Page 151 of Shades of Grey & Gold

“Where are you?” I turn slightly from the bar and tilt my head down, keeping my voice low.

“What the f—” Nico’s voice pauses and a sharp intake of breath follows as he lowers his volume, “Cal?”

“Don’t say my name.” I keep my voice level. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the house, what the fuck? Where are you?” His voice drops more and I hear footsteps change, heavier, faster, probably moving through the house. “I thought you were fucking dead, Cal, we saw the building explode, Max fucking, goddamn it, her shriek realizing you were still in there is going to play daily in my mind until the day I die. We had to take her to a hotel, holy shit, she is going to be so fucking hap—”

“No.”

I cut off his rambling and am met with silence.

“Nico. No. Listen to me.” I set my glass on the bar. “I’m dead. Do you understand me?”

More silence.

I continue, “I’m dead. You don’t tell anyone. You don’t tell Max.” My voice cracks, and I swallow the sob crawling up my throat imagining the heartbreak I’m causing her.

I scrub a hand shakily down my face.

“You don’t tell Mom. You don’t tell Gio or Rudi or Mick. I am dead. You grieve. You bury an empty, closed casket or with whatever body is in that building. You do all of it.”

The silence that still rings on the other end of the line is panic and confusion because Nico doesn’t know how to be silent for this long.

“Cal—”

“Bring me cash. Meet me at the hotel off Bleecker and Main in thirty minutes. Come alone. Park two blocks away.” I pause. “And Nico?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t say my fucking name again.”

I hang up and delete the number from the phone’s recent history.

I finish the whiskey and look at my hands—steadier than they were an hour ago, but the dried blood in the creases of my knuckles and a cut across my palm remind me of the sharp pain in my side.

“Bathroom?”

The bartender points to the back and I slide off the stool.

I clock the back door next to the bathroom door as an easy exit when I’m done cleaning what I can.

The bathroom is white and bright compared to the bar. I lock the door and steady my hands on the white sink before I look up at the mirror.

There’s blood streaked down the left side of my face, dried at the base of my jaw. A deep cut stretches from my left temple to below my ear toward my jaw. It’s not bleeding anymore but looks bad enough to probably need some kind of medical attention.

I start with my hands, rinsing them and watching the pink run down the sink. I cringe at the sting as I wipe my cheek and jaw with wet paper towels, flushing them down the toilet.

I stare at myself again, still smeared with a light pink sheen, but not looking like someone tried to murder me tonight.

I leave the bar and walk to the hotel, standing in the shadow of the brick wall next to the awning and I wait for my brother.

He shows up in what must be about twenty minutes.

I watch him cruise past the hotel and park two blocks up. He gets out of the SUV and starts walking, hands in his coat pockets. I see the small glow of a cigarette burn across the shadow of his face as he walks slowly. He throws it down and stubs it out as I start walking to meet him halfway.

Something inside of me breaks after the first ten or so feet, and the pain in my ribs shoots through my side.

It’s like my body finally realizes someone might be able to help me now, so I can stop being strong. For anyone else, I would suck it up.