Lone Raven

by Kristi Belcamino

He grinned. “Is it obvious?”

  “I was given one piece of advice at the motel when I checked in.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “And?”

  “Don’t swim after dark.”

  “Because?”

  “Uh. Sharks.”

  He started laughing. “I’ve had sharks brush up against me. They’re harmless.”

  “Sure they are.” I squinted my eyes at him.

  “Besides, I wasn’t swimming. I was surfing.”

  “Even worse.” I knew that sharks often mistook surfers for seals. Hell, everyone who grew up in California knew this.

  He shrugged. “If I worried about sharks, I’d never surf. I think in life we have to decide what to worry about. That’s not something that makes my list.”

  “What does make your list?” Now I was facing him. He moved closer to me. Uncomfortably close. His mouth was inches away as he spoke in a low voice.

  “I worry about whether the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen will want to have dinner with me.”

  I scoffed. I’d heard better. But I had to admit, his husky voice did send a tremor through me.

  Brushing past him, I headed for the door. For a second, I was unsure he would follow.

  He caught up with me at the entrance to the alley. He touched me lightly at the waist with his hands and then gently turned me toward him. For a second, he examined my face for permission, and when I smiled, he kissed me.

  He backed me up against the wall in the alley and pressed his lips to mine until I took him by the hand and led him back to my room.

  Chapter Three

  Thirst for Blood

  The man beside me slept like the dead.

  He’d told me his name was Marc.

  I crept out of bed, showered, then dressed in the dark.

  Standing over the bed to grab my watch off the nightstand, I stared at Marc’s sleeping face in the dim light filtering in from the heavy drapes.

  After several rounds of intense sex, we’d lain in the dark and smoked. Disgustingly cliché. He’d begged me to go with him today to look at prehistoric cave paintings in the hills above Mulegé that were remarkably well preserved. It was thought they were painted by the Guachimis, people who lived in the area between 100 B.C. to 1300 A.D.

  I’d agreed to go with him. I’d lied.

  Now, watching him, I was conflicted. He slept so peacefully. His lips slightly open. His dark lashes resting on his cheekbones. I stood there for a few seconds, hesitating, a battle going on between my heart and my head.

  Then, I whirled, grabbing my bag and slipping out the door before he could wake.

  No note. No need.

  Back in the Jeep, I made sure nobody had stolen the knives from under the seat. They were still there, and I tucked them in the duffel bag’s secret compartment again. But I’d made sure to keep my favorite with me— the nine-inch stiletto moderna switchblade with titanium blade and green pearl handle.

  In the month since I’d returned from Italy, I’d been obsessed with Sicilian martial arts, which involved knife fighting. After meeting the aunt I’d never known I had— a rogue badass and knife-wielding Italian mob boss known as the Queen of Spades—I figured knife fighting was in my DNA. Might as well get good at it.

  A small, dark part of me also had a thirst for blood. Ever since Bobby had been murdered, I’d felt even more reckless than usual. I was ready to turn violent on anyone who hurt an innocent person. Nobody had been more innocent than my boyfriend. Nobody deserved to live as much as he had.

  He was the opposite of me.

  A lover, not a fighter.

  I’d be the one to fight from now on. Like my aunt, who was taking on the ruthless Mafioso in Italy, I’d make it my mission to stop more innocent blood from being shed whenever I could. So, I’d have to prepare. To train.

  My sensei and friend, Kato, hadn’t been much help.

  “Budo is primarily for self-defense. Gladiatura moderna is for offensive,” he said when I asked for his help two weeks ago.

  “So?” I said, putting my hands on my hips.

  “Knives kill. You don’t bring a knife into combat unless you intend to take a life.”

  “And?” My voice was flat.

  He sighed and shook his head.

  “What? Spill it, Kato.”

  “You have to let it go.” He turned away and toweled off his face.

  “Let it go? Forget that everyone I love ends up dead? Not only dead, but murdered?” My voice was raised in anger, and it echoed throughout the nearly empty dojo. “I need to know not only how to defend, but how to kill.”

  There. I said it.

  He sighed loudly. “Every sensei is different. Every dojo is different. I believe in self-defense until there is no other option. I thought you believed the same.”

  “Not anymore.”

  The silence hung between us.

  A few seconds later, he spoke, his words laced with disappointment.

  “I can practically smell the hate radiating off you,” he said, and sniffed. “Not to mention the alcohol fumes spilling out your pores.”

  I flung my own towel on the floor. “Okay. I get it. You don’t approve of how I’m handling Bobby’s death. But what choice do I have?”

  He pressed his lips together. We stared at each other until finally I looked away and headed for the door, scooping up my gym bag on the way.

  “Gia, you have to choose. Choose love. Not hate.” He called after me, his words echoing in the empty dojo.

  I paused, with my back to him. “It might be too late for that,” I said in a small voice before walking out.

  Remembering this as I drove to find Dante at a campsite a few miles south of Mulegé, I felt a flush of guilt. Kato only had my best interests at heart.

  And I knew the guilt was as light as a feather compared to the guilt I was trying to smother from having sex with Marc. I knew I didn’t have to be celibate to mourn. But the intensity of feeling the guy had unleashed in me felt like a betrayal to Bobby.

  Lost in memories, I almost missed the turnoff that would take me to the campground. I wondered if Dante would even be awake yet.

  I was glad I’d been able to sneak out early because every mile I put between me and this guy, Marc, was a good mile.

  I hoped I’d never see him again.

  Chapter Four

  In the Flesh

  I pulled into the campground parking lot with a giant knot in my stomach.

  After parking the Jeep, I stood at the edge of the sand, surveying the campsite. It was dotted with RVs back near the hill and about a dozen tents closer to the water. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and after inhaling deeply, blew a smoke ring and headed across the sand toward the beach.

  A bleary-eyed, messy-haired couple huddled around a campfire. They looked up and gave me a smile. Encouraged, I paused.

  “I’m looking for my friend. His name’s Dante. Black hair. Brilliant smile.”

  A woman with dreads nodded toward a spot further down the beach. “He’s in the blue tent at the end.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are those American cigs?”

  “No. Dunhill.” I offered her the pack anyway. She took one and tried to hand the pack back, but I shook my head and walked away. I had two cartons in the Jeep.

  Taking my time, I walked through the thick sand, already warm where it seeped into my leather flip-flops. I nodded at a few other people outside their tents.

  When I couldn’t avoid it any longer I stood in front of the blue tent. It was zipped closed. I took a deep breath and was about to lean down to do something … either whisper Dante’s name or unzip the tent, when I heard someone clear his throat behind me.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.” It was said in the perfectly enunciated voice I’d recognize anywhere.

  Dante.

  I closed my eyes for a second and prepared myself before I turned.

  There he was. Tears instantly sprung to my eyes. He was bare chested in sw
im trunks, his hair wet and slicked back. His skin dark with tan. His eyes and face expressionless.

  “In the flesh,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray my nervousness.

  “I knew it wouldn’t be long.” He turned and hung his towel across his tent.

  “I don’t give up easily.”

  “Understatement of the century.”

  I thought of the barrage of letters and phone calls I’d sent him since we returned from Italy, and a terrible thought struck me.

  Was he here hiding from me?

  Just then the tent unzipped and I jumped. A head stuck out.

  Dante leaned down, and still looking at me, kissed the boy’s lips.

  The boy crawled out wearing only flannel pajama bottoms. He scratched his belly and peered at me.

  “Silas. Meet Gia.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re here?”

  “Apparently,” I said dryly.

  The three of us sat there in awkward silence for a few seconds before I sighed.

  “Can we take a walk?” I said to Dante.

  He shrugged. I walked away without waiting to see if he was following. But I heard him say something to his boy toy and a few seconds later felt him at my side.

  “Dante, you need to know that I came to bring you home,” I began. And to beg your forgiveness.

  “Stop,” he said. I stopped and turned to him. He’d slipped on dark sunglasses so I couldn’t see his eyes. “I’m here for a reason. I need to be here.”

  After gunman in Italy murdered Bobby and Matt, Dante had discovered that the murders were connected to my family’s sordid history. In his eyes, that made the murder of his new husband my fault. It wasn’t logical. But what about grief was? I had been patient but it was time for him to forgive me and come home.

  “Do you think this is a healthy way to deal? Sleeping with children.”

  “He’s nineteen.”

  “Whatever. You know this isn’t—”

  He cut me off. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not one word.” His voice cracked. “I can’t talk about it.”

  I stared at him. Finally I said, “Fine. But goddamn it, call your mom, so she doesn’t worry.”

  He didn’t answer, so I turned away.

  “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” he said.

  I paused. He must care a little bit. Without turning, I said over my shoulder. “I’m getting my stuff. I’m staying a while.”

  I spread my hoodie in the sand next to Dante and Silas’s campfire and warmed my hands.

  “We have chairs,” Silas said, gesturing to an empty folding chair next to him. I ignored him. I knew it was petty and not fair, but I didn’t have the energy to be nice to Dante’s plaything.

  Dante came back from the parking lot carrying a small beige bundle.

  “Here’s an extra tent.”

  I took it with a raised eyebrow. Apparently, he wasn’t upset that I was going to stay. The gesture made me want to cry, but it was too soon for that. We had an uneasy truce. Nothing more.

  Silas scrambled out of his chair and took the tent. “I got this.”

  Dante shot me a look. It took me a few seconds to get the gist.

  “Oh. Thanks,” I said.

  Once the tent was set up, I crawled inside and changed into my bikini. Suddenly exhausted, I curled up on the blanket and pillow Dante had handed me and fell asleep. After a few hours, I woke, scavenged some crackers out of my Jeep, took a quick swim, and then spread the blanket out in the sand near my tent. I wanted to soak in every second of sun I could.

  I’d fallen asleep again when Dante put his hand on my shoulder. I sat up rubbing my eyes, blinking in the setting sun. I’d slept all damn day.

  “Hungry? A bunch of us are going into Mulegé proper for dinner.”

  “Ravenous.”

  Despite my best efforts to pretend it wasn’t true, I immediately realized I wanted to see Marc again. Maybe I’d see him if I went back to town. At the same time, I knew it would be a huge mistake to exchange another word with that man ever again.

  But Dante had just offered me an olive branch, and I wasn’t going to set it on fire.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “We’ll leave in about twenty minutes.” He unzipped his tent, and I heard Silas and him talking.

  I crawled into my tent and threw a dress on over my swimsuit. When I emerged, I cast one last rueful glance at Dante’s tent. I longed for him to hug me and treat me with affection the way he’d always done, but right then I’d take what I could get.

  Chapter Five

  Dolly Parton

  Stars had lit up the black velvet sky by the time our crowd at the beach piled into cars to head to Mulegé. Dante hadn’t invited me to ride with him, but I hopped in to Silas’s car anyway.

  A woman with ice blond hair and a thick fringe of bangs got into the back seat with me. It took me a few seconds to realize she was much older than me. Maybe late forties or fifties. A thick band of lines on her neck and some around her mouth were the only indication. Her body was trim, though she was falling out of her bright blue tight dress. Like Dolly Parton falling out. Compared to her, my outfit actually looked discreet. Something I didn’t usually lay claim to. And definitely didn’t aspire to.

  I’d thrown on a simple black cotton sundress with a modest neckline but the back was a different story. My back was bare nearly to my tailbone. I glanced at the woman who was staring at me, mouth agape.

  I raised an eyebrow. Finally, she spoke, slurring her words. She was already shitfaced.

  “You’re so ... You’re so pretty.” She said it in a disappointed voice as if she were going to cry. Her brows knit together as she frowned.

  “Uh. Thanks.” I think.

  She sighed and leaned toward the front seat where Dante sat, rigid in the passenger seat, waiting for Silas, who was walking toward us in the headlights.

  “Dante, you didn’t tell me your friend was so pretty.” This time she sounded angry.

  Dante sighed loudly. “Cassie, meet Gia. Gia meet Cassie.”

  I smiled at the woman who looked over at me with a grimace. The skin on her face was pulled tight, almost too tight, yanking her eyes back toward her hairline.

  “I’m down here hiding from my husband.” The words slurred together. I wondered vaguely if she was a Barfing Drunk. I hoped not. The road to Mulegé was a winding one.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She sat back in her seat with a thump. “He just wants my money. I found out he was cheating on me. After twenty-five years of marriage. After all these years that he’s been able to enjoy these tits. They’re real you know. He’s a bastard.”

  “Cheaters usually are,” I said, mildly. Twenty-five years. That was longer than I’d been alive.

  “I’m down here re-inventing myself while my lawyer gets the divorce arranged. I got a lot of money, and he’s not getting a goddamn dime. And surprise, surprise, I can be just as big a slut as he is. I’m ready to fuck and suck. Just so you know, I have dibs tonight. Any cute guys? Mine. All mine, missy. Don’t even think about taking all the hot guys away from me tonight.”

  She raised her index finger and wagged it at me. I thought about how easily I could break her finger into three pieces before she could draw it back.

  Dante met my eyes in the rearview mirror. He raised an eyebrow. Fine. I’d play nice. But only if she’d shut the fuck up.

  “You might be pretty, but I’ve got these.” She lifted her breasts part way out of her dress and held them up toward me, bouncing them lightly. I managed to look away before I rolled my eyes.

  “Good for you.” I stayed facing the window as Silas hopped in with a grin.

  But Dolly Parton wouldn’t pipe down.

  “And everything, everything is on me tonight. My treat.”

  “I don’t think so.” Dante’s voice was low.

  As we drove, the soon-to-be divorcee beside me yammered on. And on. I ignored her for the most part.

  Sure,
she had a shit life. I might’ve felt bad for her if she hadn’t pointed her finger at me and warned me to stay away from all the men in the world.

  When we pulled into Mulegé, I exhaled loudly. Thank God. I could get out of my backseat prison and away from Dolly Parton on speed.

  As we waited on the sidewalk for the rest of our caravan to find street parking, I glanced over at my backseat companion. She was surprisingly subdued. She’d run out of steam, I guess. She was also slightly swaying. That woman did not know how to handle her booze.

  Dante and a group of about eight others started down the street. Cassie stood there staring at the sky, looking forlorn.

  “Are you coming?” I said.

  “You’re just so pretty.”

  She said it so sadly that I took her arm and softened my voice. “Come on.”

  The restaurant was three stories high with large patios open to the air. Inside, the place was packed with people, and speakers blared the Foo Fighters song, “Learn to Fly.”

  A petite hostess led our party to a giant table on the third-floor patio that already had glasses of water and baskets of chips and salsa on it. I sat beside Dante right before Dolly could, giving her a smile. My babysitting job was done here. She looked around seemingly confused before Silas pulled out a chair across from me. I had misjudged him.

  Maybe, just maybe, he was what Dante needed right now.

  But the way Dante looked at Silas worried me. As if they shared something special. As if he truly cared about the pretty boy.

  Because as much as I wanted Dante to be happy, it also seemed like a terrible betrayal. Matt hadn’t even been dead two months, and Dante was already shacking up with someone else. Someone he might actually care about. After last night, I could understand the desire for meaningless, wild sex to smother the grief—or maybe that was just my style—but a relationship? No way.

  That was dangerous. And unfair to everyone. It was the worst sort of rebound on the darkest level possible. One reason I hoped I’d never see that Marc guy again.