“Well, sit. Drink your damn coffee then,” Carly says, chuckling. “But if you call it coffee again like some Starbucks level swill within Strega’s hearing, she’s gonna kick your ass.”
She gestures to the table and my eyes follow her movements. Her hands, her hair, her mouth as she talks are graceful, energetic, and hypnotic.
Everything gets fuzzy around the edges, disappearing for a moment as I get lost in the little peek of her white teeth, her tongue touching her lips as she wets them, and the wide brightness of her smile.
When time resumes, Strega is handing Carly a cup of espresso and she’s sitting down. At my table.
Of course she is, because Carly doesn’t need invitations to go anywhere in the world. Especially, it seems, not my world.
It’s my chance to escape, to simply walk away. I can find another coffee shop. Hell, there’s one roughly every twenty feet. But when Strega sets a plate with a small pastry down in front of Carly, I can’t help but look. It looks flaky like a croissant, but it’s shaped differently, and the inside looks like it’s filled with some sort of dark brown chocolate.
I wonder if Strega is a snack whisperer or something. There just seems to be a bigger message in her bringing me a sweet biscotti with a comment about my needing sweetness and her bringing Carly utter darkness in a dessert.
“Here, Tesoro . . . a treat for the night. But just one. If you are hungry, I will make you proper food.” Strega gives me a hard look, as if she knows I’m about to bolt and she’s daring me to even try it.
Still standing, decision unmade and not able to look at Carly, I ask, “Why does she call you Tesoro? What does that mean?”
Carly grins so big I can see it in my peripheral vision. “Treasure. She calls me treasure sometimes, like I’m precious, valuable. It’s nice, makes me feel better. Why? What does she call you? She has nicknames for practically everyone.”
“Stronzino. She calls me Stronzino, but I don’t know what it means.” The words tumble out quietly. I’m still standing, still not looking at Carly, still haven’t decided if I’m staying, which only makes me feel weaker.
Carly busts out laughing, surprising me. “Oh, my God, does she really? Strega!”
She looks over her shoulder at the woman who’s watching the scene unfold before her like it’s a damn soap opera.
My eyes jump to Strega and then, unbidden, to Carly. “What’s it mean?”
Carly looks me dead in the eye, not letting me go now that she’s got her hooks in me again. Fucking Medusa. “Asshole. But like a cute, diminutive, sweet version. Like it’s not asshole, it’s asshole.”
Though the words are the same, the different ways she pronounces them, first hard and angry, the second almost girly and affectionate, somehow explain the meaning perfectly.
“It’s a term of affection, I’m sure.”
I look at Strega in a new light. Maybe she’s not so kindly after all. Or maybe not so ignorant.
Instead of walking out, I sit down hard in her chair, grabbing her gifted biscotti and taking an aggressive and grotesquely big bite, letting the crumbs fall where they may. I chew with my mouth open. It’s every bit as much of a fuck you as if I’d said the words, but instead I’m just meanly scarfing her treat to spite her.
Take that.
Carly’s giggle breaks the staredown battle with Strega, who huffs and turns around, muttering though I can’t hear her.
“Ooh, you’d better settle your shit, Stronzino. Strega is a fight you don’t want. And if you disrespect her sweets, you won’t get another one. And that’d be tragic.”
She breaks off a bit of her chocolate one, popping it into her mouth with a happy groan that makes me think of sex and how many ways I could get her to repeat that noise.
“So good, Strega! Absolutely delicious!” she calls out to the retreating woman in an attempt to soothe over my effect on her.
She breaks off another bite and holds it out to me. I have a flash of me leaning forward to eat it from her hand, nibbling at her fingers to see if they’re as sweet as Strega’s pastries, maybe licking the crumbs from the pad of her thumb.
Damn it.
I grab the offered bite, tossing it back without even tasting it though I must make some sound because Carly calls out, “I think he prefers the chocolate ones, you know, for next time.”
Her impish grin only grows when Strega lets loose with a stream of Italian so fast I can’t catch a single word.
It’s silent for a moment save the soft chewing sounds of us on our treats and Carly slurping her coffee.
But Carly’s eyes are bright as she looks at me, like she’s already forgotten about how rude I was at dinner. Not that I care about being rude, but I’d felt something about kicking her out so gruffly.
Guilty?
Embarrassed?
Angry?
I don’t know, but it hadn’t been my usual cold indifference. It’d been some other emotion. Just not one I’m willing to name right now.
Looking at the crumbs on my plate, I pick one up, crushing it between my finger and thumb as I marvel at the subtle crunch and almond flavor. “I found the bread you left in the hallway.”
I don’t mean for the words to sound so soft, like a confession rather than an accusation, but somehow, they come out that way, and I feel myself turning red in embarrassment for some reason.
Carly’s perfect white teeth poke out as she bites her lip. I want to bite the plump flesh, lick her teeth, and hold her head still while I pillage her soul through her mouth and suck out every bit of joy like a fucking dementor.
She reaches across the table in slow motion, or at least it seems that way to me. I literally can see as the air shifts around her dainty hand, inching ever closer to mine where it rests on the table. And just before she makes contact, I hear her slightest exhale of breath and wish I’d been close enough to capture it in a jar and save it.
But then her skin presses to mine, her softness to my hardness. Her smooth, satin skin, unblemished, contrasting with the scarred, tattooed dirtiness of my own hand. And she rubs the smallest circle along my knuckle.
“You loved her.”
She heard me.
I knew she had, but I guess I’d hoped that it was a dream. A nightmare.
That I hadn’t said those words out loud, hadn’t told Carly the truth of what broke me and made me into the beast she sees. That I hadn’t said it through a damn door like a pussy who couldn’t even admit the pain from something so awful.
She doesn’t uselessly say sorry like I did. She merely states a fact.
But she’s wrong.
I didn’t love Anna, past tense. I do love her. Still. Today. With my whole heart. With my everything.
A small voice whispers, Everything? You have nothing left, hollow man.
I recoil awkwardly, standing as my breath escapes the pressure in my chest, and I yank my hand from beneath hers. I don’t feel hollow. I usually do.
Ever since, there’s been a gnawing void in my center, a hole that only gets relief with vengeance, with plans of revenge. A bottomless pit of despair and anger.
But as I pant, heart racing, I don’t feel hollow.
I feel like a new dandelion seed just blew into me, just one, but it’s rooting in the inhospitable sidewalk of my soul and daring me to rip it out, daring me to let it bloom and see what awesome beauty it can bring.
If I only let it.
“I do love her. I love her, and she’s dead,” I shout. The words come easier this time, but they still grit on my vocal cords like shards of glass, bleeding me. Every bit of fury I feel at her loss rises up, fresh and hot, as if she died this moment, not over a year ago.
My volume has drawn attention, people looking at me in shock, confusion, even pity as the outburst registers. Even though some of them probably cannot understand English . . . some things don’t need translation. Like pain, and anger, and heartbreak.
But I don’t give a rat’s ass about their looking. I care tha
t Carly is. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking into me.
And like the pussy I am, I bolt.
Shoving my way through the small tables like a bull in a china shop, I stomp for the door, escaping into the night.
Escaping into my loneliness, my sadness, my guilt.
Carly
It’s his fault, really. He opened the door with his admission that he found the bread, that he knew what that meant. I’d heard him on the other side of the door.
And I’m not a subtle, baby step kind of girl, so instead of tiptoeing, I kicked in the door and got to the heart of the matter, sending his own words back to him.
“You loved her.”
I’m not trying to put any acid in the comment. In fact, I find it honest and I’m just trying to get insight into this intriguing, magnetic man.
But for him, it’s like I just set off a firework under his ass.
He skitters like a frightened rabbit, standing in a rush like there’s too much energy coiled in his muscles. His face shows pure, unadulterated fury as he rages at me, at her, at the world.
“I do love her. I love her, and she’s dead.”
The anger is hot, burning in its intensity, but he’s not mad at me, not really, though it likely looks like he’s yelling at me to the folks now looking our way.
His anger is at himself. I can see it plain as day.
He thinks he should’ve done something, should’ve stopped it, should’ve saved her from whatever led to her death. I don’t know the story, and he may never share how she died with me, but I know that unless he pulled the damn trigger, literally or figuratively, it’s not his fault.
It never is, though the survivors often feel that they should’ve, could’ve done something, anything.
And because of that anger, his guilt and pain are palpable. Not in the air around him, not something anyone in this room probably notices.
But I see deeper.
I see the way he jerks away from my touch, not like he doesn’t want it but because he does. It’s in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he squints to lessen the impact of my presence, my words.
It’s in the tightness of his jaw where he’s clenching it, his teeth grinding audibly. I wonder what words he’s biting back because they clearly want out. He’s only holding them back by sheer force of will and guilt.
He doesn’t want the pain to lessen, wants to wallow in it and revel in its sharp edges because he thinks that’s what he deserves. He’s pushing me away so that he can stay there, alone in his hole.
But I was telling the truth before.
I may not have been through what he’s going through, but I’ve been through enough shit to recognize when someone needs help they don’t want.
No, that’s not it.
He wants my help. He just doesn’t think he deserves it.
And that’s an entirely different thing.
But I’m strong enough to be the one to tie that rope around his waist and haul him out of the pit, kicking and screaming the whole way.
I won’t jump down in the hole with him. He doesn’t need that. He needs tough love, even if he fights it, fights me.
Luckily for him, my black belts aren’t just from doing dance around, no-contact training. I’m tough. I know how to fight. Even if I’m fighting his own mental trauma to save him.
As I make the commitment to myself—and to him, though no words are spoken—he makes a run for it.
I knew he would.
It’s a dance.
Two steps forward, one step back.
But if I can twirl him around a bit, get him dizzy, maybe he’ll forget which way we’re going and let me lead.
I’m still staring at the door where he disappeared when Strega comes over. “Mio Dio, what happened?”
I don’t even look at her, just answer with a smile. “A breakthrough. A big fucking one.”
I pop the last bit of pastry in my mouth, swallowing it with the last bit of my espresso. “So good, Strega.”
She thinks I’m talking about her food, the pride transforming her look of worry to a soft smile. I’m not talking about the food at all.
But about Kyle.
He’s good, so good.
Or at least he will be if I have anything to do with it.
Chapter 18
Nathan
It doesn’t take much to find out all I can about Emma Daniels once I apply my resources to it. Background check, online presence, family history, criminal records . . . all of those are easy pickings for the people I have on my speed dial.
Within hours, I hold in front of me the whole package deal that she’s walking in with.
At least on paper.
But there’s more to her.
Whatever that is, it’s something I can’t describe, can’t write or draw or photograph. It’s intangible and what draws me to her like a moth to a flame, even though I know the moth burns in that scenario every time. She just has it and I respond to it every time.
But I’m a smart man, contrary to my brother’s bitching. And I know that his calling Emma a ‘honey pot’ is true, now more than ever.
My brain might say one thing, but my hunger says another. I can’t help but want to eat every last drop. So I revert to what I know, research and reconnaissance.
With the thick file in my lap, research is accomplished. Now, it’s time to recon, so I change into dark jeans and a navy-blue Yankees T-shirt along with some plain Nikes. With my hair mussed up and a decent case of five o’clock shadow, I look like countless other guys.
Respectable but not formidable, handsome but not whiplash-inducing, average but not powerful.
I shrug my shoulders, loosening the tension through my body to affect the casual, relaxed posture the military drilled out of me.
I even smile at myself in the mirror, noting that it seems passably real.
This mission is a go.
The drive is quick, and I tell my driver to circle the block and wait for my call to return. I approach the front doors of the brick building, ignoring the ticket window and the posters out front, hoping they’re unlocked but with a backup plan in place if not.
Hell, I’ve got a backup for the backup plan. I’ve done my studying, and Sun Tzu is as well-known to me as Dr. Seuss.
But fate is on my side today and the doors open to me easily.
I make my way through the lobby, making it a point to look at home and like I’m supposed to be here, but no one stops me or questions me in the least.
Finding the next set of doors, I move into stage two of the plan, entering the dark, softly carpeted space like a ghost.
I don’t look up, not yet. Not until I’m in exactly the place I want to be.
I studied the plans for the building. I know just where to sit to be invisible but see everything. The shadows are dark, deep, and concealing as I blend in, finding the seat I scoped out. Silently, I sit, settling in to wait.
Five breaths. I still my body, slow my breathing, calm my racing heart, listen carefully . . . and open my eyes.
Only then do I allow myself to look.
Only practice keeps my reaction silent, because almost instantly, bells are chiming inside like a fucking church on Sunday.
I see her.
Emma.
But not. At least that’s not who she is today. Today, she is Cleopatra VII Philopator of the Ptolemaic dynasty.
The stage is bright, lights creating stark relief with the backdrop that’s still in preparation. And there’s a whir of activity as a voice calls out, “Places . . . running from scene twenty. Emma, it’s your opening line.”
My eyes lock on her as she nods, and when she begins, it’s a thing of beauty. It’s my utter destruction. She’s good.
Not just able to recite lines and move as instructed, but even to my untrained eye, she becomes a two-thousand-year-old dead Egyptian queen right in front of me.
Her mannerisms change, her smile is aristocratic instead of full, and her movements
are graceful in a way that Emma is not.
And if she can become someone else so readily, so completely, then is who she is with me even real?
Or is it merely another character she’s created? One her sister and the FBI designed based on some profile of what would appeal to me?
Was any of it real?
My feelings were. They are.
I’m honest enough to admit to myself that in just a few days, she’s carved a hole in my heart and inserted herself, and now that hole feels empty. She’s entwined herself with my emotions, and I wish I could explore them just as much as she declared the same to me.
But if what I feel is based on some fantasy creature that doesn’t even exist in real life, then how real can they be?
Anger replaces the affection the longer I sit here, watching her act, watching her laugh and talk with her co-workers during breaks, casually chatting and keeping it relaxed before the director calls for action again. It’s disconcerting, watching her flip in and out of character like it’s nothing.
I hear the disembodied voice of the director, who’s been in a tiny orchestra pit this whole time, call a wrap with a rehearsal call time for tomorrow, and people start to mill out, but then he calls out, “Emma, a moment, please.”
I see the bite of her lip, a sign of her nerves. But she approaches the front row with her head held high.
She looks every bit the educated, upper-class, rich girl she grew up as. Not too cocky, not too bitchy, just serenely elegant and ready to take anything the director says to her with a wan smile.
Bland, vanilla, fake.
This is her fake.
I can see that at least, and a tiny kernel of hope tries to rise inside me. But I remember her on stage, how real it all seemed, like I was merely watching people go about their actual lives. Not acting.
She’s that good, I remind myself harshly.
The director gets up on stage and says something quietly to her before she walks off, and I can see the smile on Emma’s face, like she gave her good feedback or something. I want to take her happiness away. I can’t bear to see her have it from someone else.
Power Play: A Romance Collection Page 18