I wake up with a dry mouth, burning eyes and pounding head as the sound of music assaults my
senses. Arrick has tunes pounding through the floors as I blink awake and realize I am still on the
couch, face down, and the blanket is wrapped around my legs like freaking restraints. I feel like utter
shit, and the table is littered with cold pizza and the scraps of a weird middle of the night scramble for
food. We ate, fell asleep and woke up at the same time. Well actually, stretching out and slapping the
back of my hand in his face was the catalyst for his grumpy rise from the dead, and he did try to push
me off the sofa in retaliation.
We raided the kitchen for munchies, watched another movie for like an hour while grumpily arguing
over absolute pointless crap because we were both tired, and in my opinion, Tom Cruise is far hotter
with an Irish accent and boxing gloves, than he is in either Top Gun or Cocktail. We both must have
fallen asleep after that, as everything beyond the horse dying in ‘The Never Ending Story’ is hazy in my
head.
I can still see the indent on the cushion beside me from his head and the whole couch and I smell like
him. I guess he stayed here with me the full night after all.
I groan and look around, spying him in the kitchen, singing to himself as he makes a fresh pot of coffee.
He’s still rumpled and wearing last night’s clothes too, so I’m guessing he hasn’t been up for long
either.
“Ughh, shut up.” I yell at him and go back to burying my head under the pillow I have been lying on.
Annoyed that I have had like no sleep and he is being his usual happy, chirpy morning person self that
grates on my nerves. I’m fairly sure he got as little sleep as me and it is way too early for this kind of
nonsense.
I swear the music gets louder.
I sit up in a rage and glower at him across the kitchen, and catch him smirking my way, remote pointed
at the stereo with that childish look of a mean boy. Sometimes I love him to bits and sometimes, like
right now, he is a total ass who makes my life a living hell just for the fun of it. I think he gets off on
torturing me because he does it frequently. He turns it back down with a chuckle and aims that full
Hollywood smile my way.
Trying to melt me with dazzling smiles is not going to work.
“Morning beautiful, you’re looking a little rough around the gills.” He nods at me earning another glare,
and I at once set about trying to wipe my eyes awake and tame the hair that is tickling my face. More
like welded to my face as I rip a strand off my cheek.
I sit up slowly, stretch out and yawn three times before rubbing at my face again. The grubby residue
that ends up on my hands alerts me to the fact I slept in tear-stained makeup and probably look like a
train wreck. I groan and get up to lazily trudge to his room for the nearest bathroom; the spare room is
the one I normally get sent to, but his is closer, and I am still exhausted.
“The walk of a very hungover, grumpy little miss,” he jests after me, meeting an extended middle finger
thrown back at him without even looking his way. In no way have I ever been a morning person and
with an added hangover I can see me choking him with my bare hands. He laughs as I push open his
door and shuffle into his immaculate bedroom, which is still in darkness from not opening the blinds in
here. It’s completely clean and neat with a fully manicured and made bed because he obviously never
came in here at all.
I groan at the fright which awaits me in the bathroom mirror. My long blonde hair is bed messy and
standing up, tangled crazily due to the natural waves that I straighten out of my hair religiously. My face
looks like I have been face painted as a panda then stood in a downpour for shits and giggles to let it
run off, and I most definitely have bloodshot eyes and a puffy set of bags under both. I look exactly how
I feel.
Pushing open his walk-in shower I turn it on, and then go rummaging for towels and his bathrobe and
dump it all on the vanity by the door. I run a finger along the unit and pop it open to locate some wash
products and spot all of Natasha’s crappy choices of shampoos and shower gels. I select a few and
throw them all on the shower floor. I turn to the mirror with another grimace before kicking the bathroom
door shut to his bedroom and strip off. I don’t even bother to lock it, knowing if he hears the shower on,
he will never walk in.
Wrapped in his robe and towel drying my hair, I pull open the bathroom door and wander into his room,
a lot more pulled together than the hazy fogginess of being ripped awake leaves. The soothing gray
walls and mix of urban meets modern in his domain are welcoming; scaffold, wood and concrete
assorted shelving he had built in here hold a lot of books and memorabilia as they span the one wall by
the bed facing me. I smile at the large framed picture with Jake his brother, close to his bed. Both
smiling back at me affectionately and obviously as close as brothers can get.
It still amazes me that they can be so different yet have so many similarities. The face shapes: some of
their features are identical, but when set differently, with a change of hair and eye color, it makes them
crazily unalike. Like salt and pepper. In build, however, they are clearly matched. They both inherited
height from Sylvana’s side of the family, maybe width and strength from Giovanni, but all that muscular
Adonis-like power they each share is most definitely straight out of their Italian roots. I find it hard
nowadays to pick out which brother is more capable of beating someone to death. Arrick has a pretty
strong lead with being a professional fighter, but Jake helps train him as his forte used to be in mixed
martial arts too.
The bed is still neatly made up, all masculine looking and inviting in shades of gray tones and textures.
I notice my clothes from last night are on the end of the bed, along with my shoes and one of Arrick’s
hooded sweaters. He’s left them here so I can get dressed into something that fits me and making it
clear I am not to walk about without a top on over it. I eye roll at the obvious brotherly move and slip off
the robe without any shyness. He’s left the bedroom door shut and would knock if he were planning on
coming back in.
I used to keep clothes in his spare room when I stayed here frequently, but last time I left here I cleared
them all out. A stupid childish act just to get at him because Natasha had done something to piss me
off, like she always does. It was my way of saying ‘fuck you’ and moved every single thing I ever kept
here to Amber’s apartment. It was a lot. An array of clothes, toiletries, and personal effects from the
room I used to call mine.
I can’t deny that our growing apart these past few months was because of both of us, both shoving and
pushing where she was concerned, and I didn’t help matters by impulsively storming out of his life
anytime I got mad.
I pull my clothes on quickly and use his hairbrush to tame my damp hair, and leave it hanging down my
back to air dry a little. I at least look clean and fresh, and younger Sophie like this, with that air of sweet
child that looks like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. His sweater is keeping me decent and I leave my
shoes on his bed. My feet are still suffering so they can stay there until I get him to take me to Amber’s
apartment to retrieve all my worldly possessions for that dreaded trip home. I pause at the stir of nerves
and anxiety when it comes to mind that it’s what we are doing today and push them down steadily,
breathing in slowly to calm the tension inside of me.
Arrick’s sat on the couch looking equally sparkly and clean this morning, I guess he used the shower in
the spare room seeing as I was hogging his, and is dressed in a white tee that fits a little too well over
black jeans. He has on black socks, but no shoes, and is sitting focused on his phone texting while he
props his heels on the coffee table, looking like a kid himself like this. He smiles up at me when he
sees me.
“You look better, less crime scene massacre and more innocent little Sophabelle.” He pats the seat
next to him and I notice the smoothie on the table beside his coffee. He always used to make me a
morning smoothie when I stayed here, as he knows I am not a morning coffee drinker in the least. I can
tell by the color that it’s banana and strawberry, my favorite. I beam his way, giddy on all that makes me
happy today, now that the shower got me out of my grumpy ass morning mood.
“Thanks for the ego boost.” I walk over and slump beside him, pulling at my skirt to cover the expanse
of legs on show. I may not be overly tall but for some reason, I have always had long legs that seem
much longer when I wear something short. It makes even moderate length skirts look a little risky on
me, and I am more aware of the disapproving glance he casts on them.
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