24
Benito felt like death forhours. Shivers, cold sweats, coughing up a lung every ten minutes. And his head hurt more than he ever thought possible. It pounded and throbbed, and the only relief he could find was buried in Mickey’s bare chest, soaking up his scent and his warmth.
Drowning in him.
Clinging to him.
It was embarrassing as fuck, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All that mattered was that his girls were safe and he was holding onto the fantasy that Mickey had said he loved him. Because that’s what it was—a fantasy. A dream. And he didn’t want to wake up, so he held onto the pain in his head, kept it close, so he could stay with Mickey a little while longer.
Eventually, though, his body fought back. The painkillers kicked in, and he fell into a deep,deepsleep. When he woke up, he was alone, and it made more sense than any dream he’d ever had.
Still dizzy, Benito sat up and rubbed his sore chest. He heard voices somewhere in the flat.
Gianna.
Rosetta.
He swung his legs out of bed. His feet hit the floor and he staggered upright, head swimming, blood pounding in his ears.Damn. He took a step towards the door and swayed, bracing himself on the wall.Fuck.Why do I still feel like I’m dying?
“You should be in bed.”
Benito’s eyes snapped open. Gianna was watching him from the doorway. “I’m fine,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock.”
Benito frowned at the window. “But it’s still light.”
“In the morning, Beni.”
“What?”
Gianna laughed and disappeared.
Rosetta replaced her. She brandished a mug at him. Coffee, dark and strong. “Are you all right? You’ve been asleep since yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Benito felt high. “When yesterday?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t with you. You don’t remember?”
Benito remembered plenty, but nothing he wanted to rehash with Rosetta. He took the coffee and stared at it. His dry throat cried out for the scalding liquid, but the anxiety churning in his gut made him wary, as if his heart already teetered on a knife edge. “Sorry I haven’t been with it. Are you okay?”
Rosetta ventured into the room. She took Benito’s arm and guided him back to the bed. “We’re fine. Mickey’s gone to the flat to see if he can get some of our things. He thinks he’ll have another place for us by the end of the day.”
“Mickey?”
“Yes. He’s been taking care of all of us. He’s a nice boy. You should hold on to him.”
Benito took a sip of coffee. Choked on it and set it aside. He wrapped an arm around himself and coughed into his elbow. It went on and on, and without Mickey rubbing his back to distract him, it burned like a bitch. Or maybe it was Rosetta playing along with his imagination that hurt. “I don’t get to hold on to him. I fucked it all up, remember?”
“You think that matters to him now? Benito, I saw his face when you were so sick yesterday. He cares for you.”
“He’s always cared for me. It’s not enough if I’m a fucking wasteman.”
“Don’t say things like that. A wasteman doesn’t do the things you have.”
Benito snorted. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“I know enough. You’re a good son and a good man. Mickey knows it—he must do, or he wouldn’t be here.”