2 | Blood

◇ KEL ◇

His phone wasn't on loudspeaker, but I could hear enough. His dad just had this deep and clear-cut, usually authoritative voice. 

I grabbed my satchel and pretended not to listen in before I unbuckled my seat belt. Ignoring Miles and his glances took some acting skills; I just didn't want him to think I was eavesdropping.

He reclined in the driver seat, frowning, his attention currently held by an unexpected phone call from his parents. Mr. Falco asked another question over the phone as Miles parked in front of the house.

"Sì, Pappa." Miles pulled the car keys out of the ignition before I stepped out of the passenger seat. "Eh...sì, Aspetti, forse verrò, sì," Miles said, his obvious reticence thinning his voice. He muttered more Italian responses and stepped out of his car, hurriedly and with an expression I got used to seeing every time he talked to his parents on the phone.

To give him some privacy, I proceeded to the front lawn of our quiet abode.

Well, I barely had the right to imply partial ownership of the high-priced house and lot, but, for several months now, the simple but elegant two-storey house had been my home away from home, my secure and private residence away from the busy city...Miles being my freehanded landlord slash roommate, of course.

He caught up to me sooner than I could unlock the huge front door. The drive from the show venue lasted two hours or so. My aching back and legs were telltale signs of my overworked state. I sighed. Sleeping in all weekend, for sure.

Fashion Week always did me in. Grueling. Time-consuming.  The only thing I appreciated right now was the apparent fact that my head didn't feel like it was being jackhammered from inside my skull, and the possibility of a bigger paycheck this week.

"Rest up; you're exhausted." Miles watched me fumble with the keys and held my purse for me.

"Want something to eat?" I unlocked the bolts. The heavy, solid hardwood door made me wince. My limbs ached whenever I would make sudden movements. Dinner and a good night's sleep to recuperate from the runway stints would definitely help.

"I'll cook. Haven't eaten all day, have you?" Miles lingered in the doorway, his car keys jangling in his hand. "Want something heavy?" he asked when I ignored his questioning. I was already in the hallway to his spacious kitchen.

"Um...sure."

He nodded faintly, walked into the kitchen, and flipped some lights on.

I just about dragged my feet until I reached the dining room. Snacks? Or we could have an early dinner.

"No more shows?" Miles took raw meat and vegetables out of the tall fridge. "Free tomorrow?" He switched the stove on and kept his back to me, his hands quick with the ingredients.

"Yeah. So tired," I muttered. The exhaustion forced me to just say "tired" instead of thoroughly exhausted. I stretched my achy back and enjoyed watching him get busy. I chose one of the eight dining chairs.

The wide table served little to no purpose, frankly. The only time the dining set wasn't totally empty was when Miles let the security staff enjoy a warm home-cooked meal with us, which was a rarity. Miles loved his privacy.

"Rare or medium rare?" Miles asked. "Mykaela."

"Yeah." I smiled as the aromatic smell of meat cooking distracted me from falling asleep with half of my torso on the speckless dining table. "Cook it your way."

"Still finishing a painting. Can't drive you around if you'd like to go somewhere later."

"Goin' out's the last thing on my mind right now." I massaged my temple and reclined.

Strange how my headache and dizziness just vanished after a two-hour drive with Miles behind the wheel. I didn't even nap for a whole hour.

"My headache's gone." I moved to another chair, the one nearest to the stove. I loved watching him cook.  Miles Falco...slaving away in his own kitchen to fix me a meal—such a rare sight. Almost funny, actually.  "What's your secret? You're always better than painkillers."

"You just like me that much." Miles smirked when he caught me staring from afar. He flipped the pinkish pieces of meat and let them crackle on the pan.

Everything just smelled divine. My stomach wanted to jump for joy. No runway shows until next week—now I could eat whatever I wanted.  My stomach grumbled while my nose enjoyed the scent of garlic and raw meat cooking.

"Eat everything on your plate. I'm not stepping out of the basement after this."

"Sudden bout of inspiration?" I smiled and waited for him to spare me a small grin. More often than not, he behaved like the serious, loner type. And we hadn't had a proper conversation since he sped out of the show venue's parking lot. "You done with the biggest?" I asked with more enthusiasm. His newest paintings must look breathtaking. "Can I take a look?"

"Definitely not." Miles kept his gaze on the stove. The barbecue sauce on the pork chops made noise over the intense heat. "I'm not even done shading the first one yet."

"How's your Mamma and Pappa?" I asked out of sheer curiosity.

The phone call from his father must've taken no longer than a minute.   Miles didn't talk to his family often. Why?  Not sure. He rarely visited or called his parents, as far as I could remember. Granted, they were busy with the family business, but, they were merely a two-hour flight away.

"Fine."

Counting out the scraping and crackling noises on the stove, the entire kitchen and dining room fell silent when Miles didn't further our conversation.

Something bothered him. I could sense it.  He was never this reserved, except when he got busy behind a canvas. Miles hadn't even looked me in the eye since that kiss back at the show venue.

It wasn't really a kiss, though. More like, an awkward lips-on-lips contact. Between friends. Plain old friends. Never been the "with benefits" kind. Not in the romantic sense, at least.

It wouldn't be an issue had the circumstances been different. If it was him who gave me a kiss, I wouldn't put any meaning behind it. At times, he was just that easygoing and affectionate towards his friends after a couple drinks—not that he had a lot of friends.

But we both knew I'd kissed him earlier because of something else entirely. Miles seemed uptight that I hadn't come clean about it and my panic-stricken behavior earlier.

Perhaps he was just waiting for me to start a discussion about it. Fine. I'd let the cat out of the bag, just so he would stop being fairly unsociable. I walked towards the stove without hesitation and then hugged him from behind. "Thanks."

"For what?" Miles stood still and stopped angrily scratching the frying pan with the spatula—like he'd rather do construction work than kitchen duties.

"For being the chef today and for picking me up early."

"Not gonna happen again, so don't get used to it."

"Hey. I'm tryin' to be nice here." I stopped hugging him to pinch his arm.

"Fine—  Just, get off me." He chuckled while his free hand tried to push me away. "You'll get oil burns."

"Fine. Be mean." I backed a few steps away from the warm stove and kept my hands to myself. Was he dodging the serious conversation I was just about to start? Good thing we were back to being friendly, though.

"Get the cayenne." Miles continued to stare at the brownish pork chops making noises on the hot pan. "And parsley."

"Got it, chef." I was just about to tend to his request when my ringtone trilled. I froze and gripped my phone.

Could it be the university offices?

Did they have to reprimand me over the phone, too? Did they actually blacklist me? Jeez. Another headache I didn't need...   I badly hoped they didn't actually think I would forge records just to qualify for that scholarship. Honestly, I still had no idea why they thought I submitted counterfeit documents.

They were all certified true copies—I swear. Why did their rejection letter warn me for allegedly sending them fake background records? Would they report me to every medical institution in the country?

Dear God...I hope not.

My anxiety didn't escalate into panic mode when I read my sister's name on the screen. For a moment, I just stared at Jill's photo, her big smile and light brown curls promptly reminding me of our mom.

Jill took after our mom, whereas I inherited my stick-straight dark hair and strong features from our dad. Jill and I hadn't been in constant communication all year long since our last serious conversation on the phone, which had resulted in an argument about me leaving the U.S. on a whim.

I took the call and stepped away from Miles. "Hey. Baby's asleep?" I asked my sister over the phone.

"Yeah. Hey." Jill's hoarse voice greeted me, her tone urgent. "Mom wants to take Dad to the hospital."

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