Mess You Made

29.

Miguel.

Never seen a girl in my suit jacket before but fuck me, I'm glad I haven't, because the sight of Malibu in mine will be burned into my memory.

I had all intentions of drowning in misery tonight. Despite the sight of her on her doorstep, I was close to resigning myself to being alone. So close. I don't exactly know what part of her was salvation — her eyes on me, her words against my lips or her body against my body.

All I can conclude now is that I've never wanted someone's closeness so much. Never craved it like this. Never wanted it back so immediately. Looking at her makes me want to snatch her back, have her skin against mine again, body to body again as if nothing could tear us apart. Let her sit on my stomach again, drag those fingers over me, allow the dark to stir our desire until it covers us in a blanket where nothing else exists and so I'm scared I'll be addicted to her now. More than I already am.

Wonder if she's like that with anyone else and pray to god she isn't because if so, there'll be a trail of men falling for her. There's something about her that makes you keen to fall.

That fine line this girl has has between soft and rough. That doe look in her eyes when she bats them at you. The small touches of smiles she shows you just enough for you to see how beautiful she can be. Desire's her partner and she plays it like a guitar, only for her to be able to leave you willing, wanting, pining and for her to disappear.

I try to shake it off me and attempt not to think about it as I rummage around their fridge in search of ice because I think her brother's currently bleeding out on the couch but it's her fault for being so distracting that I can barely think about anything else.

I find some eventually, taking care to encase it in a clean washcloth and heading back through the doors into the living room.

Malibu's crouched in front of him, holding up a wad of tissues to his bleeding nose. Holds his face, turns him to the side to assess him. All of her hair's falling down the back of my jacket and it's messy, a bit dishevelled because of where we just were and how she felt will be the fucking death of me. It'll kill me. That— killed me and I've never felt such a compelling urge for someone's closeness. Not until that.

Her brother. Right. Cristian looks fucked.

His face looks like it's been actually smashed in by a bat. His left eye's engorged and the cheekbone there's swelling at a rapid rate. His pain tolerance is a good one though because he's just sat there, head tilted back on the couch with the occasional grunt or hiss of pain, breathing a bit sharp but other than that — he's stoic now that he downed a beer.

He manages to look at me as I walk in again, casts a glance at me in my briefs and I get the feeling he'd make a comment if he wasn't so fucked up.

"Orson Clarke." Malibu says, shaking her head, nervous and stressed in the way she seems to go for her brother, "Who the fuck is Orson Clarke?"

"Fuck if I know." Cristian breathes out, tips his head back further when she touches his side lightly. He swats her hand away and makes a face.

She inspects it closely, "I can't tell if it's broken, Cris." Leans closer to eye it, "Is it broken?"

He got jumped on his way walking home by a few guys. Three or four, he said. He couldn't do anything about it before they were on him and though he doesn't look like he's unfamiliar to a fight, or some pain, the beating was a bad one. A fucking bad one.

Cristian flicks his eyes up to me now, grunts unhappily, "Walking around naked in my house now, big shot?" Then, looks down at his sister pointedly who only casts him half a glance before she focuses back on his bruises. I can see her swallow a bit.