Snapping Point

9.

"Tough times never last, tough people do."

Bil Keane's words were etched into my life, emblazoned on every surface I could find: desks, walls, mirrors—hell, I even had it framed in my damn toilet and on the skin of my palm.

Anywhere to keep it stuck.

For over fifteen years, I had lived by that mantra. The first time I'd heard something similar was from Rossi himself.

"Keep your chin up, kid. These storms will pass, but they'll mold you into the unbeatable force you're destined to become. Just you wait."

My father had been a hell of a teacher. Tough as nails. Probably still was. But I stopped attending his classes a long ass time ago.

Two questions haunted me: do tough people endure? Do hard times truly fade away? The answers, I figured, were buried in countless shades of gray. Not black, not white.

Shed had died today at thirty-seven. It wasn't a long life by any stretch, but he had been as  tough as they came. One foolish mistake and he was gone for good. It made me wonder: why couldn't I entertain the thought of eliminating the redhead, even though her very existence spelled trouble for me?

It had been a grueling day, the kind that leaves a man feeling raw and restless. Offing the manager, a seven-year fixture, was just business—a necessary clean-up job. Reporting the mess to Morelli, making sure the replacement knew I didn't blink when it came to Shed—it was all about establishing authority.

Instead of hanging around RoyalGrey to ensure the message sank in deep, I found myself drawn here, to her, using the feeble excuse of coming to freshen up for the night, and also checking up on her to justify my presence. Making damn sure she was still toeing the line we'd agreed on, because slipping up meant facing the same fate as Shed. Deep down, I knew she wouldn't dare cause any trouble, but still, I had to come.

Xenia was a tough nut to crack. Perhaps a dangerous one, spun within a delicate web of complexities. Strangely, I found myself intrigued.

Slipping into a dark-colored T-shirt and sweatpants, I made my way to the living room. She was still there, lounging in the conversational area where I had left her every time I walked in and out of the house. It was like she never even did anything but sit and stare outside.

"Do you care for some spaghetti bolognese?" I voiced out, gesturing towards the kitchen. There were packs sitting on the counter that I'd ordered on my way back here. "Go fetch some."

It was absurd how I always redirected the conversation to food when, in reality, it was her presence that unsettled me, not her discomfort as a result of hunger.

Her response was a subtle shake of her head, drawing my attention to the way her curves filled out the shirt she wore, one of mine from days past. My eyes lingered a moment too long on her lips, and a strange urge washed over me—a desire to race up, force her up and kiss her.

"Can't let you waste away." My voice edged with a hint of sarcasm. "Wouldn't be much of a rescue then, would it?"

"I'm not hungry. I just want to go home." Her gaze flitted back to the window, even though it never really held mine. It had hung around the air, heeding to my prior warning. Asides the mundane sights of the city, the compound playground and west fountain, what she saw out there was anyone's guess.

With a tone as bitter as gall, I shredded the illusion she wore like a second skin. "You'll be out of here in less than twelve hours. Don't make me clean up your mess if you decide to starve yourself to death."

I aimed to shatter the walls she'd built around herself, to strip away the layers of defense she hid behind.

This whole dance between me and her was like being tantalized by a forbidden treasure, just out of reach but oh so provocative. I was drawn in by her presence, but possessing her was an impossible task. All I could do was endure the drill of her proximity.