by RC Boldt
There is no need for a call in that entire process.
“Get you table service.” He picks up an expensive-looking gold pen and jots something down on a cream-colored notepad sitting on his desk.
“But we don’t need table service.” I stride farther inside his fancy office, and stop in front of his desk. “Look, I get that it’s your way of doing things, but—”
His head snaps up and determination gleams in his gaze. “It’s safer. No one’ll bother you. I’ll make sure of it.”
I part my lips to protest again, but when he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture makes him appear more human than usual. Releasing a heavy breath, he drops his hand and shoves back from his desk, rising to circle it. Standing beside me, he takes my hands, his voice low, possessing a gentle quality.
“Lemme take care of this.” He cocks his head to the side with an even softer, “Please, Olivia.”
I frown and purse my lips, grumbling. “You make it difficult to say no when you ask nicely and use my name.” My eyes go wide at the latter revealing declaration, and I back away, attempting to break free of his hold on me.
His fingers tighten—not painfully, but enough to stop my movement. Stepping closer, his gaze flicks between my eyes and lips. “You like it when I say your name?”
Attempting nonchalance and willing my heart not to hammer out of my chest at his nearness, I shrug. “It’s better than being called Professor all the time.”
A smirk teases his lips. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He dips his head closer, and my breath hitches. His full bottom lip has me aching to capture it between my teeth and tug it gently.
The tip of his nose grazes mine, and the simple contact sends awareness rippling through me. “You gonna dance with other men while you’re out?”
“Maybe.” Damn, my voice is far too breathless for my liking.
“Yeah?” His lips dust over mine in a barely there caress that leaves me wanting more. So much more. When he skims his mouth along the hinge of my jaw and up to my ear to whisper, “Better be careful who you let near you,” I’m unable to stifle the shiver that wracks my body.
“Why’s that?” I murmur, arching my neck ever so slightly, hoping he won’t detect my reaction to him. Insistent need assails me, urging me to succumb to it.
“’Cause I’m a greedy son of a bitch.” His words wash over my sensitive skin, leaving a wave of aching want in their wake. “Don’t like the thought of any man touchin’ you but me.”
My eyes fall closed as I grasp his admission. The possibility that he has feelings for me sends a rush of warmth unfurling inside me, but I mentally shove it aside. I need to maintain a level head. I can’t allow myself to be distracted or deterred. Regardless of how tempted I am to give in to the tenuous connection between us.
Easing back, I open my eyes only to lock with his watchful ones. The glimpse of heat lurking in the depths ebbs until he straightens his shoulders. I can practically see his invisible armor falling into place while he watches me edge closer to the door, putting distance between us. When I spin around, desperate to escape his presence and the temptation he possesses, his raspy voice curls around me. “Olivia?”
I freeze but don’t turn to face him. “Yes?”
“Don’t make plans for Sunday.”
I frown. “Why’s that?”
The faint crinkling of the leather sounds as he sinks into his desk chair. “Just don’t make plans.”
I turn to pin him with a narrowed look, and he appears almost…shy. He averts his eyes, focusing on his laptop, and I’m struck with the impression the weight of my gaze has him on edge.
“Did you make plans for me on Sunday?”
He lets out an exasperated-sounding grunt but still refuses to meet my gaze. A faint tinge of pink colors his cheeks. “Got work to do, Professor.”
Is Nico Alcanzar blushing? No way.
Not only does this have my heart stuttering—the knowledge that he made special plans for Sunday—but seeing him blush makes every nerve ending in my body sing.
My reaction is dangerous as hell, but it doesn’t tamper my inner teenage girl who squeals as though she was asked out by the cutest boy in school.
So, I take the safest route.
Wordlessly, I stride out of his office and head down the hall.
34
Nico
She thinks I don’t know about Saturday. As good as she is about masking her emotions the majority of the time, this time, she failed.
Witnessing it had invisible hands reaching inside me to fist my lungs tight. A part of me wanted to yell that I know every single iota of information about her I could get my hands on. That there’s no way in hell I can only let her celebrate with her friend Carlina.
What the fuck is my deal? I’m going around, practically pissing a circle around the professor now? Goddammit. The woman distracts me like no other, and I can’t fucking afford it. This job demands my A-game at all times. I need to play it smart and sure as hell not let her know that she has me so fucking bewitched.
Now that Santilla’s made a move, things are shifting to the course I want—that I need. It means this arrangement with Olivia will end soon, regardless of my feelings and how much I wish things were different.
She’s become the best part of my days; a glimmer of sunshine fighting its way out from behind the dark cloud cover that’s become my life. Olivia Wright stands out as an angel with a blindingly bright halo in the seedy underbelly of my world. She brings out the humanity in me that I’ve lost grip on for the past however many fucking years it’s been.
I’m supposed to use her like she’s expendable. Like she doesn’t fucking matter.
The problem is, she does, and it’s not because she saved me from taking that bullet.
35
Olivia
“Happy birthday, Livvie!” Carlina squeals, lifting her drink to clink against mine. Her excitement is infectious, and I’m grateful she suggested this, especially after everything that’s transpired.
Taking a long drink, she scans for any males who might catch her eye, then refocuses on me. With a raised brow, she gives me an expectant look. “I’ve been waiting since we got here for you to dish.” She waves her hand in an Out with it already, woman kind of motion.
She’d walked up to the club at the exact time Marcus had accompanied me, albeit a few steps behind. Marcus had agreed to keep his distance once we ventured inside, while Tino volunteered to stay back with the vehicle.
I shrug as if my life hasn’t been upended recently. “I met a guy. He’s…”
Intriguing.
A criminal.
Dangerous.
Sweet.
Sexy.
Instead of those options, I go with a safer one. “He takes care of me.” Sure, it’s often in an overbearing, cocky manner, but…
Seemingly impressed, she glances around where we’re seated in the VIP section. “I would say so, if he arranged all this.” She does a little happy bounce. “When do I get to meet him?”
When I left the house, Nico was away with Goliath, doing whatever illegal things they do.
“I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point.” Then I switch topics and ask her to fill me in on her latest and not-so-greatest ex, Jake. Carlina’s notorious for choosing guys who are all wrong for her. Always the one to end things, I secretly wonder if she self-sabotages because she’s afraid of getting hurt.
Once she gives me the briefest rundown on why she called it quits with Jake, we finish our drinks and head to the dance floor. Countless songs later, the floor grows more congested with writhing bodies, and I motion to Carlina that I’m heading to the nearby balcony for fresh air.
She nods just as a guy grabs her hand and pulls her close, hips moving in sync to the beat. I recognize him instantly. Drew is Carlina’s on-again, off-again friend with benefits. He’s actually a nice guy, and I often wonder why the two of them hold such a strong
aversion to dating one another.
Navigating my way through the mass of people to the stairs leading to the upper level, I catch Marcus’s eyes and tip my head to indicate I’ll be on the balcony. He nods and moves to follow discreetly.
Once I set foot outside, my shoulders relax considerably. Slipping into an available spot overlooking the bustling street, I brace my forearms on the smooth, solid railing. I feel Marcus’s watchful eyes on me from just beyond the door, the clear glass offering him an unobstructed view of me.
My brief reprieve is soon interrupted. From my periphery, I notice a man slide into an open spot at the balcony a few feet away. He mimics my stance, lowering his muscled forearms to the railing, and scans the view. Sleeves cuffed at his elbows, he has his blue button-down shirt tucked into a pair of black slacks.
“Having a good time?”
Biting back a sigh, I offer a polite shrug. “It’s Saturday night. What’s not to enjoy?” It’s a rhetorical question because I’m in no mood for small talk.
Evidently, he senses it because he cuts to the chase, lowering his voice. “You need to watch yourself from all angles.” He continues his survey of the glittering lights below. “People are gunning for you.”
There’s a pause before he adds a murmured, “Quite literally, considering it’s already happened.” The suppressing weight of his gaze settles on me, but I still don’t bother turning to face him. “Too much chatter’s going on about the professor who’s shacked up with the enigma who is Nico Alcanzar.”
My entire body stills, my heart thudding wildly while I war with myself to remain calm. The last thing I need or want is for Marcus to sweep in, assuming I need to be rescued.
With a casual tone, I lift a shoulder in a partial shrug. “I’m just a psych professor. Nothing noteworthy.”
“Au contraire.” His voice holds a touch of caustic amusement. “You’ve become a hot commodity. There’s bound to be a price on your head soon, if there isn’t already.” His next words are filled with a healthy dose of warning. “Be careful. Everybody’s watching.”
My lips part, but before I can form a response, he straightens with a quick, “See you around.” When I turn my head a moment later, he’s already disappeared through the doors leading inside, leaving behind no trace of his existence.
This has turned into a fucking mess. Between the woman at the café and the call with Johanna Santilla—I still can’t stomach the thought of referring to her as my mother—I can’t determine any commonalities, aside from their secretive nature in contacting me.
Santilla shifted the contact into something far more dangerous than the mission to grant me information, as the woman in the café had delivered.
Standing here on this balcony surrounded by others seeking fresh air, a quieter space to take a call, or a place to get their nicotine fix, I realize how alone I actually am. Sure, I’ve always been a bit of a loner, but it hits me with brute force how solitary I’ve kept my life.
It began because we moved so frequently. It was easier to keep to myself and not have any friendships to grieve over because, like long-distance relationships, they often fizzle, leaving behind heartache and disappointment.
After that, my excuse for avoiding any possible connections was my goal to make my parents proud by graduating from college early and immediately starting graduate school.
Once I’d scraped myself off the floor after the rape, I’d used it as an additional excuse not to form any attachments.
I may talk with the psych department staff and some colleagues, and I sporadically meet up with Carlina, but I haven’t allowed anyone to penetrate my invisible barrier against relationships of any kind. I’m not actually living my life. I’m simply going through the motions. I’ve used fear as a foundation—as an excuse to keep everyone at arm’s length.
Who’ll show up at my funeral? My boss and a few co-workers, if I’m lucky, I suppose. But no one will truly be able to stand up and claim that they knew me or share a funny anecdote from “that time when…”
I exhale a shaky breath, staring down at the taillights on the street below. I’ve held back all this time, kept myself contained in a protective bubble of sorts. Too afraid to open up, I’ve been fearful that I’ll end up losing someone else like I did my parents, or that they’ll find out what happened to me in college and look at me differently. As though I’m damaged goods.
Nico’s the first person I’ve ever confessed to about my rape. And for some inexplicable reason, I inherently knew he wouldn’t judge me or perceive me differently because of it.
Nico Alcanzar may be a dangerous man who operates outside of the law, but there’s more to him than meets the eye. And damn if I don’t want to peel back his layers, even while I recognize it’s both dangerous and quite possibly idiotic.
My small purse vibrates where it hangs from the wide strap around my wrist and I unzip it to retrieve my phone.
Carlina: You okay, chica?
Me: Heading back now.
Sliding my phone into my purse, I head back inside, feeling the weight of Marcus’s gaze tracking me. As I descend the stairs, I scan the dance floor for Carlina, and when she spots me, she waves. Drew is behind her with his hands on her hips while they dance to the current song.
A part of me wavers when I hit the landing. I can easily head toward our reserved table instead of joining Carlina on the dance floor. But the thought vanishes when the song ends and morphs into Elvis Crespo’s “Suavemente.” This particular song makes it impossible for me not to dance to it.
Hastening my steps, I weave through the crowd and make my way back to Carlina and Drew. My body feels as if it’s being taken over by the beat of the song. The edges of my vision grow hazy as memories filter in from years ago.
The first time I heard Latin music was when we briefly lived in Malta one spring. Our neighbor, who lived in the small apartment below us, would play it on the weekends. We’d open our windows, and the instant the music hit my ears, I felt an unfamiliar yet inherent need to move even then.
One day, while I’d been doing my chores and dancing to the music, I’d turned around and caught my parents watching me with odd expressions. I’d instantly panicked, thinking the lyrics were inappropriate. I hadn’t known how to speak Spanish conversationally yet and only knew the basics.
But they’d known about my real past all along, and likely, when they saw me dancing while dusting, it reminded them who I was.
What I was.
That I wasn’t theirs.
I close my eyes against the anguish that threatens to overtake me and am grateful that anyone else will assume I’m immersed in the music. But it’s moments like this when I wish I had someone to hold me. To tell me that I’m okay—even if everything I thought I knew to be true is actually false. To remind me that I’ve been through tougher circumstances and persevered.
When a pair of male hands land gingerly at my hips, I don’t open my eyes. I want to imagine, for a moment, that Nico is here. To pretend that whoever is behind me, whoever was ballsy enough to lay his hands on me, is someone I want touching me.
Perhaps my mind is overruling everything because now those hands seem to comfort me much like I imagine Nico’s would. They mold to my hips as we move, our bodies perfectly in sync with the rhythm. I’m resigned to open my eyes, knowing it will shatter the illusion, so I sink deeper into the music until my heartbeat thumps in tune with the beat.
The song morphs into a remix of Gloria Estefan’s “Mi Tierra,” and when I cover the man’s hands with mine, my eyes flash open in shock. As crazy as it may be, I know these hands—the way they feel and the slight rough patches, the calloused fingertips.
Carlina catches my eyes and wiggles her brows while Drew pulls her closer, their bodies moving in a sensually slower salsa dance.
My focus is torn from them the instant Nico spins me around and tugs me closer. Even in my wedge heels, he towers over me a few inches. In my periphery, many women cast Nico appreciative gla
nces, and I can’t blame them. Dressed in sleek black pinstriped slacks that mold his muscled thighs, and a button-down shirt in the same color with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, he’s undeniably handsome. Simultaneously, he’s receiving envious looks from a handful of men who likely wish they could command attention and swagger as naturally as he does.
Our bodies rock back and forth, our steps fluid in our give-and-take, as the realization takes hold. Nico Alcanzar knows how to salsa—and very well. His brown eyes never waver from mine, and I find myself unable to look away. This feels like one of those brief moments when he’s permitting me to see past the barriers he maintains with everyone else.
When he spins me out and back, the mood of our dancing changes the instant my breasts press flush against his chest. He holds me in place, my cheek to his jaw, our lower bodies moving, hips rocking.
“You’re beautiful.” His breath washes against my skin when he speaks. Gruffness takes hold of his voice when he adds, “Sexy as hell in that dress.” His tone makes it sound like it’s an unthinkable offense. How dare I look good in a dress that appeared in my closet with a note affixed to the hanger saying, Happy Birthday.
“Someone gave me this for my birthday. I couldn’t very well be rude and not wear it.” That, and it was clearly expensive and gorgeous. The black Tom Ford fitted mini-dress has a deep V-neck that required double-sided fashion tape to ensure I didn’t expose myself unwittingly. I paired it with my black wedge peep-toes.
The DJ shifts the mood with a slower song, albeit a remix of Shakira’s “Moscas En La Casa,” and Nico leans back, waiting for me to meet his gaze. A scowl teases his mouth. “Don’t like everybody lookin’ at you.” His eyes flit around us, his scowl deepening. “I know what they’re thinkin’. Don’t like it one bit.”
“What are they thinking?” I wait for those brown eyes to meet mine and wonder if he’ll be honest with me or if I’ll get the trademark arrogant Nico response.