Does It Hurt?: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

The morning rays peek through Enzo’s curtains, which feels like a punishment. Maybe because my mood is the exact opposite of sunshine and rainbows.

Heart pounding, I carefully sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Enzo softly snores beside me, his arm tossed over his head and the sheets down to his waist. 

It’s hard to swallow. A defined body with muscles, grooves, and divots that made my mouth water several times last night is on full display. And that perfect V that points directly to the weapon between his thighs.

We only fell asleep a couple of hours ago, and every time I shift, my body aches. My core aches. 

The man was relentless and insatiable. His fingers and tongue were in places that had never been touched before, and even thinking about it now has my face burning hot. 

I’m going to miss you.

But I need to survive more.

Steeling my spine, I gently slip out of bed, quickly gather my clothes, and yank them on.

Casting another glance at Enzo, I pick up his discarded shorts and rifle through them until my fingers close around his wallet. Smooth, black leather encasing his identity. 

Enzo Vitale. Thirty-four years old. Born November 12th—Scorpio; Lord, help me. Six-four—so he is a foot taller. Hazel eyes. He’s as delicious on paper as he is in the flesh.

I never physically steal anything. It’s too noticeable. So, I snap a quick photo of it, then replace the wallet in his shorts. Before slipping out of the room, I give him one last glance-over, every beat of my heart ringing hollow. I hate that I’m doing this to him, but then I hate that I do this to anyone at all.

Softly closing the door behind me, I walk out into his living room and kitchen area.

He lives in a beautiful home—lots of white with brown wooden beams lining up the walls and across the ceiling. I was surprised to find that Enzo has good taste and interior design skills. Almost as surprised as he was when he discovered my lack of a gag reflex.

Tiptoeing through the space, I open random doors until I find my gold mine. His office. A simple wooden desk, black leather chair, and several diagrams of sharks hanging on the walls. Bookshelves line the wall behind his desk, full of textbooks that are most likely for smart people.

Adrenaline is racing through my system as I approach the desk and start rifling through the drawers. Nothing of value in any of them—until I tug on the bottom one, finding it locked.

What I need is definitely in there. There’s a small bobby pin hooked around the string of my bathing suit top. I always have one there. Always. 

Slipping it off, I straighten it out and insert it into the lock. I’ve gotten pretty good at this, so within a minute, I’m carefully sliding the drawer open.

Pausing intermittently to listen for sounds, I dig through the contents, my heart spiking when I find a card that says Repubblica Italiana written across the top, with a bunch of numbers and letters below. I slip my phone from my back pocket and do a quick Google search, matching it to what’s called a tessera sanitaria. I’m not sure how to interpret what it says, but I can make out his first and last name, birthdate, and place of birth. I’m almost positive it’s the equivalent of a social security card in America and precisely what I need.

I also uncover an official document naming Enzo as the owner of a corporation labeled V.O.R.S., along with a business address.

Guilt tugs at my heartstrings as I quickly snap photos of them, close the drawer, and sidle out of the room.

God, I hope he thinks he just forgot to lock it, but I know better, which is why I will do everything in my power to never see Enzo Vitale again.

The loud banging on a door from somewhere nearby has my heart nearly bursting from my chest. I’m in the midst of bleaching my roots, so I toss the brush into the bowl and grab for my gun lying in the sink, adrenaline causing my vision to sharpen.

Breath short, I stare out past the entryway to the bathroom and at the door to my hotel room straight ahead, waiting for someone to bust through and take me away in handcuffs. Time ticks by, only nothing happens, yet there’s no calming the thundering in my chest.

Inhaling deeply, I face the mirror, averting my eyes as I set the gun back into the sink.

My very illegal gun, but I couldn’t resist. In the U.S., I had bought one from some shady dude for protection, but I had to leave it behind in order to travel. Here, gun laws are extremely strict, and obtaining one is nearly impossible in my predicament.

I had been walking past a shooting range when I got the stupid idea. A man had just finished up and put his handgun into a padlocked case in the trunk of his car and his ammo in a second locked case next to it. I hid behind a tree on the sidewalk while he ran back into the building, muttering to himself about having to pee. He didn’t even bother locking his car, too distracted by nature’s call.

I didn’t think at that moment, I just acted. I tiptoed to his car, opened the trunk, and stole both cases. Thankfully, my hotel was only a few blocks away, but my heart was nearly beating out of my chest the entire way back.

After, I was forced to find a hardware store to break into the damn things, though once I had the weapon in my hands, I felt like I could breathe again.

Blowing out a slow breath, I grab my brush from the bowl, then resume lathering the chemicals onto my roots, hands shaking. My natural brown has been coming through, and about once every couple of months, I make it my life’s mission to expunge it from existence.

I hate this shit, but I think my abused scalp is used to it by now.

When I’m finished, I toss the brush and the now empty bowl into the trash. The hotel room I’m staying in reeks of the bleach, but it also stinks of other things that are probably better suited in a lab.

Then, I pick up my burning cigarette that’s been resting in an ashtray on top of the toilet and inhale, still avoiding my reflection.

During the twenty minutes it takes for the chemicals to do their magic, I go through another cigarette and swallow down a quarter of a bottle of vodka. I really shouldn’t be drinking, but a deep impenetrable sadness has a tight hold on me, and alcohol is the only thing that drowns it.

Then, I strip off my clothes and get in the cruddy shower to wash out the bleach. My body feels sluggish and heavy as I rinse, and I can’t tell if it’s from the vodka or because life feels so fucking abysmal.

Halfway through, the alcohol hits and my surroundings begin to swirl around me. It feels like I got trapped in a rocket and it’s blasting off.

“Fuck,” I mutter, slapping my hand on the wall in an attempt to stabilize myself.

I crank off the water and stumble out of the shower, snatching a towel on the way out. I wrap it around me, the material nice and scratchy. So much better than the fluffy soft shit.

Cold droplets from my drenched hair trail down my body and cause goosebumps to rise. I tug on a white tank and sleep shorts, water from my half-dried body soaking into my clothes.

The stall is directly in front of the sink, so the moment I look up into the mirror, Kev is already staring back at me.

The only things he and I share are our blue eyes and broad smiles. He always favored our father, with stick-straight hair, round eyes, and a strong nose, while I favored our mother, with the wild curly hair and more elfish-like features.

Doesn’t matter, anyway. The eyes were always the worst part. I can’t see my own without seeing his, too.

“Fuck you,” I snarl at my—his—reflection. He grins, and that only serves to amplify my fury.

The half-empty bottle of vodka sits on the sink edge, and I swipe it off by the neck, taking a generous swig. The burn feels like acid going down my throat, but it forces back the vomit trying to climb up it.

“You know, sometimes I wish that when we were in Mom’s stomach, I would’ve eaten you,” I say, then take another gulp.

I chuckle because that’s also kind of gross.

But that stupid fucking grin is echoing my own, enough to make me snap.

Snarling, I grab the gun from the sink again, except this time, I point it directly at Kev. Tears well in my eyes, and his smile widens. He’s still taunting me. I have no idea where he’s gone, but he’s always been good at tormenting me even when I’m alone.

“You don’t get to do that,” I choke. “You don’t get to win. I win. Not you.”

My hand trembles violently as I glower at him, a tear slipping free and trailing down my cheek. He always got angry when I cried. Could never understand why he made me so sad.

Don’t you love me, pipsqueak?

“No,” I sneer. “I hate you.”

You don’t mean that.

“I HATE YOU!” I scream with all my might, feeling my face rush with blood and my chest crack open. I smash the gun’s tip into the glass, right where his head is.

You only hate me because you’re just like me. We’re the same, pip. And the only one who will love you for you is me.

I’m shaking my head as the phantom in the mirror continues torturing me.

“You’ll never let me go, will you?” I cry, my voice breaking from anguish and defeat.

I’m not considering my actions when I turn the gun on myself, the cold press of the barrel sinking into my temple. Kev’s face contorts in rage, but I can’t hear him anymore. The only thing I can hear is the loud ringing in my ears as my fingers dance over the trigger.

Would it be so bad if I was gone?

Who would even notice?

No one would care. I’m a small blip that will blink out almost as quickly as it appeared.

So, what am I even fighting for? If I’m not fighting to stay alive for someone else, what’s the point in staying alive for myself when I don’t even want to be here?

A high-pitched laugh trickles out of my throat while Kevin continues to rage. He’s not real, but at this moment, I’ve never felt closer to him.

“Weren’t expecting that, were you?” I point at him in a gotcha moment with the hand still holding the bottle, causing the liquid to slosh over the rim and onto the floor.

“You don’t want me to kill myself because you’ve always wanted to be the one to do it,” I tell him.

Tears stream down my cheeks, and his image blurs from the flood.

“But I can’t do it, either,” I cry. “Because if I do, it would still be because of you.”

My stomach churns, but I’m incapable of looking away as he slowly fades away. I still end up hearing the last thing he says, anyway.

We’ve been together from the very beginning, pipsqueak. I’ll never let you get away from me.

I’m dying.

Sweat glides down my forehead as I flip my most recent crime through my fingers, with “Swimming in the Moonlight” by Bad Suns playing softly on the radio.

A gold plastic rectangle with Enzo’s name on it is glaring back at me. It took a week and a half, but my new credit card has been approved. This is supposed to save me, yet all I can feel is sick. Coupled with the fact that Senile Suzy’s AC is broken, and it’s hotter than the pit of a volcano in here.

Alas, it’s my home, and I’ve already spent the past several days in a hotel waiting for the card to come in the mail. I had just enough money left to put down a deposit for my stay, and I think I broke out in hives when I paid the bill after getting it in the mail. 

Blowing out a slow breath, I wipe away a bead of perspiration that’s gearing up to drip right into my eyeball and burn the shit out of it when my phone dings; the chime letting me know an email just came through. 

My heart drops, already knowing who it’s from without having to see it. Despite my brain screaming at me to just ignore it. They can’t find you. I grab the device and click on it anyway.

Come on, pipsqueak, stop lying to yourself and the rest of the world about what happened. You’re spending all this time running when you could have already faced what you’ve done to the one person who loved you most in the world.

Just… do it for Kevin.

You owe him that much.

Garrett

Fucker. Growling beneath my breath, I punch my thumb into the delete button, then sit up and turn off the van.

I’m out in the scorching sun seconds later, slamming the door shut behind me and stomping through the trees until I come out on a dirt road that’ll lead me into town.

I met Garrett after Kev joined the police academy, when we were twenty. He adopted Kevin’s nickname for me, and every time I see it, I want to claw out my eyeballs. Since I ran off, he’s been sending me emails, pleading with me to come back and ‘face what I’ve done.’ He’s just another cop who believed my brother over me.

And why wouldn’t he? They’ll always believe a cop over a civilian. Even if I’m their twin sister.

I’m trudging to the bus stop in a sour mood when I spot Simon. I hadn’t even realized I was walking over here. It’s as if a switch was flipped in my body and it went on autopilot, gravitating toward my only friend in this town. There’s no one else to go to. No one else to talk to. 

Instantly, a spark ignites in my chest, and I’m rushing toward him.

“Simon!” I call out, waving my hand excitedly. He waves back, a small smile tipping on his face when he spots me.

“Well, hello there, pretty lady.”

“I’ve missed you. You’ve been gone,” I tell him, taking a seat next to him. “Why?”

He chortles, the sound shaking his entire body. Simon doesn’t laugh with his mouth; he laughs with his chest. 

“My ex-wife told me the same thing our whole marriage. Probably why she divorced my ass. Can’t seem to keep me in one place for very long.”

I twist my lips. “I feel you, Simon, I feel you. But I think maybe your wife should’ve just gone with you.”

He waves a hand. “Meh, the fast life ain’t for everyone. You’re just like me, kiddo, I can tell—always on the move.”

I smile and nod. “Can’t hold me down, either.”

He studies me for a second, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette from a pack.

“You know, we’re also different. I’ve always been running to something—always searching for something that I could never find. But I suspect you’re the opposite. You’re running from something.”

My smile slips, and I reach my hand out. “Gimme that.”

He chuckles again and hands the cigarette over. I curl it between my lips and lean over, allowing Simon to light it for me.

After inhaling deeply, I ask, “How can you tell?”

He doesn’t answer until his own is lit and he’s taken a few puffs. 

“You got that cornered animal look to you. Jumpy. Haunted. Like you’re gonna bite and run any second, without warning.”

I frown. Austin, the bartender, also compared me to an animal.

“Apparently, I’m not as mysterious as I thought,” I mumble, taking another drag. 

“Sweetheart, you carry your baggage like it’s the only belongings you got.”

“Ouch,” I mutter, though a grin tips up my lips. “Maybe that’s my appeal then. Everyone wants to fix the broken, right?”

“Nah,” he says. “People don’t actually care about fixing you. They just want to shape your broken pieces until they fit their standards. Smooth ’em out, make ’em less sharp, so they don’t cut so deep when they collect ’em. But you ain’t any less broken.”

“He’s a wise one,” I announce loudly, earning a few side-eye glances. “If I’m a feral dog, you’re an owl.”

Another body-shaking laugh and I feel my soul ease just a little. Simon has no interest in fixing my broken pieces, but he also smooths them out without even trying. Just a little.

“Tattoo healin’ nicely?” 

My grin widens, and I show him my leg. “It’s perfect. I want another.”

“We can do another, but let’s wait until it’s the right time, yeah?”

Another frown. “How will I know it’s the right time?”

He pats my leg as the bus hurtles down the road, coming to a screeching halt in front of us. Neither of us gets up to leave.

“You’ll know.”