I check the clock on the wall. I’m sure in the next ninety minutes he’ll be home and everything will be fine. He’d responded to my early text about them coming over, so he knows this evening’s plans.
As I empty the dishwasher and tidy up the kitchen, I focus on taking deep breaths, in through my nose and slowly out through my mouth. When Rocco walks through that door, I need to be calm, together.
I stack the papers on the dining table and put them in the top drawer of the dark timber sideboard lined up against the wall of the room. I pick up the crumpled tissues, which are sitting beside a …
Oh no.
I can’t hold back the tears that glide down my cheeks. It’s a worn version of the photo of Rocco and his brother, which is on the fridge. A heavy gold cross on a chain is sitting beside it. It looks the same as the one Vinnie is wearing in the picture.
Life can be so cruel.
A loud ring followed by a buzzing on the kitchen bench draws me out of my daze. I wipe at my cheeks and sigh with relief when the familiar name comes up on the display.
“Rocco.” I gasp into the phone. “Where are you?”
“Is this Sophie?” a deep, gruff male voice asks.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Cactus. Rocco is here in my parlour, and he’s a bit under the weather. Can you come down and pick him up? I’ll text you the address.”
Shit. He’s turned back to the bottle. It’s heartbreaking because he was doing so well, but I guess, under the weight of what happened to his brother, I can’t blame him. It’s hard to be strong when your world has turned to shit.
“I’ll leave right away.”
****
Fifteen minutes later, I run through the glass doors of the tattoo joint.
“I’m looking for Cactus,” I say, breathless.
Heavy work boots thud against the polished cement floor as a tall man with a bald head and a long grey beard walks up to the counter. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans. Black and red ink, in the form of a dragon, curls up the side of his neck. There’s almost no skin on either of his arms untouched.
“Yeah, that’d be me. Sorry there, love. He mumbled your name and gave me his phone.”
“Where is he?”
“Passed out in the corner over there.” He points his inked finger towards a man that resembles more a heap of clothes tossed haphazardly in a chair.
I rush over to him. “Rocco,” I mumble, as I pat the side of his face. His eyes flutter open, revealing how bloodshot they are.
“Suds,” he breathes, and I choke on the stench of alcohol seeping out of him. I don’t know what he’s been drinking, but it’s a putrid concoction. My guess is he didn’t care what he was knocking back. How quickly he could feel numb was more important.
Cactus makes him finish off a bottle of water and gives him another one for the road. He kindly helps me get Rocco into the front passenger seat of my car. I need to keep an eye on him. If he was to lie down on the back seat, my guess is he’d vomit everywhere. Neither of us need spew in our lives right now.
When we get home, I help him up the stairs. Thankfully he’s moving better on his feet, and I’m not worried that he’ll collapse on me. He hasn’t said a single word since we got in my car, but then again, I haven’t pushed him for conversation either. He just stared through the windshield in a daze. I’m not about to reprimand him for drinking, because that won’t do a bloody thing. He’ll regret what he did eventually, but he doesn’t need me to bring it to his attention. I need to be here for him.
I take him straight to the bathroom and turn on the shower. He puts the toilet seat down and sits. I unlace his boots and reef his T-shirt over his head. I help strip him down to his boxers and then guide him under the water. He winces and flattens his palms against the tiles, allowing the water to stream down his back.
He pushes his underwear down and they land with a slap to the floor. “Having your eyes on me, I should be hard as fuckin’ stone,” he grumbles.
“Stop thinking about your dick for one second, will you?” I tease, but my tone is soft, sad.
He sweeps his fingers though is hair and soaps his upper body. The bubbles coat his ink before being washed down the ripples of his washboard stomach. I refuse to let my eyes roam any lower. Instead, I turn and grab my towel from the rack, because his is still lying on the floor from this morning. I hold the fluffy white rectangle of fabric out towards him. He shuts off the water and takes the towel, rubbing it down his face and then over his chest.
“You know yesterday I was going through the motions. I was organising shit, but today it fuckin’ hit me. I was drowning … and the grog was all I could see to keep me afloat.”
“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling. You know I’m here, right? If you wanna talk or whatever?”
Rocco steps onto the floor mat and wraps the towel low around his slim hips. He curls his hand around my neck and draws me close, wrapping his warm arms around me. With a gentle squeeze, he sighs in my ear. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
****
I make Rocco some buttered toast, and bring it to him on the lounge. He’s pale and shivering beneath my blanket.
“You need to eat something,” I say, offering him the plate.
“Thanks.” It takes him about two minutes to swallow a bite. At least he’s eating.
Three knocks rap at the door.
“Shit,” I mutter. “I forgot April and the guys were coming. Do you want me to tell them to go?”
“Nah, I need to do this,” he says, and nods.
I open the door and am hit with the smell of pizza and a flash of supportive smiles.
“Hey, guys. Come in,” I say, adorning my bravest face as I show them to the dining table.
Rocco gets up from the lounge and shakes Mac’s hand, giving him a gruff ‘g’day’.
“Feelin’ any better, son?” Mac asks.
Rocco doesn’t answer him, instead pulling Jones into a hug. He holds him for the longest time. April and Mac stare at the men embracing and then shoot questioning looks at me.
“You okay, bud?” Jones asks, and holds him at arm’s length.
A blank stare overtakes Rocco’s face. I take his hand and tug him towards the table.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” I suggest.
I sit beside Rocco and help April open the pizza boxes. I don’t give a shit about plates or serviettes. It’s not the time to be prim and proper about this shit. Everyone continues to look at Rocco, but he just stares at the array of cheesy carbohydrates in front of him.
I wave my hands at the food. “Eat while it’s hot, guys,” I say, trying to break the tension, which is thick amongst us.
Quietly, our visitors take a slice and eat. I reach for Rocco’s hand under the table and link his cool fingers with mine.
“I need to take some time, Mac,” Rocco says, almost crushing my fingers as he speaks.
“What for, son?” Mac asks, and then mauls his pizza crust.
“My little brother is dead.”
April gasps and clutches at her chest. Mac’s jaw drops open. Jones reaches beside him and grips Rocco’s shoulder. “Fuck,” Jones curses. “I’m sorry.”
I watch on in admiration as Rocco tells our friends everything. He’s matter-of-fact, robotic even, as he tells them about his brother being in jail, how Vinnie got there in the first place, and the suspicious circumstances surrounding his death. He talks about losing his parents, his battle with alcohol, and how he’s trying to overcome his addiction. When he tells them he wants to be a better person it hits me like a thunderbolt right in the heart. There’s more to this man than simply tattoos and a foul mouth. There’s a big-arse heart inside, and I’m getting to see more of it every day. I just wish it wasn’t something as life altering as this that had exposed it.
Rocco lays his troubles out on the table and doesn’t hold back. I guess he’s a man with nothing left to lose.
I don’t let go of his hand for anything.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ROCCO