6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Henny
F uck, my head hurt. As soon as I slipped from sleeping to waking, the throbbing pain was all-consuming. So much so, it made it difficult to figure out exactly what I was feeling. I shifted, very gingerly, and buried my face deeper into my pillow. Except it wasn't my pillow. The silky satin fabric was foreign feeling as I nuzzled my cheek into the downy softness. It smelled far more heavenly than my lumpy pillow ever did.
I rolled over, again moving slowly and carefully to keep the world from spinning out, and blinked to bring my surroundings into focus. The black ceiling overhead was definitely a far cry from the water stained mess of my apartment. I shut my eyes and grasped at the foggy, sparse memories as I took stock of my body to try and figure out what situation I had gotten myself into.
There was no deliciously painful ache in my ass or throat, so I must not have hooked up with anyone for once. Vague stinging pain as I ran my hands over my body revealed only tiny bruises and a collection of possible hickeys around my neck. I was undressed except for boxer briefs. Given how soft the bedding was, I was honestly glad for the lack of clothing. The fabric was blissfully smooth against my skin. My mouth tasted like hot garbage. I could only assume I'd thrown up at least once post blackout. I wracked my brain harder, picking through the contents of my jumbled skull until—
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. A singular memory materialized through the brain fog and turned the blood in my veins to ice water. Marco weilding a warm washcloth as he crouched in front of me was not the memory I expected to recall. In fact, it was the last memory I wanted to recall. It was the absolute worst case scenario. A whole ass fucking nightmare. I wrestled against the divine pull of the super soft mattress and struggled into a seated position.
A slow scan of my surroundings jogged even more memories. The car ride home, the stumbling progress through his house, the way he basically dragged me into the en suite bathroom to spill my guts in his fancy as fuck toilet. More details met my eyes as I tried to reconcile my memories with the room I was seeing. Floor to ceiling windows hidden by automatic drapes. A tall bookcase on the wall opposite the bed. Black tile floors. Dark hardwood accents. Silky charcoal grey satin sheets and comforter. It was so him, and yet so unlike what I expected to find.
I crept from the bed and searched for my clothes, but I came up empty handed. The room was spotless. Painfully clean. Damn near unlived in. The only reason I knew it was Marco’s room and not a guest room was because he’d left the closet door partially ajar and I could see a glimpse of all his suits hung in pin straight rows. Sneaking like a thief through the night, I tiptoed into the bathroom and stopped short in surprise. A pair of sweatpants and t-shirt were folded neatly on the vanity alongside a giant fluffy white towel and a bar of soap still in the box. Beside them, there was a bottle of water, a toothbrush still in the packaging, and two Advil tablets. It was a startling kindness I wasn't expecting. Most likely, it was a trap.
Despite my reservations and rising shame, I inched further into the bathroom and gently shut the door. I really did need a shower, judging by the pungent aroma of alcohol seeping from my pores. I bumbled around the bathroom as quietly as I could, turning on the tap to the rainfall shower head as I boggled at the sheer wealth dripping from the surroundings. Marble tile, grey stone vanity, jet black toilet, chrome fixtures everywhere. Even the lighting was expensive. The mirror itself was illuminated. Lighting had been recessed in the floor of the shower as well as the ceiling. I searched and searched for a drawer or cabinet until an accidental nudge in the right spot had the massive mirror opening on whisper-quiet hinges.
I was once again stunned into paralysis as I accidentally snooped in his hidden medicine cabinet. I found the toothpaste at least, but it was the other items I discovered in the process that gave me pause. I told myself not to do it, even as my hand reached out to turn the orange prescription bottles so I could read the labels. Pindolol. Tryptophan. Nefazodone. My fingertips itched for my phone to look up the medications and what they were prescribed for. I retrieved the toothpaste and eased the cabinet shut.
After an indulgent shower, I dressed in the clothing and muffled a laugh at my reflection in the fog-proof mirror. I looked like a little kid in my dad’s clothes for how baggy they were on my smaller frame. I hadn't realized how his bulk would compare to mine until sliding into his garments. Shaking my head, I slipped from the bathroom to face the music. I'm sure Marco had more than a few choice words for me, none of them nice. I also really needed to find my clothing and phone.
Not knowing what time it was, I kept my footsteps quiet. A monotonic machine whirr coaxed me through the house until I determined the source—the dryer was running in the open floor plan kitchen. And by open, I meant wide fucking open. The living room kitchen combo was at least four times the size of my entire two bedroom apartment. To my left, the dark grey cabinets and white marble counters gleamed, illuminated by under cabinet lighting dim enough to not be offensive but bright enough to help me navigate. Just like the bedroom, there were virtually no signs of the space being lived in.
I cast my gaze to the right and admired the sweeping expanse of the living room. It was still night out, but a faint glow tinged the skyline visible through the massive floor to ceiling windows. The city lights twinkled as I took in the view. The furniture was modern and streamlined. Frankly, it looked uncomfortable as hell and matched the dominating, austere design of the fireplace and bookshelves. God, he owned a fuck ton of books. It was a cold, vacant atmosphere. I almost abandoned my search until an anomaly amongst the hard lines and off-putting vacancy of the room caught my eye.
A partition wall tucked in the corner only somewhat hid a soft golden aura of light. Like a moth to a flame, I crossed the high pile rug on silent feet until I could peer around the odd barrier. My breath caught in my throat and I pressed a hand to my lips to keep the sound from interrupting the strange sanctity of the sight laid out before me.
Unlike the rest of the furniture in the apartment, the armchair dominating the small little nook was overstuffed, too big for the space, and clearly well-used judging by the way it contoured around the body in it. The impressive, muscular, utterly relaxed body. A small table top lamp blanketed him in the golden glow that has drawn me toward him, softening his features and bringing out highlights in his hair I'd never noticed before. A book was laid open on his chest, and the title had me stifling a small huff of amusement. The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.
Marco fucking d’Ambrosio read self-help books? Marco fucking d’Ambrosio read self-help books with tiny wire frame reading glasses? Marco fucking d’Ambrosio read self-help books with tiny wire frame reading glasses while wearing flannel pants and fuzzy slippers?! I boggled at him, unable to reconcile the perpetually rage-filled man I knew with the version sleeping in front of me. He looked so… relaxed. Softer. Downright cozy.
Just as I took a step back, an abrasive, jarring buzzer made me jump. Marco startled with a soft cry, leaping from the chair in a move so sudden, I jumped again. I caught a brief glimpse of that haunted, wild-eyed expression he’d worn earlier in the evening before it disappeared behind a hardened scowl and murderous gaze. It happened so fast, I could have convinced myself it was never there, but the way his chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths betrayed his inner turmoil. There was something hidden beneath the surface there. Something I wanted to break him open to discover. My thoughts were dangerous ones as I took another step back.
“Were you watching me sleep?” His voice dripped with disdain as his eyes dipped down and back up, giving me a once-over.
“No… yes… not on purpose.” I shrugged nonchalantly even as my adrenaline pumped and a thrill raced through my body.
“Get out of my way,” he grumbled, scooping his book from the floor to set it and the glasses on the small side table. He brushed past me with an intentional bump against my shoulder before stalking toward the kitchen. Knowing it was a terrible idea but not really caring about the potential consequences, I followed behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder with another sneer and a scoffing sound. He shook his head and scowled harder as I moseyed further and pulled the fridge open. He already caught me watching him sleep like a fucking weirdo. Examining the contents of his fridge was hardly invasive in comparison to that. Once more, I found myself confused by what I was seeing.
Where I expected to find the classic bachelor pad staples like beer, liquor, and takeout containers, I found the entire Goddamn produce section of a fucking health food store. Leafy greens, containers of beans and sprouts, a rainbow of fresh fruit options, pre-sliced carrots and celery and even a loaf of some ancient grain bullshit people liked to call bread. Even the water was some electrolyte-enriched artesian shit, not the generic Poland Springs he’d left on the counter for me.
I reached to open the crisper drawer, but nearly lost my hand as the door slammed shut. I stood up just in time for Marco to bowl me out of the way with his bulk. “Get the fuck out.”
“What if I'm hungry?”
He muscled me out of the way, opened up an overhead cabinet, and retrieved a box of crackers before pitching it toward me. “Here.”
I shook my head with a laugh as I read the front of the box. Kashi seven-grain crackers with sesame. Okay then. Marco was evidently a fucking health nut. I opened the box and peered inside with a huff.
“Do you have any good food?”
He eyed me with a frown that pinched his face in all the wrong places. His answer was a faint grunt as he moved toward the dryer. I continued my slow perusal of his space as I munched the disgusting crackers, but as I moved, something strange caught my attention. Seemingly without realizing it, or perhaps intentionally, no matter where I shifted, he adjusted his stance to keep me in the corner of his field of vision.
I watched as he meticulously folded each item, including my clothing. At a quick glance, I wouldn't even know he was concentrating on anything but the task at hand, but without fail, every step I took resulted in him repositioning his body in return. God, he was wound so tight, I didn't think he even realized he was doing it. I decided to test my theory by breaking the silence.
“Yo, where’s my phone?”
There it was again—the flick of his attention toward my voice was instantaneous and reactive. He covered it quickly with a narrowing of his eyes. He folded the last garment and slammed the dryer shut.
“Console table by the front door. Your keys, jewelry, and wallet are there too.” He pushed the stack of my clothes across the island toward me.
“Thank you, Marc.”
Finally, he made full eye contact. The way he searched my face with such intensity unnerved me. There wasn't the typical anger or rage or disgust. This was stone-cold, wary, unrevealing scrutiny that left me feeling stripped raw and flayed open. It was like every thought was on full display in neon lights as his gaze bored into me.
“My help was reluctantly given and my hand was forced by your friends .” When he finally spoke, the venom dripping from his voice has my spine tensing and my body growing cold.
“Thank you anyway.”
He grunted.
“The typical response to that phrase is ‘your welcome,’ in case you forgot.” I held the box toward him with a grin to try and ease the sudden change in the temperature of the room.
He snatched it from my grip faster than I could blink. “You should go.”
“Jesus, man. You really don't know how to chill—”
“Leave!” A faint waver at the end of his shout had alarm bells ringing in my head. The white-knuckled grip had the sides of the cracker box buckling between his hands. The visible tick in his strong, square jaw line revealed how close to going apoplectic he was. Something had pushed him to his limit and a needling sense of guilt told me that something was me.
Normally, I'd push it. I'd push and push and push some more until I broke through the walls like a wrecking ball hellbent on destruction. My gut told me if I did that here with this man, the destruction might not be repairable. I scanned his features, licked my lips, and with a silent nod, I collected my clothing and left. Just like he demanded. From the foyer, his weighted exhalation was audible. So was the sound of a box of crackers hitting the floor. The ragged sound of his erratic panting followed me all the way through the door until the finality of it locking behind me drowned out the noise. I wondered, for the briefest of moments, if anyone truly knew how close to the edge Marco was. The thought was a strange one. I pushed it from my head, all the while knowing it would likely lurk in the recesses for a long time.