She gaped at him. "I feel like I should be taking notes."
He smiled. "I can write it down for you, if that'll help."
"Immensely."
He motioned for her to follow him as he headed through the garage to a small office along the side. Two other guys hung out in there—one behind a desk on the phone, while the other lounged in a filthy plush chair.
Chris walked over to the desk, grabbing a pen and a piece of scrap paper, before meeting her again outside the doorway. He scribbled things down, muttering to himself about wires and rodents and oh god—there might be rats living in the damn thing? "This is all worst case scenario, of course. If you're lucky, a lot of this will have survived."
"I'm not lucky," she said. "If it's possible for it to be fucked up, chances are it will be."
"The worst thing you can do for a car is to just let it sit there," he said. "I've seen cars start again after thirty years, but I've seen others with a host of problems after just three. Sometimes you've got to consider that it might not be worth it. What kind of car is it?"
"A '64 Lincoln Continental."
He shot her a surprised look before muttering, "Definitely worth it." After writing down a few more things, he handed the list to her. Most of it seemed simple enough… she could change a tire and replace a battery, take old hoses off and put on new ones… but a few things seemed out of her skill range.
"So, how does one rebuild a carburetor?" she asked. "Is there a book I can buy? Carburetors for Dummies?"
"I'm sure there are books," he said. "That's best left to a professional, though."
"I'd rather just buy a book."
"Okay, then." He laughed. "Most of that stuff we can get for you. We have shipments that come in a few times a week, so tell us what you need and we'll order it."
"How about we start with whatever's easiest and go from there."
Twenty minutes later, Genna had the makings of a plan, a few parts ordered along with some tools the guy suggested. Chris filled out the rest of the order sheet, jotting down details. "Do you have a number I can reach you at when all this comes in?"
"Uh, yeah…" Reaching into her pocket, Genna pulled out the burner phone Matty had gotten for her when they first got on the road. She'd never used it, having no reason to, but Matty insisted she carry it. As soon as she flipped it open, she saw the message: Missed Call. Matty. Shit.
Scanning through it to find the number, she read it out loud for Chris to write down.
"908," he said, repeating the area code. "Where about is that?"
"That would be New Jersey."
"Yeah? You a Jersey girl?"
"Something like that."
"What brought you to Vegas?"
"What brings anyone to Vegas?"
She'd gotten kind of good at deflecting, she thought. Answer a question with a question and you never have to lie. Her brother had taught her that. Of course, it never worked with him. Dante always knew that meant she was hiding something.
"Good point," Chris said with a laugh. "Anyway, I'll give you a call when it's in. Shouldn't be more than a week or so."
Genna left then and drove straight to the small diner across town. It was a little white building with big windows and blue awnings, Morningside Diner written in block letters along the glass. The clock in the Honda showed it as a few minutes past six, stuck on east coast time. Matty had been working at the diner for a week, from eight in the morning until three in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. She drove him there and picked him back up at his insistence, making her keep the car just in case she needed it.
In case my invisible friends and I want to go for a joyride.
She parked in front of the diner and walked inside, a bell above the door jingling to announce her arrival. Bright colored booths lined the walls, blue barstools dotted along the counter, as the black and white checkered floor glistened. There was even a jukebox in the corner.
A jukebox.
All that was missing were those little white hats that kind of looked like paper boats. The first time she'd walked in, seeing Matty at work, she'd said that to him. He hadn't found it funny.
"You're late."
Genna rolled her eyes, finding Matty perched on one of the stools near the register. "I'm like, three minutes late."
His eyes flickered to a clock up on the wall. 3:16 pm.
"I was worried," he said. "Thought something might be wrong."
"Sorry." She pulled the phone out to wave it at him. "I'm not used to this thing. It flips and has all these buttons. I don't even know if it works, honestly, because I didn't hear it ring."
He took it from her, flipping it open, and handed it right back. "You had it on silent."
"Oh." She glared at it, pressing random buttons. "How did I do that?"
Laughing, Matty blocked her hand before she could press anything else. "Probably by doing that."
Rolling her eyes, Genna slid the phone back into her pocket before plopping down on the stool beside him. She felt Matty's eyes studying her, like he had something else to say.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Starving."
"Order something," he suggested, grabbing a menu off of the counter and holding it out to her.
Genna glanced at it, settling on the first thing she saw. The middle-aged woman behind the counter approached. Doris. "You ordering something, sweetheart?"
"Uh, yeah… can I get the grilled cheese platter?"
"Sure," Doris said, grabbing an ordering pad from her apron to jot it down.
"And can I add some bacon to that grilled cheese? Like, inside of it? Oh, and some pickles, too? Oh my god. Pickles. Inside the grilled cheese."
Doris looked at her with confusion before writing it down. "Grilled cheese, add bacon and pickles. Something to drink?"
"Strawberry milkshake."
Doris nodded. "Anything for you, Matt?"
"I'll take what she's having... minus the pickles and bacon."
"Matt," Genna grumbled when the woman walked away. "It just sounds so generic."
"Okay, Jen, you're not much better."
She rolled her eyes, childishly sticking out her tongue.
It took a few minutes for their food to arrive. Genna dug in right away, devouring every bite, while Matty picked at his, his attention more on her.
"Not hungry?" she asked, snatching one of his fries and popping it in her mouth.
"Not really," he said, pushing his plate her direction. "Help yourself."
He didn't have to tell her twice.
"Yep. Okay. Uh-huh."
Gabriella nodded, even though nobody was around to see, as she glanced at the cell phone on the kitchen counter. The chipper voice babbled through the speaker about everything imaginable: a new chick-flick was coming out that weekend, a neighbor was pregnant, it was supposed to rain on Tuesday…
Or was it Wednesday?
Gabriella wasn't really listening.
She glanced in the small foggy window on the oven, glaring at the frozen pizza. Was the dang thing even cooking? Six o'clock in the evening on a Friday, Gabriella's first night off after a grueling rotation at the hospital. She had the weekend off and planned to do nothing except sleep and eat… after she got her mother off the phone.
"And your Aunt Lena, oh my goodness, you won't believe this… she called to tell me they were having a potluck this Sunday for Bobby's birthday. She wanted to have it here. Here, at the house! I told her, you know, that was fine, I'd be happy to host, but if he didn't show up because of the location, that wasn't my fault, you know?"
Gabriella sighed. "Please tell me I'm not expected to go to this thing."
"I told her I'd let you know."
"Mom…"
"Don't 'Mom' me, Gabriella Michele. You can show your face for a few minutes."
"But it's my day off."
"Which means you've got plenty of time. Family is family, like it or not."
"Not," Gabriella muttered.
&nbs
p; "You come, you eat some food, and you go back home. How hard is that?"
A heck of a lot harder than her mother would understand. "I'll consider it."
"There's nothing to consider. Bring some kind of appetizer. Stuffed mushrooms. Got it?"
"Got it." Gabriella barely got those words out before a loud buzz echoed through her apartment. Her eyes darted to the intercom on the wall by the front door. "Mom, hold on a second."
"Why? What's going on?"
Gabriella ignored those questions as she walked over to the door. The buzzer went off again, so startlingly loud that she flinched. She'd lived there for a year and could count the number of times someone had buzzed her apartment on one hand… and most of those had been accidents.
Needless to say, she didn't get many visitors.
Pressing the 'talk' button, Gabriella mumbled, "Who is it?"
Nothing met her ears for a moment... nothing except the sound of the noisy street below. She was about to chalk it up to a glitch when the voice spoke. "It's Dante."
Dante.
Something stirred inside of Gabriella at the sound of his name. She'd wondered if she'd ever hear from him again. "Dante."
"I know I shouldn't be here," he said, something off about his voice, something that Gabriella couldn't pinpoint. "I just, I need… fuck."
A groan filtered through the intercom, loud enough to be distinguishable. While he didn't elaborate about what he needed, Gabriella could guess what he thought he needed was her. And that went against her better judgment. Heck, part of her screamed in alarm. This wasn't normal. He shouldn't be there. But without giving herself a chance to second-guess it, she pressed the 'door' button, buzzing him in.
"Gabriella, I swear on your father's life, if you don't answer me right now—"
Rolling her eyes, Gabriella headed back into the kitchen. "Sorry, Mom. I'm still here."
"Where'd you go? Is somebody there?"
"Yeah, it's, uh…" Crap, how to explain that? Not even trying. "It was nobody, just someone pressing buttons."
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
God, had she ever lied to her mother before? Maybe as a kid, but she'd never felt the need to keep secrets from her parents. But this was secret-worthy. A lie would go down a lot easier than this truth.
"I need to go, Mom," she said, her heart pounding like crazy when a knock echoed through the apartment, loud enough that she knew her mother heard it. Crap. "I'll see you Sunday."
"Gabriella, don't hang up this—"
Gabriella tapped the button to end the call. Her nerves frayed as anxiety swelled in her gut when he knocked again. Ugh, pull yourself together, nitwit.
Walking over, she fiddled with the locks before pulling the door open a crack, coming face to face with Dante, the chain still latched. His warm brown eyes were dark, so damn dark they appeared black in the dim lighting, but the whites of them were strikingly bloodshot. He blinked, the movement exaggerated, as he stared at her from the hallway. She clearly wasn't the only one tired. Dark circles, puffy eyes, pale skin… had the guy slept at all since leaving the hospital over two weeks ago?
She opened the door further as a slight smile turned his lips, barely detectable, before his expression fell again. He cleared his throat, his voice gritty as he whispered, "Nurse Russo."
"I thought you were going to call me—"
Gabriella didn't finish her sentence, getting a good look at him, her gaze settling on his filthy white shirt. His bloody white shirt. A patch of red covered the side, where one of his blood-covered hands gripped, while streaks were smeared along his stomach like he'd finger-painted with it.
Gabriella undid the chain before yanking the door open the whole way.
"What happened?" she asked, reaching for him as her gaze darted along the hallway, hoping nobody was around to see him. She grabbed his arm, anxiously pulling him into her apartment before slamming the door. "You're bleeding!"
"I got stabbed." Dante glanced down at his side. "Again."
"You got stabbed?" she asked. "Again?"
Was that seriously what he said?
"I didn't know where else to go," he explained, looking back up at her.
"The hospital. You get stabbed, you go to the hospital. You go to the emergency room. That's why it exists! For emergencies!"
"I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because they ask questions."
She groaned. Mandatory reporting. Any gunshots or stab wounds have to be reported to the police by the hospital. "Yeah, well, you've proven before that just because they ask doesn't mean you have to answer."
"I just… I can't do it." He shook his head. "If you want me to leave, I'll go, but I've had my fill of hospitals, and at this point, I'd rather bleed to death than walk into that fucking place, so I came here hoping…"
"Hoping I'd help you?"
"Yeah."
"This goes against everything I stand for," she said. "This is wrong on so many levels. It's unethical. It's dangerous. I can't just help you when you've been stabbed. That's crazy! You're crazy!"
As she ranted, Gabriella dragged him through the apartment and into the small bathroom, flicking on the bright light, both of them squinting from the harsh glow. Dante leaned back against the white counter as Gabriella dug her first aid kit out of a drawer and grabbed a clean towel.
"I need to..." She stood in front of him, flailing her hands toward his side. "You know."
Did he know? Did it make sense to him? Gabriella had to wonder, because nothing about any of it made any sense to her. What she needed to do was call the guy an ambulance. What she needed to do was the opposite of what she was about to.
I can't believe I'm doing this.
Dante nodded, like he understood, and yet he hesitated, like he wasn't sure what was going on. After a moment, though, he pulled his bloody shirt up, gritting his teeth as he tucked it beneath his chin. He stood still as Gabriella put on a pair of rubber gloves.
"You should really lay down." Gabriella glanced around her minuscule bathroom. There was barely enough room for the two of them to squeeze in there, much less space for him to lie down. "The bedroom is, uh, right through there…"
"I'm fine," he said. "I don't need to lay down."
"But—"
"Just do what you have to."
"You seriously need a doctor," she told him, kneeling in front of him. "There's no way for me to be sure that they didn't hit anything."
"I'll take my chances."
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe what you really need is another psych consult, because this isn't normal. This isn't what normal people do when somebody stabs them."
"I never claimed to be normal. Besides, I'm pretty sure normal people don't get stabbed at all."
"Oh, they do. Just not as often as it seems you do. Something about you I guess just makes people want to stab. Kind of like stick a fork in it, you know, but with a friggin knife."
Dante laughed at that, his hands gripping the counter on each side of him as Gabriella washed the wound. "If it makes it any better, it was the same person every time."
"That doesn't make it any better."
"You sure?"
"Positive." She glared up at him. "If anything, it makes you an idiot for going near them."
He stared down at her, his expression unruffled, like her calling him an idiot didn't bother him. His gaze was so intense that Gabriella still felt it when she looked away. She tried to ignore him and focus on his injury, flushing the wound and sterilizing it. His body tensed, hands gripping the counter so tightly she was surprised he didn't break off a piece of the cheap plaster.
He'd applied enough pressure to stop most of the bleeding, so at least he wouldn't bleed to death in her bathroom. Thank goodness. After Gabriella was sure she had it clean, she used tape to close the wound, gluing the edges, before covering it with a large bandage.
Standing up again, she met his gaze. He was still staring at her. After an awkward moment, where Gabriella
swore the temperature rose a hundred degrees, he lowered his head and looked down at her handiwork.
"Give it to me straight," he said. "Am I going to live?"
"Most likely," she said. "You're not very good at this dying thing, you know."
"I'll have to try harder next time."
Gabriella tore her gloves off and tossed them in the trashcan as Dante let his bloody shirt drop, covering his chest.
"You should wash up," she suggested. "I'm sure I've got a shirt you can change into around here somewhere."
She didn't give him a chance to argue, jetting out of the bathroom and closing the door, shutting him in there alone. Nervously, she made her way into her bedroom, cringing at the mess. Clothes were flung all over the place, clutter piled up on the dresser and bedside stands. Gabriella waded through it, heading to her closet. She found a Mets shirt hanging in the back and yanked it off the hanger, a startled scream escaping when she swung around.
Dante stood in the doorway, watching.
He'd made a half-assed attempted at cleaning himself up, at least washing the blood from his hands.
"Uh, here, this should fit you," she mumbled, holding the shirt out to him, but he made no attempt to come any closer, not crossing the threshold into her bedroom.
Brow furrowing, she approached him. Once it was within his reach, he took the shirt she offered. He was even paler now than when he'd shown up. Sweat formed along his brow. Instinctively, Gabriella grabbed his wrist, checking for his pulse, counting the faint beats. He tolerated it, again staring at her, not attempting to pull away.
"You sure you don't want to lay down?" she asked, nodding her head over to the bed.
Dante waited until she let go of him to answer. "If I ever find myself in your bed, Gabriella, it'll be under entirely different circumstances."
There went the temperature rising again.
Sweetest Sorrow Page 15