Chapter 17: all

LUCA

There’s a soft knock on the door and I rest my spliff on the edge of the ashtray on the coffee table before moving to peer through the peephole. In my partially stoned state, I feel like I’m imagining the face I see standing on my front porch and it causes me to take a second before focusing my gaze back through the small opening.

What is Raven doing here? Again? Did we not go over this last time? About how dangerous it is for her to be here? How much it not only puts herself in harm’s way, but me as well?

Why would she come here? It sure as hell isn’t going to turn out like last time.

Quickly, I run to the windows, pulling the blinds closed on each one to ensure nobody can look in. I should pretend I’m not home and wait for her to leave, but I’ve come to learn that I’m not exactly doing what I should lately.

It’s like I can’t stop myself from letting her in. Like my body acts before my brain can think it all through. I’m a moth to a flame when it comes to Raven.

I promised myself that I’d distance myself from her. For logical reasons I need to not get too attached to her. I don’t want Cain to turn me into Kash. I’m terrified of what he’d do to me if he found out I slept with his niece.

Not to minimize her assault—assault is assault and if it made her uncomfortable, that’s exactly what it is—but in Cain’s eyes and in terms of physically touching her, Kermit only gripped Raven. I actually had my dick buried in her while she was pressed up against my shower wall. I fully believe that Cain would see what I did as worse, despite it being consensual, and I know he’d punish me terribly.

Despite all the thoughts swirling in my head, I’m still opening the door. Hell has frozen over and my delusional ass is skating on it.

When I’m greeted with the sight of her, I take a moment to admire how beautiful she is. With minimal makeup, a loose-fitting shirt and jeans with holes ripped in them—and what appear to be the straps of garters underneath—you’d never guess she lives with and is related to the head of a mafia family.

“Hey,” she greets shyly.

I don’t want to leave her waiting out on my porch for wandering eyes, so I gently encourage her inside the house and both shut and lock the door behind her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” she admits. “I did everything I could to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

She glances down at the spliff still expelling smoke from where it’s resting in the ashtray. She wastes no time in sauntering towards the coffee table, grabbing the joint and dragging on it as she seats herself on my sofa.

I follow, still maintaining that moth to a flame metaphor as I place my ass on the cushion beside her. She must not like the distance I create, however, because she scoots a tiny bit closer to minimize that space.

In my stoned state, I’m hesitant to question her on anything morality-wise. Not only because I reckon I don’t have a leg to stand on, but also because I honestly can’t be bothered.

Instead, I observe as she repeatedly drags on the marijuana cigarette, gradually getting higher the more she does it. The tension that she once held when she stepped into my house eventually fades and then we’re sharing the rest of the spliff in silence as we watch some cartoon that I must’ve flipped to at some point.

It isn’t awkward or weird. In fact, it’s nice having the company without feeling the crushing weight of the things that affect our daily lives.

I realize it’s only a temporary escape, but it’s still an appreciated moment. No matter how short.

In the minutes since she’s been here, she’s gotten even closer to me. Enough so that her leg is brushing my thigh in its bent position as she faces towards me. I’ve been fully focused on the cartoon program and the events of these teenagers that it portrays, which means I’m facing towards the television, feeling her eyes on me the entire time.

She suddenly grabs my hand, pausing as she carefully adjusts her grip to flip my arm so my palm is facing upwards. When she sees the still-healing scar marred into the soft flesh of my thumb, she gasps lightly and proceeds to gently brush the tips of her fingers over it.

“What happened?”

Avoiding her gaze—which I feel momentarily shift up to my face—I stare at where she’s touching me, as I confess to her, “It happened when I was removing Kash’s fingers.”

I force my eyes away from the sight of the scar. I hate it. I hate the fucking thing. It’s a constant reminder of my past—of my sins—that I can’t avoid. How can I forget the things I’ve done when they’re marked into my skin?

“Did he attack you?”

“No,” I shake my head. “He never had the chance to.”

I don’t know what in the hell came over me that day, but I literally dragged him by his tie across the room. Some weird feat of super human strength surged inside me and I acted on instincts I didn’t know I had.

To be completely frank, I’ve mentally blocked out some of the moments of that night. I’m not sure I want to be able to pick them apart and inspect the motives behind the behaviours. For now, I’m shelving it all. Pretending it doesn’t exist, which is near impossible when I’m scarred physically by the event.

“The knife slipped and I cut myself.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers quietly.

I cock my head, “For what?”

She follows the slash in my skin, as she confesses, “I mean, this all started with retaliation for me.”

“It did, yes, but you aren’t at fault for this. You weren’t at fault for what happened to you with Kash. This—” our eyes flicker to the scar as I point to it, “—was an accident. Blood got on the knife handle and I wasn’t paying attention to it.”

She opens her mouth—I think to say something that I reckon I won’t particularly like—but I interrupt her before she’s able to speak by inquiring, “How have you been since it happened?” Reaching for her, I gently twist her arm so I’m able to get a proper look at the bruises that Kermit left on her. They’re fading, but there’s still the faintest of yellow where they once were extremely visible.