| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Brad drove to the nearest supermarket and paid for breakfast essentials before I directed him to the apartment complex. Not that a navigational system was necessary. He already knew where I lived and, without shame, boasted as he parked the Bentley.
I have yet to give him an extended tour of my two-bedroom flat. As soon as he walked through the front door, a shower, dry towels, and a hairdryer took precedence. I left him in the main bedroom, rain-soaked and windswept, to busy myself in the kitchen.
Him, in the flat, naked, showering, is the focal point of cogitation as I juiced an antioxidant powerhouse: blackberries, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, pomegranate arils, watermelon and fresh mint. Brad is a friend, not a stranger, and I liked that he was here, but appreciation did nothing to sway self-reproach. Ben and Quinn have every right to be upset if they find out about the unplanned visit. I do not answer the phone if they ring or open the door if they knock. Yet, without hesitation, I welcomed someone I had only known for a strawberry pip season into the protective wall I built around myself.
Passing the puree through the strainer, ready to be poured into two glasses, I popped a grape in my mouth.
Maybe I am being too hard on myself. I did not make this easy for Brad. He called, texted, left sweet voicemails and sent thoughtful lyrics. I ignored him (mostly) to prioritise mental health.
He must have caught me on a good day. Or, I stood back long enough to realise there was more to life than self-absorption. He needed a friend, someone to recognise his struggles and take the reins for five minutes. And that is what I planned to do, reduce his stress levels and put his needs first.
The energising effect of power fruit is what his immune system demanded. Not coffee, alcohol and drugs. Undisturbed rest might go a long way, too. That is, if he will be kind to himself.
I prepared juice: two plates, two glasses and two pieces of buttered toast. Two of everything, the way it should be. And an empty mug on the counter for the beverage my brother will not drink. Benjamin rarely had time for breakfast when we lived above the cafe. He only drank coffee in the morning unless Carter guilt-tripped him into making pancakes.
Going to the sink, I turned on the tap, splashed my face with cold water and expunged nostalgic idealisation with a scrub of the tea towel.
Cleo devoured chicken-flavoured cat food. I had recently bought her a pink collar with a bejewelled cat tag, which she loathed with a passion because the constant tintinnabulation of silvery bells irritated her. I think she looked cute. I cannot speak on behalf of her owners, but if I were them, I'd be grateful. I treated her like royalty.
Cleo had a bundle of interactive toys, ping pong balls and electronic mice to encourage exercise. I hated to say it, but Cleo, the grumpy tabby cat, is on the obese side of the scale.
It worried me far more than it should have.
I looked up obesity in cats online and read discomforting articles. She is at risk of developing all sorts of health problems. I am gradually transitioning her with a new diet plan: physical activity and portion control. Or, I am trying, to say the least. But she does not make it easy for me. Interactive toys gathered dust under the kitchen table because she would gouge my eyes out before rolling out of bed for anything but food and cuddles. Meal time is the trickiest. She is unsatisfied with smaller portions.
