Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

24. Revenge

With the camera clutched against my chest, I run through the speculating crowd. The faster I run, the more uncomfortable the damp clothes against my skin becomes. 

After a block and a half, I check over my shoulder to find Marcel folded with his hands on his knees. You have long legs for nothing, sir. Trying to rid himself of the excess water, he shakes his head. Ultimately, showering a woman trying to enjoy a churro.

Pressing myself against the nearest wall, I smooth my hands over my dripping hair. Mocking me, water runs down my back and into my boots. Needing to wring my hair, I set the camera on the windowsill of a pizza parlor. Within no time, my tight curls begin to form. Taking a moment to recover,  I too bend over, set my hands on my knees to catch my breath. 

As a familiar shadow grows beside me, I ignore it and peel off my shirt.

"Angel." Marcel picks up his unharmed camera.

Don't talk to me. 

I steal a glimpse of him before wringing my top. Marcel stands before me and turns his head as I redress. When I finish, I tuck my curly locks behind my ears and grab the hem of his shirt.

"Take it off," I reveal his abs and tattoos without his given permission. 

Allowing, Marcel lifts his arms as I pull it over his head. As I'm wringing the t-shirt to my side, I take a peek of him. He scoffs with a knowing smile. Nothing's funny. 

"I shouldn't give it back." I push it against his stomach, causing him to snatch a sharp breath. 

His tongue traces his bottom teeth as he takes note of my revenge. "You said you wanted to go swimming." He wrings his curls as I'm sending him daggers. Raking my eyes from him, I walk away without another word. "Where are you going?"

"The hotel!"

"I like your shirt." He compliments. My black bra is all that's left to protect me from further embarrassment. Flipping him off, I continue my march. "The hotel is this way, baby." He redirects.

I can imagine the smirk on his face. Sighing at my misroute, I stop half a block down. Why is this my life? Locking my arms across my chest, I debate getting a different hotel. Is that being dramatic?  

I cross the street. From the corner of my eye, I see Marcel hasn't moved. He knows I'm mad, that's why he kept his ass on the other sidewalk.

I have to give thanks to the Venetian sun for it helped partially dry my clothes. I dreaded walking into my hotel soaking wet and draped in a see-through shirt.

Marcel didn't say a thing as we shared the elevator. Trust me, I tried closing the door on him, but you know how these doors are. I felt him peeking over to me when his eyes weren't turned to the ground. I let my anger further be known once we got into the suite and I closed the door in his face. 

Entering my room, I leave Marcel on the other side as well.

"C'mon Angel." Marcel's apologetic knock taps against the dividing door. "You can't be mad at me forever." He knocks again. "I'm sorry." The sound is barely audible, but I hear Marcel sigh in defeat. Ditching him to douse in his own regret, I go into the bathroom to clean myself up.

After a shower, I change into a white, Bardot, maxi dress. Push me into another canal if you want to. Half of my coiled hair is pinned back and the other half is out to bounce. A few pieces frame my naturally made-up face.

Prepared for a solo day on the town, I grab my key card from the dresser and head for my closed bedroom door. To avoid mishaps, I stick the card into my marble crossbody as I step into the living room.