Cocky

Chapter 12 #2

“You call me exhausting? You’re the one that drains rooms. You walk in, and everything gets heavy. Always something wrong. Always some crisis. Always ‘woe is me’. So yeah. I pity you. ‘Cause all I see is someone who could be brilliant but would rather be miserable.”

Her eyes flash with hurt first, then anger, swallowing it whole.

Her hand moves fast into a sharp crack that I still feel through the knit of my mask. My cheek stings, and for a second, the whole world goes quiet. Her chest rises and falls as we stare at each other.

“Enough!”

Zaza’s voice slices right through us.

She appears between us, shopping bags swinging, eyes blazing.

“What is wrong with you two?” she hisses. “This is a store, not a telenovela.”

Frankie looks away, jaw tight. My hands flex at my sides.

Za plants herself dead center.

“Separate,” she orders. “Now.”

Neither of us argues.

We take a step back.

The spell breaks.

People around us pretend not to stare.

Za exhales.

“We are going to go eat,” she says, voice firm. “And both of you are going to behave. Do you understand?”

I swallow.

“Yeah.”

Frankie nods once.

Did last night actually happen?

I keep replaying pieces of it.

The way she breathed against my neck, the way she whispered my name, the way she pulled me closer like she wanted all of me.

Whoever that was, is not who’s sitting across from me, pretending she’s fascinated by the Spoons menu. She sits there now all stiff and proper, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though we’re under shade.

Her knee bumps mine under the table and she jerks it away instantly.

I’ve had enough of her games.

Zaza flips her menu shut. “Okay! I know what I want.”

She is trying like hell to get us to get along.

“Same,” Frankie mutters. She hasn’t even read it. I can tell. Her eyes aren’t tracking lines; she’s just staring through the page.

I no longer give a fuck anyway. As far as I’m concerned, Francine Campbell does not exist to me.

Last night didn’t happen.

And she’s still the annoying little shit I left behind.

“So, Jabari,” Zaza says gently. “Everything okay?”

I shrug.

“Right… how’s football?”

Another shrug.

Zaza sighs. “What are you getting then?”

“Me eat at a Wetherspoons? Get real.”

Frankie doesn’t even look up. “Let him be, Za. He’s in one of his moods.”

I stare at her.

“You put your hands on me.”

She snaps her head up. “You disrespected me.”

“How?”

Her jaw tightens.

Yeah.

I bet sharing our argument with Za is out of the question.

So instead:

“Forget it.”

Zaza presses her lips together. “Guys, come on. Can’t you lot try to get along for one day?”

“Depends,” I say. “Can Francine keep her hands to herself?”

Frankie exhales through her nose. “I already apologized. Stop whining.”

“Please,” I mutter. “That apology is faker and sorrier than sister Janet’s—”

“Hey guys!” a scrawny waiter interrupts my rebuttal. “Have any idea what you wanna order?”

“We just need a few more minutes please sorry” Za replies. I could tell she was mortified by our behaviour.

“No worries. Take all the time you need, beautiful.” He winks before walking off.

“Ouuu,” Frankie coos whilst watching him leave. “I think he fancies you, Za.”

Zaza flicks her eyes toward the guy and wrinkles her nose instantly.

“Ew. His trousers are below his pants. Massive ick.”

I cock a brow. “What?”

Za scrunches up her face. “It gave me the ick.”

“What’s an ick?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“You don’t know what an ick is?”

“No.”

“An ick is when someone does or says something that turns you off. Like instantly.”

I scoff. “Yeah. Me and that word have never been in the same conversation.”

Frankie rolls her eyes so hard I feel the breeze from it.

I know I said I was done but I couldn’t help myself.

I turn to her. “What about you, Francine? What gives you an ick?”

She stares me down, chin up. “You really wanna know?”

“I asked, innit?”

She sets her menu down delicately, crosses one leg over the other, and looks me dead in my soul.

“Well. I’ve got a lot. First being muscles.”

She deliberately trails her gaze down my arms.

Yeah right.

I don’t remember these muscles being a problem when I was pinning her down.

“Big egos with bigger mouths.”

I smirk. “Cute.”

She lifts a brow. “No, I can keep going. Clinginess. Over-indulgence. Not being able to take a fucking hint.”

“Yeah?” I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, voice low. “I got one. Girls that get blasted out of their minds and can’t remember the shit they do the night before. Or maybe they can remember and are acting. Never know.”

Frankie doesn’t blink.

“Maybe you just ain’t as memorable as you think you are.”

My eyes squint. “You can be real condescending, you know, Frankie.”

“Ouuu, condescending,” she drags. “That’s a big word for Elmo.”

I push back from the table, standing. “I’m going toilet.”

Anything to get away before I say something I can’t take back.

As I walk off, jaw clenched, I can feel her eyes burning the back of my neck.

Why does this woman insist on getting on my last nerve?

Why does she get under my skin like this?

Why does last night feel like a secret we’re both lying about?

And why…

Why do I still want her?

God help me.

I come back from the restroom and the table is empty. Chairs tucked in. Glasses half-full. No sign of them.

Did they actually ditch me?

“Bari!”

Zaza’s voice cuts through the noise.

I turn.

She’s halfway across the pub, peeking through a set of double doors, waving both arms like she’s guiding a plane. Just like Mum.

“We’re over here!”

I head over, push the doors open and walk straight into another universe.

The front was a pub: low chatter and football on the screens.

But this? This is chaos.

Lights flash purple, blue, red. Bass rattles the floorboards. The air smells like stale beer and cheap perfume. A mirrorball spins lazily overhead with a cracked neon sign that buzzes on one wall with half the letters dead so it just reads:

W T SP NS

Brilliant.

“Really?” I say. “We’re partying in a Spoons now? That’s what we’ve become?”

Zaza is absolutely thriving.

She spins once, hands up. “I’m a theatre kid. I must perform. Anywhere. Everywhere.”

I rub my forehead.

“Yeah, well next time we hang out, can it be somewhere I don’t have to wear this mask the entire time?”

She nods easily.

“Where’s your friend?”

She glances around. “She’s finding us a table— oh! There she is.”

I follow her gaze.

Frankie stands across the room, one hand in the air, the other resting lightly on the back of a booth. Neon washes over her face. The sunglasses are gone now, so she looks softer.

She waves and my stomach tightens, then I sigh and head over.

The booth she chose is tucked deep in the back.

Dark.

Out of the way.

Everyone else is here to be seen; this corner is for ghosts.

Good.

I wonder if she picked this on purpose.

I slide into the seat and for once I actually feel like I can breathe. I could pull the balaclava down if I wanted and be a person, so I did.

Before I can say a word, Frankie slides a shot toward me, it’s clear liquid with a strong smell.

Wray & Nephew?

Her expression is clear. Truce.

Fine.

I take the glass and Zaza practically squeals.

“Aww! Look at that. We’re making progress!”

She raises her own shot high.

“To progress!”

We clink.

We drink.

The burn sits behind my ribs, steady. Calming.

“Right,” Zaza says, popping to her feet. “Now I’m gonna tell the DJ to play Newsies so I can practise my choreography.”

I blink at her. “What?”

Frankie sighs, almost tired. “Just… let her go.”

And off she goes, spinning, skipping. Just living her best life.

And then silence.

Well. Not actual silence. The music is loud. People shout. Glass knocks glass.

But between us?

Quiet.

We sit opposite each other, shadows flickering over both our faces, pretending to be fascinated by anything but each other.

I tap my thumb against my knee.

Say something. Anything.

Nothing comes out.

Instead, the thoughts I don’t want creep in about last night.

About her skin, her laugh, the way she held onto me, and right now she won’t even look at me.

I swallow.

She shifts.

Crosses one leg.

Tucks a loc behind her ear.

Awkward.

Whatever we’re pretending isn’t happening…still is.

She pulls out her Switch for her purse then, thumbs moving fast, eyes glued to the screen like I’m not even here.

Fine.

I’ll try to make conversation anyway.

I gesture lightly toward the dance floor, toward Zaza spinning around like she owns the place.

“Is she… okay like this?”

Frankie doesn’t look up. “As long as they don’t play Wicked, she’ll be fine.”

I nod, though the knot in my chest tightens.

This is too awkward. Maybe I should just go.

“I really am sorry I slapped you.”

I look at her. She’s still staring at the game, but her voice is softer.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Well… I’m sorry for what I said.”

She shrugs. “It’s calm.”

“No,” I shake my head. “It’s not though. None of this is. I—”

Last night rises in my throat.

“Last night felt like—”

“I told you,” she cuts in. “No need to talk about it. It was a mistake.”

I swallow. “I don’t think it was, though. At least… not to me.”

She stills and turns the Switch completely off. I press on before I lose the nerve.

“It might’ve been just a drunken night you can forget about. But it wasn’t like that for me.”

“Hm. I didn’t realize you were so emotional.”

“Tuh.” I huff. “I’m stuck-up, Francine. Not soulless. I take that stuff seriously.”

Her brows lift. “Oh my days. You’re not a virgin, are you?”

I drag a hand over my beard.

“No, I’m not a virgin. I just don’t fool around with everyone. I’m picky. I know looking at me probably gives off the vibe I’m drowning in it, but I’ve probably got… less than three bodies.”

She blinks.

“So… virgin-adjacent.”

I stare at her. “I don’t know why I try to be open with you.”

She laughs softly this time and rests her hand over mine.

“Look,” she says. “Last night was… good. Really good. But it can’t be a thing.”

“Why?”