‘Chert voz’mi!’
He held his hand over the sink as the first drops of blood began to fall. The cuts were not deep, just surface wounds.
‘Damn whoever is in charge of stocking the damned bar.’
‘That would be me, sir.’
Roman turned to se
e Jorge in the open doorway, the man’s face filled with concern.
‘I came to see if you want me to close up the house.’
‘Do whatever you like. I won’t staying around long enough to check.’
‘I see that Olivia has left us,’ Jorge said tentatively.
Roman lowered his voice. ‘I do not want to speak about Olivia. I want to relax and enjoy the rest of my vacation on my damned boat—alone.’
‘With vodka?’ Jorge added.
‘Yes. With vodka. Is there a problem with that?’ Roman spat. ‘I am a grown man and you are not my father.’
‘No. No, I am not,’ Jorge said, a hint of sadness in his voice. ‘But you have made it clear in the past that you at least see me as a friend of sorts.’
Roman grunted, wrapping a strip of linen carelessly around his injured hand.
‘Can I speak frankly with you?’ Jorge asked.
‘You always do.’
The older man half smiled, crossing his arms and taking a deep breath before speaking. ‘I think that you are hurting right now.’
‘Believe me, I’ve had worse in my lifetime. I’ll heal.’
‘I’m not talking about the cuts on your hands.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘The Roman I know would never concede defeat so easily. You are not the kind of stupid man who would let pride stand in the way of what he wants.’
‘Just because I want something, it doesn’t mean I should have it. I have learnt that lesson in the past, Jorge. She is meant for a better man than me. A good man.’
‘She loves you.’
‘No. She is in love with the idea of love and nothing more.’
‘I watched her get into that helicopter and, believe me, I know a heartbroken woman when I see one.’
‘Well, that’s not my fault. I did not hide from her the man that I am.’
‘The man that you are would never come railing into his liquor cabinet unless he was deeply hurt by something. Or someone.’
‘Jorge, you really must add psychoanalysis to your list of skills.’
‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ the other man said. ‘Tell me she doesn’t mean anything to you and I will fill that bar with vodka and send you on your way.’
‘She is nothing to me,’ he said the words, willing himself to believe them. Willing himself to ignore the burning pit of anger in his stomach.