Easy isn’t worth a damn. I’ve always needed a challenge. Comfortable just feels like I’m wasting my time.
Elisa is cottagecore. She’s soft and easy.
While I’m all dark academia. I need to be bleak, black, and hard as hell.
Because the struggle makes the end result worth it.
I try to find projects around the house. There are a few doors that don’t close right. That eats up all of an hour. I clean the kitchen out of sheer desperation and consider moving on to the toilets, but I don’t want to give Luca the satisfaction of having a maid waiting for him at home.
Screw that guy.
But I’m a pathetic dingbat because when I hear him come through the front door around three that afternoon, I get a little surge of excitement. I don’t particularly want to see him—but maybe a good old-fashioned argument will break up some of the monotony.
He comes into the living room and dumps a heavy toolbox onto the kitchen counter.
I stare, and it takes a few seconds until I realize I recognize those dark blue dinged-up handles and the little vinyl record sticker on the back.
“Is that mine?” I ask, incredulous.
“Picked it up from the garage.” He tilts his head, considering me. “How’d you sleep last night?”
“Like crap.” I take a step toward my toolbox. My hands itch to feel the weight of the wrench again. But I make myself stop. “Why did you bring this here?”
“I have a surprise for you.” He moves toward the front door. “Come on. Bring that with you.”
“Hold on.” But he’s already gone. Cursing, I lift the toolbox in both hands, lugging it along. It’s heavy as fuck. Normally, I leave this stupid thing on the bench. It bangs against my thigh as I limp after him. “Wait a second!”
Luca pauses outside on the stoop. He’s wearing an expensive suit, and his hair’s combed back. I hate it, but the guy’s absolutely exquisite.
For a vicious, selfish gangster, anyway.
“It’s not far.” He presses his lips together again, trying not to laugh. I hate it when he makes that face. But it’s also stupidly handsome, and that only makes it worse. “You need help?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, nodding at him. “Go on, take me to this surprise.” I’m so bored I’m willing to play his game.
He walks across the street straight toward an empty lot. It looks like it’s been abandoned for a while, but someone must’ve mowed it recently. I could’ve sworn it was overgrown and a total mess the last time I noticed it, but now there’s a big white tent toward the back with thick canvas walls. Luca heads straight for it and shoves the entry flap aside.
“Are you about to dismember me?” I ask him, hesitating before I follow.
“I would’ve done that in the comfort of my own home.” He shrugs slightly. “I’ve got all the tools and materials in the basement.”
“I don’t doubt that, psycho,” I mutter and step into the tent after him.
There’s a workbench on the left. It’s barebones but functional. Another bench is on the right with more tools lined up. I recognize them from the garage. More of my stuff. And right in the middle, like the sun on a cloudy day, like a river flowing through the desert, like real salvation, is my car.
I drop the toolbox out of sheer surprise, and it lands right on my foot.
“Oh, fuck!” I howl in pain, hopping up and down. It hurts like hell. I’m pretty sure my pinky toe is smashed to tiny bits. I whimper, kicking my leg, trying not to start sobbing.
Luca grabs me and lifts me up. He puts me down on the hood of the Spider before I can tell him not to. “Let me see it,” he says, knocking away my hands when I try to stop him. Gingerly, he takes off my slippers and frowns at the red welt, already bruising. “Well, shit. That’s not how I wanted this to go.”
“It’s fine. I’m totally fine, okay?”
“You should see a doctor. We can make sure these aren’t broken.”
“So what if they are? They’re toes. Tape them together, and we’ll move on.”
“Not good enough. What if they don’t heal right? Let me get some ice and call my guy?—”
