Chapter 86

~ Octavia ~

By the time the credits rolled on Dr. No, the digital clock on my microwave was crawling toward 10:00 PM. The apartment was quiet, the only sound being the hum of the refrigerator and the distant siren of a New York City ambulance.

"What a great movie," I sighed, stretching my arms high above my head until my back cracked. "There’s just something about those old classics that feels more grounded, even with all the spy gadgets."

"Indeed," Clinton nodded, looking more relaxed than I had seen him in weeks. He gestured toward the coffee table, which was currently a graveyard of McDonald’s wrappers and empty soda cups. "Do you need help tidying up the mess we made?"

"Nah, I’ve got it. Don’t worry about it," I said, waving him off. "You paid for the meal; cleaning up is the least I can do. Besides, it’s officially time for you to head home."

"Why do I have to go home?" he asked, pouting with a mock-sadness that almost made me smile.

"Because you don’t live here, Clinton," I reminded him gently.

"But I could stay the night. We could talk until you actually feel sleepy. I’m an excellent late-night conversationalist."

"I wish I could, but I have work tomorrow. I’ve already taken today off, and I need to be sharp. I need to get some actual sleep, even though it’s already late."

"Bummer," he said, the disappointment in his eyes seeming a little more real this time.

"Sorry," I said, stretching again.

"No, it’s fine. You’re right. You need your rest for the office tomorrow." He stood up and smoothed out his sweater. "I’ll just get out of your hair then."

"I’ll walk you to the door."

I accompanied him to the hallway. The mood was light and peaceful—until the elevator at the end of the hall chimed.

My stomach did a nervous flip. The doors slid open to reveal Franklin.

He was standing there, looking exhausted, holding two expensive-looking gift bags. The second his eyes landed on Clinton standing outside my apartment, a murderous scowl transformed his face.

"What the fuck is he doing here?!" Franklin roared, his voice echoing off the narrow hallway walls. He didn’t look at me; his eyes were fixed on Clinton with a terrifying intensity.

"What are you doing here, Franklin?" I demanded, stepping forward to bridge the gap.

"You haven’t answered my question, Octavia. I said, what is he—"

"Am I supposed to ask for your permission before I visit, Franklin?" Clinton cut in, his voice dropping an octave as he mirrored Franklin’s aggressive stance.

"Goddamn right you should!" Franklin exasperated, his chest heaving. "Because I don’t understand why a man would be visiting a married woman at this hour of the night! It’s ten o’clock, for Christ’s sake!"

"Hey! Stop it!" I yelled, my voice cracking the tension. "What is wrong with you, Franklin? Why are you acting like you own me? Like I don’t have the right to have a guest?" I glared at him, my anger finally boiling over. "You’re the one who waltzed in here uninvited. Nobody asked you to come here and cause trouble."

"So, I’m barred from seeing you, but this douchebag gets a private screening?" Franklin spat, jerking his chin toward Clinton.

"Stop insulting him. He has a name," I warned.

"Stop speaking for him. He has a mouth," Franklin scoffed mockingly.

"Damn right I do!" Clinton snapped. He stepped past me, closing the distance between him and Franklin. "I was holding myself back because I knew if I spoke, you’d realize just how pathetic you look right now."

"Oh, really?" Franklin stepped forward until they were practically chest-to-chest, eyeball to eyeball.

"Clinton, don’t!" I pleaded, reaching for his arm, but he brushed me aside.

"I was going to say," Clinton hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage, "that you are a selfish, egotistical bastard who doesn’t know his place. You’re a spoilt brat who thinks the world revolves around him. You’re so blind that you can’t even see the woman who loved you is clearly shattered by your fucked-up, hot-mess behavior. You can’t keep a good woman like Octavia, Franklin. That’s why she left your dumb ass. You aren’t even a man if you can’t treat her with an ounce of..."

Before Clinton could finish the sentence, Franklin’s patience snapped. He dropped the gift bags—they hit the floor with a dull thud—and swung a heavy, jagged punch that connected squarely with Clinton’s jaw.

The sound of the impact was sickening—a sharp crack that made me scream. Clinton staggered back, his hand flying to his face. He twisted his jaw, checking the alignment, then let out a low, animalistic growl.

"Fucking bastard!" Clinton lunged. He tackled Franklin against the wall, the force of the collision shaking the hallway. He began raining punches down on Franklin’s face.

They spiraled to the floor, rolling over the carpet in a brutal, disorganized heap of limbs.

"Stop it! You’re going to kill each other!" I screamed, tears of frustration and fear blurring my vision. "Franklin! Clinton! Stop!"

They didn’t listen. They were locked in a cycle of pure, primal hatred. It wasn’t until the elevator chimed again and Mr. Homer, my middle-aged neighbor, came charging out that the violence finally broke.

"Hey! Break it up! Now!" Mr. Homer yelled, using his surprisingly strong frame to wedge himself between the two men and rip them apart.

They scrambled to their feet, gasping for air.

Franklin’s nose was crooked and streaming blood that stained his white shirt, and his lip was split wide open. Clinton had deep scratches along his cheek and his jaw was already beginning to swell into a bruised mess.

"I heard the shouting from downstairs," Mr. Homer panted, looking between the two bloodied men.

Franklin touched his nose, his fingers coming away crimson. "You broke my nose, you son of a bitch!"

"I wish I’d ripped your heart out!" Clinton fired back, trying to lunge around Mr. Homer, who shoved him back.

"Enough! Both of you!" Mr. Homer bellowed. "I’ll call the police this second, and they can throw you both in a cell to cool off! Don’t you men have any shame? Fighting in the hall like stray dogs over what? A business deal gone wrong?"

"This son of a bitch stole my woman!" Franklin pointed a trembling, bloody finger at Clinton. "She’s mine!"

"She isn’t an object, and I didn’t steal her," Clinton spat. "You just didn’t know how to keep her."

"Both of you, SHUT UP!" I screamed, my voice echoing through the entire floor. I turned to Mr. Homer, feeling a deep sense of humiliation. "I’m so sorry, Mr. Homer."

"I see what this is," the older man said, shaking his head. "It’s about a woman. Well, Octavia is a neighbor I respect, and neither of you is showing her any respect right now. Get out. Now. Before I pick up the phone."

"Octavia, I—" Clinton started, turning to me with an apologetic look.

"Don’t call my name," I said, my voice cold and hard. "You heard him. Both of you need to leave. I am beyond disappointed in both of you. You acted like children."

I didn’t wait for a response. I stepped back into my apartment, grabbed the door handle, and slammed it shut with every ounce of strength I had left.

I leaned my back against the wood, listening to the muffled sounds of Mr. Homer ushering them toward the elevator. I was furious. I was angry at Franklin for his territorial arrogance, but I was even more furious at Clinton for taking the bait and ignoring my pleas to stop.

I was done with both of them for the night. If they wanted to kill each other in the street, they could go right ahead. I just wanted to disappear.