Page 44 of Bronx

They’re swarming with emotions full of bitterness and perhaps revulsion. It takes me a moment to see it, but as he holds the cigarette to his lips, I finally notice that his knuckles are raw and bleeding and then I understand.

Bronx doesn’t want to hurt me.

It’s just that he’s hurt someone else.

Ray.

I can see that man will continue to be a thorn in my side.

In a moment of sheer insanity, I feel the burning need to take care of Bronx’s injured hands. I want to clean them, bandage them–and erase any trace of Ray at all.

I want to help, but then reality sets back in. I’m standing buck naked in this man’s bathroom and he has a full bird’s eye view of my lumps, bumps, and everything in between.

So I slowly shuffle my feet across the floor and grab my towel (something I should have done sixty seconds ago), wrap it around myself, and tuck it closed at the top of my breasts. Then I walk over to him and grab one of his hands to inspect it further.

“Sit,” I tell him. He seems less intimidating if I can look down on him instead of the other way around.

He listens.

“Now tell me what happened?” I ask.

He sits quietly on the toilet seat cover and it’s almost as if he’s going through the motions, like he’s not totally present. His head is bowed down as he takes several deep breaths.

“Pour me a drink,” he mutters in a bass-heavy, pained voice.

“I don’t know where you keep the liquor.”

“Under the sink.”

“Which sink?”

“Every fucking sink,” he growls.

I fast-walk to the kitchen and look inside the cabinets underneath the massive brass sink. Sure enough, there are two bottles containing different brands of whiskey. I don’t know the difference between the two, so I simply grab the opened one, locate a glass, and pour Bronx about two shots’ worth of the amber liquid and hand it to him.

He grabs the glass from my hand with a grunt and pours the entirety of it down his throat in one shot. When he’s finished, he grits his teeth and places the empty glass on top of the toilet tank. He takes one last, long drag of his cigarette and then puts it out in the glass. The only sound between us is the sizzle of the fire being extinguished.

I stand quietly in front of him because I’m a little scared to say anything. He just tossed two shots down his throat and raw angry energy is pouring off of him in waves. When Ray gets like this, he starts throwing stuff around the room and near my head, but Bronx is twice his size in height and width.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I ask, whispering under my breath.

His forehead wrinkles but he doesn’t respond to my question, and now my imagination is getting the better of me as I try to determine what happened at Ruby’s house. I’m well aware that Ray has the distinct ability to piss almost anyone off, especially if he was drinking, and I bet he said something to Bronx so horrible that now the man can’t even bear to look at me.

But then he does the most surprising thing.

“Come here, Karma.”

15

Karma

Bronx’s voice sounds raw but commanding, so I take a few steps forward but stand stock still as he runs a single finger up my cleavage and then lightly traces my collarbone. It’s only a few moments, but it feels like forever and it feels good.

I close my eyes as he continues his exploration of me, now tracing my jugular vein with the same finger. He raises his head up and his warm breath floats along my skin. My eyes pop open when he unexpectedly wraps his massive hand around my neck and pulls me forward.

“What are you–”

He gently squeezes my throat and cuts off my question with a kiss that rocks me to my core. He swirls his tongue inside of my mouth, leaving traces of whiskey and smoke. He releases the slight pressure to my throat and uses the pad of his thumb to softly rub along my jawline as we continue kissing.