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D18Y148

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The ocean breeze should've been enough. He had been in Rio for... how long? Weeks? Lounging, drinking, half-distracted. For a while it worked: the waves, the half naked bodies... it all dulled the edge.

But, by day whateverdayitwas, the stillness was starting to rot in his chest. He sat barefoot on the edge of that private yatch, beer seating in his palm, staring out at the sea like it owed him something. The air was too warm, too soft. He could feel it in his fingers — that twitch. The need. Like his bones remembered the sound of cracking knuckles and hot flush of blood rushing behind his eyes.

Fuck.

He dragged his phone out of his pocket, thumbed through contacts until he landed on one marked only as Nico Beco dos Ratões. He didn't hesitate.

One ring. Two. A click.

"Fala, Liam! You still alive?" Liam let a lazy smirk curl at the corner of his mouth. "Barely. I need something. Tonight."

"Thought you were taking it easy, gringo."

"Yeah, well..." he exhaled slowly, "my hands disagree."

There was a pause on the other end, then a laugh.

"I'll text you the spot. Bring cash and don't die."

"No promises."

He hung up without another word, tossed the empty bottle onto the table and stood up. The calm had lasted long enough.

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