Mess You Made

25.

Malibu.

If you had told me that I'd ever be here, I would have laughed in your face. The mere thought of me sat on a couch that looks like it's worth thousands, in a Carnegie Hill townhouse, is enough to make me feel entirely out of place and just a bit starstruck. Roman Beckett is somehow more beautiful in real life than the magazines, which will make a good storytime for Sierra.

Clad in black silk top. A silver signet ring on his finger is the only jewellery adorning him. No tattoos as far as I can tell because he has this whole sort of dark gentleman thing. I'd anticipated that from all I've heard about him. Though, it's different — someone that you've only ever seen in paparazzi shots, magazines and tabloids, being in your vicinity. Like he's fabled and now he's right there. The way he glides into a room and demands attention by doing nothing. I suppose that's the consequence of being filthy rich.

Miguel's sat beside me on the couch, lounging like it's his home, by the way. He's playing NBA 2K on the massive ninety-five inch screen. His legs are spread and they're brushing mine but everytime I've attempted to kick him away, he just gets closer. He seems comfortable here. Around Roman Beckett, of all people.

"I'm just going to administer the shot now. A light pinch." The nurse tells me, pulling me out of my stupor.

Miguel drops his controller. He leans forward, and looks at me, extends a hand, "You'll get through this—"

"It's just a shot." I blink.

He frowns, "So you don't want to hold my hand?"

"I don't see reason to." I flick a look down at it.

He looks at the needle, shudders, "That's a big fucking thing, nurse." He looks at her, "What happens if she has an allergic reaction?"

"Then we'll deal with it subsequently. The chances are low, though." She gives me a small smile, "No need to worry—"

"But, ma'am, google said she could die of anaphylactic shock. Now, I don't know many big words but that big word doesn't sound cute."

My eyes bug out, "What?"

The nurse sighs, "It's— extremely rare—"

I snatch his phone, "I can't die." I look down at the google search already open on his phone, see what it says. I look up and stare at him, "Less than one in every million?"

Miguel looks at me with wide eyes, "Doesn't make you exempt, baby, you're one in a million."

I smack his phone against his chest, look at the nurse, "Sorry. Idiots surround me."

Miguel snatches my hand anyways. He clasps it tight in both of his.

I raise an eyebrow, "What are you doing?"

"Shut up, this is for me, not you." He genuinely turns his whole head to the side, away so he can't see the needle, "Go ahead now, ma'am. I'm all ready."

The nurse gives me a look. She fights a bit of a smile as she pulls up the sleeve of the white t-shirt, and mutters, "Got yourself a special partner there."

"Yes." I say bitterly, "She makes a great girlfriend."

Miguel pokes my side but in the sensitive spot that makes my whole body jump — and then he laughs, even though the nurse looks exasperated and I want to hit him. He squeezes my hand again, raises his other in defence, "Sorry. Proceed. I'll behave, I promise."