Bobby Sinatra: In All the Wrong Places (The Rags to Romance Series Book 1)

by Mallory Monroe

  He takes another glance at Rain. What, he seems to be wondering, does she have that all the others didn’t?

  And it’s a good question, I’m thinking, as the doors close us in, leaving him out, and I’m leaning against the elevator wall watching Rain watch the numbers as they light up when we journey up the various floors. I used to date a lot of black women when I lived in Boston, but when I moved back to Jericho, the pickings were too slim. I started developing a type: blonde, pretty, airheaded. And not airheaded because they were blonde. But I went for that type because they didn’t expect more from me than I was willing to give. Laura was blonde and pretty, too, but she was an exception. She was smart as a professor. And nutty as one too.

  When we step off of the elevator just outside of my penthouse apartment, I see Rain looking at the big clock in the hall. When she sees that it’s only nine-thirty, that it’s still early, it seems to put her more at ease. Which pleases me. I’m happy. I want her happy too.

  ####

  He makes drinks for us at his full-size bar, something I’ve never seen inside somebody’s apartment before in my life, and then he invites me into his den to check out his record collection. He removes his suit coat and tosses it onto a chair. That’s when I see how big he is across the shoulders. If we do end up in bed, I’m thinking, this man can crush me!

  But it’s like he’s in his element now. In this beautiful den of his with his record collection. And to say his collection is big, would be like saying the Atlantic Ocean is big. That just doesn’t really describe it. And I’m impressed. Because it’s like this rich white boy grew up loving the same kind of music I grew up loving. He has all my favorite groups in his stack.

  He also has some groups I never even heard of before, like all that heavy metal stuff, but it’s kind of amazing to me.

  “This ain’t no remix shit, either,” he says to me, with that killer smile, as he puts on a CD. “This one is one of my all-time favorites. It’s a compilation of all the different singers I like.”

  As I’m listening, to a Public Enemy track, I’m nodding my head. “It still sounds really good, Bobby,” I say to him.

  “Don’t it, though? I listen to it all the time. But be honest. You thought I was bullshittin’, didn’t you?”

  “No, no way.”

  “You didn’t think I had a record collection.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t, girl, quit,” he says. “You thought I just wanted to get you in my crib to get you in my bed.”

  I laugh, because I know it’s true. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him the way he starts bopping his shoulders up and down as Public Enemy’s singing Fight the Power. Got his muscle-tight body moving from side to side. Got his hand cuffed down and covering his balls like he’s some gangbanger from way back, rather than the businessman-slash-mayor he really is.

  He’s got the beat down pat for a white boy, like that world they’re rapping about ain’t new to him, which is odd as a motherfuck. And then he starts singing along. He’s singing along! This is a mayor? But that’s what he’s doing. He’s singing right along with Chuck D and Public Enemy:

  “Elvis was a hero to most

  but he didn’t mean shit to me.

  A straight up racist that sucker was

  Simple and plain.

  Mother fuck

  him

  and John Wayne!

  Fight the power

  Fight the power

  Fight the power

  We got to fight the powers that be!”

  Now I’m laughing, because he really knows that shit. And then I start bopping, too, and singing along, too, and it’s like I’m a kid again. We’re like two kids in a den, back in the nineties, having the time of our lives. This man, this mayor, is something else!

  But our age starts showing because, when Fight the Power goes off, we both fall back and crash land on his sofa. We land slouched down, with his broad shoulder, and my substantially smaller one, touching. And we look at each other and laugh again. He hunches forward laughing so hard. I’d never been this comfortable with a man before in my life. But I’m comfortable with him? This guy? Really? Damn if this ain’t weird!

  And it gets even weirder, because as soon as Fight the Power goes off, another song comes on. The Manhattans singing A Million to One.

  “I,

  fell in love with you the moment we met.

  Never thought that it could happen, and yet

  here we are, me and you, so in love.

  Now,

  Everybody that I know stops and stares

  Even now they can’t believe that you care

  They’re all saying, you’re just wasting,

  just wasting your time instead of getting bored.

  A million to one

  That’s what they said

  would be my chances.

  A million to one

  But I found love

  here in the warmth

  of your arms.

  A million to one!”

  We’re still smiling, but the mood is changing. That song’s getting us in the mood. Until another song comes on, a Rod Stewart song, that takes us on over.

  “If you want my body, and you think I’m sexy

  Come on, sugar, tell me so.

  If you really need me, just reach out and touch me,

  Come on, honey, let me know!”

  Because as those words starts to sink in, we’re still smiling, our shoulders are still touching, but I can feel a big-time shift in the room. In this beautiful room. And it’s not so funny anymore.

  It’s that time of the evening when he expects something more than just my company for his time and effort. And my heart starts to sink.

  He stands up, and reaches out his hand to me. I take it, and stand up too. He pulls me against him, and wrap his arms around me, and I can feel that his big-ass dick is already hard. I’m talking like steel. This man wants it bad.

  He leans back so that he’s now staring me in my face as he holds me. And damn if this man doesn’t have the biggest, sexiest eyes I’ve ever seen. And they have a little sleepy droop to them, too, like he was born to be wild and beautiful both at the same time. And his lips, they’re like always puckered, like he was born a kisser too.

  But he’s looking into my eyes, and at my lips, like he’s so impressed. Why does this man make me feel so special? When other men give me that look, it’s kind of creepy to tell you the truth. But not with this guy. Not with Bobby. For a good few seconds, he’s looking at me like I was born to be something special too.

  But I can’t overlook his hard-ass dick because it’s poking into me like it’s going to start drawing blood if he’s not careful. That shit big and that shit hard. He might think I’m special, but he wants something a little lower on my body than my heart tonight. And to prove my point, his face starts moving closer to mine. He’s coming in for a kiss.

  I close my eyes. I can’t help it. His male scent, his nearness, his music has me in that zone. I have my eyes completely closed as this man’s lips land on my lips and he kisses me. And damn. Talk about a good taste. It feels like eating something you’ve been craving all your life. I’m feeling this.

  And he’s apparently feeling it, too, because he gets a little rough. He starts kissing me harder and harder, like he’s loving what he’s tasting too, and then he opens his mouth and start doing the tongue thing. The French kiss. Only it doesn’t hurt, and it’s not gross, the way other guys do it.

  But he’s going all out. No stopping him as his head is moving from one side to the other side and he’s kissing me like it’s been a while since he did this shit. It’s been a while for me, too, so I’m feeling it. But he’s really feeling it!

  But then something remarkable happens. After kissing me for so long, and holding me like he wasn’t going to ever let me go, he eases up and eases up, and finally we stop kissing.

  He’s breathing heavy now. He wants me under him bad. And when he loo
ks into my eyes, his is so filled with lust for me that it’s kind of scary. I’ve been with men who wanted me like this, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. They be too wound up. They want it too badly. It gets too rough for me when they want it like this.

  But that’s the remarkable part. Because Bobby Sinatra doesn’t just go in for the kill the way every man whose ever been this desperate for it has. They never ask. They just figure I want it to and take it.

  But Bobby looks at me. And he removes his arms from around me and place them on my small shoulders. His eyes are so big and gorgeous I can’t take my eyes off of them. And his hair’s so long and thick it flows around his face like a frame. And his fine body, and especially that penis. Like I said, the man is ready. But he’s looking at me, and studying me, and considering me. He’s considering me.

  “I want to take you to bed,” he says, “and make love to you.”

  I’m so hot for this man, I want it too. But I know I can’t. I can’t just keep giving myself away to these men and end up lesser for it. Going home alone. Sleeping alone in bed. Feeling dirty and cheap and not worth a damn. My grandma didn’t raise me to be that girl.

  But what if Bobby’s different? What if he’s everything those men weren’t, and I’m turning down the absolute wrong one?

  Or what if he’s more of the same?

  I get the answer, when he keeps talking. “I want you in my bed,” he says, “but what I want more than that is to get to know you.”

  Did he just say that? Did I just hear him right? He wants me in his bed, but he wants to get to know me more than he wants me in his bed? I don’t even know what to say I’m so shocked. I shouldn’t be shocked. I’m worth more than just what’s between my legs. But like I said, the men I’ve been with haven’t seen it that way. To them, I was good for sex, and that was about it. I was that girl.

  But Bobby’s seeing me as a different girl? As who I know I really am? I keep staring at him. Is he for real, or just a master at manipulation and I don’t even realize I’m being played? But that’s not what I’m seeing in those eyes. I see kindness in those eyes, not manipulation. That don’t mean it’s not there. Lord knows I’ve been wrong every single time I thought I saw something special in some man. But I see something real special when I look at Bobby.

  “What I’m trying to say, Rain,” he says to me, “is that I want you more than I want your body. And that’s why,” he says, and starts rubbing my arms, “we’d better call it a night before I can’t make that call.”

  My heart soars. It sings I tell you! He wants to know me. Me! Finally a man wants to know me. I’m fighting back tears.

  And I smile. I can’t stop smiling. “I agree,” I say to him, which makes him smile too.

  But he also gets in a hurry. He gets Ayden’s food out of his huge refrigerator, like he wants me out of there before he changes his mind. And before I change mine. But he doesn’t hand me the food. Or just walk me to his elevator and say goodnight right there. He walks me all the way to my car. Not a big deal, I know. But considering my background, it’s a big damn deal.

  Now I’m driving home on cloud nine. I’m wiping tears away again, but this time happy tears. Could this be for real? Could this man be as good as he’s looking to me right now? Could I have finally found my knight, after all those false starts, in this little town in Maine?

  It seems too good to be true. Nothing like this ever happens to a girl like me. It’s those other girls, with the easy manners. Who knows how to flirt just by tossing their hair around. But I don’t dwell on the negative. I’m tired of being so damn negative! He wants to know me more than he wants my body. That’s what I’m dwelling on.

  When I get back to the motel, Ayden’s wide awake looking at some Disney movie. At least that’s what he’s looking at when I get home. He was probably looking at HBO while I was gone. Like I said, I know my child.

  And when he sees that bag of food in my hand, he jumps off of his bed. “I told you it wasn’t going to be a buffet,” he says as he takes the bag. “What did you bring me, Ma?” He’s already going through the bag and opening up the tray.

  “A fish dinner,” I say to him. “It was either fish or steak. I knew which one you would want.”

  But he looks at me. I’m sitting on one of the twin beds now, taking off those damn heels. “What?” I ask him, rubbing my foot.

  “Why did you do that?”

  Now I’m confused. “Why did I do what?”

  “Why didn’t you eat anything? You need to eat too. This is a full meal. You didn’t touch any of it!”

  I smile. That’s my boy. Always looking out for me. “No, baby,” I say, “Mr. Sinatra bought it just for you. I ate all my dinner already.”

  Ayden smiles. “He bought it just for me? For real?”

  “For real,” I say, nodding my head. He’s not used to anybody, except for me, treating him special either.

  And that boy gets down. Eating like he’s starving. And he is. He’s starving for a choice. I feed him. He eats. But we can’t just go out and satisfy our cravings anymore. Every dime counts. To eat food from a fancy restaurant is a treat. It’s major. And I’m just glad my son gets to enjoy it too.

  He looks at me. “Did he ask you out again?” he asks me, with that hope of a yes in his eyes.

  But I’d been trying not to think about that part. That was the only negative in an otherwise perfect evening.

  “No,” I say, and I want to add, not yet. But life has bit me in the butt too many times. I’ve thought this guy or that guy was the one, and I’m flying high thinking I’m heading for greener pastures, only to end up knee-deep in his shit. I wasn’t giving my child anymore false hope.

  “But I enjoyed myself,” is what I say to Ayden.

  And because his expectations have been lowered to the ground too, that’s enough for him. He nods, smiles, and eats his food.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I’m at the Hub the next day reading the local newspapers. I conducted the interview yesterday, and it went well. The news media is calling me heroic for fighting back against those “thugs.” Capecchi tried to say I might have known them in my past, but he had no evidence to prove it, and it came across to most people as sour grapes. It’s looking good for me.

  Usually in Jericho, the last couple months before election day are the most critical, and that’s when we plan to go all-out. Right now, my job is to look the part. To look presidential, as they say. Or, in my case, like a serious mayor. I’m to have no scandals, no public beefs with the city council, no problems. My ass just got detained by the Boston PD for over six hours, but Gerard handled that scandal and the press just right. I seemed to have weathered that storm.

  But Laura is still a threat on my horizon. She’s still that shoe that’s waiting to drop. Gerard’s on it. He’s got a team of investigators searching for her ass now, and trying to get as much dirt on Matt Capecchi as they can. But so far nothing. No sign of Laura, and no dirt on Capecchi. Who knew his dirty ass could be that clean? Either that, or he’s really good at covering his tracks. But nothing I can do about that right now.

  Because mostly I’m just thinking about Rain.

  Rain.

  A name her mother gave to her for negative reasons. Now she’s working hard and doing all she can to be this upstanding citizen and prove her mother wrong. But life’s not cooperating with her, and that’s a shame. And I’m already trying to figure out what more I can do for her to help her out. I’ll do a lot more, once I get to know her better: like buy her a decent car, for starters. But I have to be careful. Like I said, she’s still got some Street in her. Too much generosity might scare her away. I haven’t even gotten to know her yet, and I intend to. She’s not going anywhere.

  What the fuck!

  I’m stunned. Because I look up, and suddenly Arnold Moby’s sitting at my table. The same Moby who was my boss in Boston when we did shit together neither one of us want to ever mention. I thought his ass was still in prison. He’s
out too? Was he behind what Dance tried to pull?

  “You took out two of my boys,” he says to me. No hey, how are you. It’s been a decade. But he gets right to that shit. That’s always been Moby. He’s older now. Looks grayer. But still the same too. That shooting might not have been a big deal to the residents of Jericho, but it got on his radar screen.

  “Your boys tried to kill my ass,” I say to him. “What did you expect me to do?

  “What you did. But I had high hopes for those two. We all were gonna get out of the joint and put the band back together. You got in the way.”

  “They came for me. They got in the way.”

  Moby smiles. What I always liked about him was that he never lived in fantasyland. He didn’t practice it, but he knew right from wrong. “Dance was a good man,” he says. “Max too. You took out two of my best men.”

  Now I’m staring at him. “That was Max?” I ask him. “The driver I iced was Max?”

  “You forgot old Max?” Moby’s laughing. “How could you forget old Max?”

  “He looked nothing like he use to look,” I say.

  “Understandable. He was badly burned in prison. They gave him all kinds of fits. I had to pay some guys to protect him for a while there. He was not prison material.” Then he looks at me. “Neither are you, apparently.”

  I know what he means. My ass got out of it.

  “How did you swing that, by the way?” he asks me. “How did you and Gerard get out just before that shit hit the fan?”

  “That shit that hit the fan had nothing to do with me and Gerard.”