.

I walk into her bathroom and ready her toothbrush, before gently scrubbing her teeth. The little amount of toothpaste I use, causes no foamy reaction. When I'm satisfied, I walk back into her bathroom and rinse her toothbrush off. I step into her bedroom again, and watch her sleeping figure. Her hair gingerly cascading across her beautiful face, and the steady breathing her body exhales, before inhaling.

It's at this moment I know I'm royally screwed. This girl has managed to wedge herself into my brain, my pants, my heart, and despite every atom in my body burning, telling me to leave her now and never show my face again, I act against it. I act against it, because that girl has changed every normal-working routine I had before she waltzed into my office, and–the first of 46–bantered back to Malik's agitating bait.

I knew I was utterly and irrevocably fucked when she hit me with her car, and I lay awake for several nights remembering the flush that covered those beautiful cheeks when she realised what she'd done. I should've been pissed. Instead I was struck with pure adoration. And I welcomed it all, with bare fucking arms.

No...I knew I was done for, that my stupid racing heart was done for, when my cunt of a brother kidnapped the one girl I've ever felt like this for. I knew I was done for, when in the time she was missing, it felt like my heart was missing. Shaking my head, and erupting out from the train of thoughts, I step outside of her bedroom, and softly close the door to her room, before settling for the couch in her living room /kitchen.

Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I speed-dial my brother's number and wait patiently as it rings two times, before he picks up. His breathing is composed–as always. If I know my brother, he's probably sitting in his apartment office with all the paperworks from Christ Enterprises, going through the books and numbers. Someone has to, my brain mocks, but I push the voice out of my head.

"Hey," I say into the phone, trying to gather my thoughts. Malik was for a long time, my role model. The man I wanted to be, the man I saw as my superior. With my piece-of-father gone, Malik was the eldest in the household. In Greece they call it Kyrios but Malik was far from that. No, Malik was a shoulder to cry on if needed, or the hand to toughen you up if needed.

"You sound troubled," Malik replies. I grin at his ability to read me and my thoughts, just by one word, but the grin quickly falters when I take his words into acknowledgment.

"I am, ya akhi," I almost whisper, in our mother language. Knowing my brother, he probably has the phone wedged between his chin and shoulder, as he does the maths equations for the books. I shake my head, and lean against the backrest of Josephine's sofa.

"Tell me what's making your heart heavy, and I'll try to take some weight off it," Malik replies, in his usual nonchalant tone. Always the big bro, despite our ages or situations. Malik knew about me being inducted to the mafia. "Or add more weight to it," Malik continues. "All depends."

I chuckle, running a hand down my face. Fuck sake, how am I going to get through this? "It's her," I utter, the word "her" barely audible.

"I presume we're talking about the white girl?" Malik questions, trying to provoke me, and I bite his bait with an open mouth.