Page 38 of Fatality

“You looked so excited to eat here.” I tilt my head to the side. “Why don't you stay? Besides, I just remembered I need to stop by Elyas's place before heading home.”

I shrug my shoulders “He has something I lent him for his tattoo practice.”

“Oh.” Liam nods. “Elyas. Your high school friend.” His tone cools ever so slightly.

“Yeah... okay. Don't worry about it. Just text me when you get home, Riv.”

He leans in and presses a quick, gentle kiss to my lips before following the creepy-ass waiter.

The second he lets go of me, I turn around and leave.

Outside the restaurant, I physically shake myself like a dog trying to get rid of the creepiness clinging to me.

Much better.

I pull out my headphones, connect them, put on some music, and head toward Elyas's place.

Thirty minutes later, after taking the city transport, I ring Elyas's doorbell. Less than a minute later, the building door slides open.

I take the transparent reinforced-glass elevator up to his floor, the kind that opens directly into the apartment.

The second I step inside, I'm hit by the smell of a man who clearly doesn't believe in opening windows.

I sweep my gaze around.

It's a disaster, there is clothes everywhere and random shit covering every surface.

I pinch my nose shut.

Men.

They're not all like this. But, the smell? That part feels universal.

I start walking—or rather, trying not to kill myself tripping over something—and head straight for the nearest window, shoving it open.

Fresh air—or as fresh as air gets in this city—brushes against my skin, instantly making me feel better.

“Already judging me, Riv?” Elyas's voice comes from behind me, laced with sarcasm.

“Yeah. Can't you at least open a window? It smells like—”

“Sex and bad decisions,” he cuts in, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Accurate.”

He leans casually against the counter.

“Well, you came for the tattoo machine?” He pauses. “I sold it.”

My eyes narrow instantly as I take a step toward him.

“Before you punch me in the guts,” he says quickly, raising both hands in surrender, “I had to pay some people back because I made a bet.”

One eyebrow shoots up.

“What do you mean you sold it?” I stare at him. “Do you even know how much a real tattoo machine costs these days? A proper coil machine?”

My voice sharpens.

“I lent it to you because you said you wanted to practice. Not to sell it.”