Smoke: The Carelli Family Saga, Book One

by Eden Butler

  “Quit banging on my door, pendejo!” I heard on the other side, just before the door flew open and Maggie’s frown and glare greeted me. “Smoke?” She looked between me and her kid, who reached for her, but I held him back when I caught a good look at her red-spotted face.

  “Fuck’s sake, bella…”

  “What?”

  She moved toward the baby, clearly ready to take him out of my arms, but I shook my head, hating the look she gave me. “Has he been vaccinated?”

  “What? Of course he has. He’s up on his shots.”

  She tried slapping my hand away when I felt her forehead, but relaxed against me, her eyes going round when I cursed. “What? I’m…fine.”

  “The hell you are,” I told her, nodding into her apartment. “Sit the hell down before you pass out.”

  The elevator chimed behind me and Vi approached. Maggie looked over my shoulder, her face getting paler as the kid squirmed in my arms.

  “It looks worse,” the older woman said. “Sweetie, you gotta see a doctor.”

  “You feeling bad? Sore throat?” I asked Vi.

  “I’m healthy as a horse,” she said, taking the baby when he reached for her.

  I nodded once, pointing Maggie inside. When she didn’t move, I gave her shoulder a shove, turning back to hold Vi off. “Stay out here. I’ll get a bag together and call my boy Dino. We’ll set you up at my place.”

  “Why on earth would we…” Vi argued, taking a step forward.

  “You and the kid aren’t running fevers. Maggie is, and if I remember anything from my little brothers getting sick, and those little bastards were always sick, I’d know a strep rash anywhere.” Maggie groaned from the living room, but I ignored her. “She may not like it, but she needs medicine and rest and you and Mateo don’t need to be around her when she has strep. A one-year-old with that shit is murder on your nerves.”

  “That’s…true,” Vi said, patting the baby.

  I dug in my pocket, pulling out my phone and shot Dino a text. “If you don’t want to stay at my place, my folks have a few empty bedrooms, or we can get you a room at the B&B…”

  “What about Maggie…”

  I glanced up at Vi, swallowing, not hesitating when I answered. “I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry.” The older woman opened her mouth, likely ready to argue with me, but when I only stared back at her, keeping my expression even, she gave me a nod, looking me up and down like she figured I could manage. Maybe I could. Maybe I couldn’t. One thing was sure, there wasn’t anybody else I’d let take care of Maggie. That was my job.

  “Sit up.”

  “You’re so bossy…”

  “And you’re a whiny invalid.”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  “If you say so.”

  She barely lifted her head. Maggie used my chest and the back of her arm to push herself up and got two long sips of the chicken broth Ma sent over down her raw throat before she scrunched her nose and rested back against me.

  “It’s murder on my throat …”

  “Dramatic,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I didn’t like how pale she was or how long the fever had stuck with her. But Dr. Richards had been by twice in the past three days, shooting Maggie up with a course of penicillin, warning us that it might take a while to work.

  Until then, I was stuck with the world’s worst, but most beautiful strep patient. “You’re lucky my ma isn’t over here spoon-feeding you. She threatened.”

  “It’s worse,” Maggie said, relaxing against my shoulder. “I got you.” She closed her eyes when I brushed the hair from her forehead, then opened them, blinking up at me. “You…don’t have to do this, you know. I can manage.”

  Eyebrows shooting up, I tried damn hard not to laugh at her. “An hour ago you couldn’t keep your head off your pillow for more than a half hour.”

  “It’s the medicine.” The quick shrug and jerk of her chin did nothing to convince me.

  She wore no makeup. Her skin was clean and pale, but clear, and I couldn’t take my damn eyes off her. Like some sprung kid who snuck into his girl’s bedroom in the middle of the night, just having Maggie kicked back against my chest was fucking indulgent.

  And I wasn’t the only one doing a little indulging. We’d been in this little bubble with no one around for days, snuggled up like there was something more than just…whatever the hell there was between us, locked up in this apartment. I saw it in her eyes, that sweet glance that told me what she wanted. The same damn shit that filled me up anytime I spotted her across a room, like seeing something I wanted, knowing I shouldn’t want it, but having that deep down hope that it could still be mine despite knowing it wasn’t likely.

  Maggie pressed her lips together, moving her face against my fingers when I brushed the hair from her cheek, and I blinked, remembering her excuse and the conversation we were supposed to be having. “The ah…antibiotics don’t make you fuzzy-headed.”

  “No,” she said, sounding a little breathless, “that’s you.”

  Fingers resting between her hair, I stared down at her, not sure what to think. Not sure if I should be thinking anything at all. “I make you fuzzy-headed?”

  “Did I say that out loud?” She tilted her chin down, closing her eyelids like they’d gotten too heavy to keep open, and some of the air came back into my lungs.

  “Bella, you’re high.”

  “Not high enough.” Maggie took a breath, her bottom lip opening so wide that I could make out the tip of her tongue behind her teeth. Even high on pain meds, she was a temptation. She let me pull her closer, adjusting her head against the arm of the sofa as I watched her, fanning out her thick hair against the lumpy pillow under her head. “Why are you so good to us?”

  “Ulterior motives,” I admitted, guessing she probably wouldn’t remember any of this conversation.

  “Which are?”

  “The kid. He’s gonna be president. I might need a pardon one day.”

  “Smoke…” Maggie grinned, fluttering her eyes open, the pupils back to normal as she watched me—clear, alert. The fuzziness was gone. She heard me. She’d caught me. For the life of me, I couldn’t find a reason to worry that she had.

  Maggie Ramirez was strong. Smart. She was kind. She was honest.

  She was beautiful.

  What kind of idiot wouldn’t want her? What kind of fool wouldn’t do everything in his power to protect her?

  I took a thick curl from her shoulder and wrapped it around my finger, not thinking of anything really, but the distraction it gave me and how good it felt to have her in my lap, watching me, liking that this felt normal. Comfortable. At least, what passed for both in my world.

  “I told you…I have your back.”

  A small sigh left her mouth when she adjusted, turning on her side, facing me before she spoke. “You made sure Milly Jacob’s kids had new robes for their choir competition.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “And Luke Schmidt said you paid for a new roof on his dad’s garage because he lost his job last winter.” Her stare was neutral, her point silent, and I met it with more of the same for a full minute, getting nothing back from her.

  Finally, I shrugged, moving my chin at her. “You got a point?”

  A twitch shook across her lips before Maggie nodded, pulling on my hand so she could run her nails against my palm. “You have a lot of people’s back, but you aren’t spoon-feeding them soup and making sure their kid is taken care of.” She rested my hand against her chest, curling her fingers with mine and the air went still again in my lungs with the look she gave me. “You aren’t low-key getting paint jobs on the secondhand cars they buy or talking your folks into paying them too much for a waitress job.” She reached up, brushing away the hair that had fallen into my eyes as I watched her. “And, far as I know, you aren’t giving them mind-blowing orgasms.” When I only watched her, not saying a word, Maggie squinted, narrowing her eyes. “Are you?”

  I pulled the right
side of my mouth up, grinning at her. “Mr. Schmidt is a little too flat chested for me, bella.”

  I liked her laugh and that pretty smile. There had been a lot of beautiful women in my circle over the years, but there’d never been a smile that sweet or a laugh that genuine. Even sick as a dog, Maggie was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She let that smile linger, let it hang on her lips for a few seconds as she watched me fussing with my hair again before she dropped her hand, holding onto my fingers again, keeping them close to her chest.

  “I can never repay you.” Her voice was quiet, but clear.

  “I’d never ask you to.”

  “Smoke…”

  She’d never asked me for a damn thing. But then, Maggie wasn’t the sort who would. That’s why I knew she was a decent person. What she gave me came from the heart and it came with zero expectation. What I gave her came from a place I didn’t understand, not completely, but I was starting to see parts of it.

  Taking her hand in both of mine, I kissed her knuckles, hoping she saw me clearly and honestly. Hoping she knew what I said, I meant. “I’d be a liar if I said you don’t matter.” I couldn’t quite hold her eyes, not when they went glassy and wet. Maybe that’s why she looked away, moving her lashes like a fan, like blinking quickly would get rid of the wetness behind them. But I wasn’t done. She had to know that. “You matter to me,” I said, holding her attention. “You and the kid. You matter more than I thought you would.”

  “You… matter to me too,” she said, blinking again before she rubbed them with her fingers.

  “Don’t hate hearing that.” Maggie nodded again, turning further on her side, her smile sweet, but tired as she looked up at me. The meds were strong, and finally starting to kick in. I moved down to kiss her forehead, brushing the hair off her shoulder. “Sleep, bella.”

  She listened, her eyes slipping closed and staying that way as I watched her, letting the room stay silent and that quiet fill my head with a thousand thoughts about this woman and her kid and the kind of joy that might be mine if I let myself have them. Worse yet was the million worries of what losing them would do to me.

  6

  Maggie

  Angelique Carelli was a calculating woman. Twice she’d asked about my taking Mateo to the lake with the family on the Fourth since I returned to work after my bout of strep. She was a good woman. Kind. Sweet, but there was only so much patience left in her and I suspected she was still a little irritated that I’d, politely, turned down the clothes she’d picked out for Mateo.

  “Take it, it’s for the baby,” she’d said a week ago, holding out the brown bag to me. She almost dropped it when I kept my hands curled around my car’s door handle instead of reaching to take it.

  “You’re too good to us, Mrs. C., but I can’t take that. I’ve already bought Mateo his summer clothes. I’m sorry you went to all the trouble.”

  “It’s for your baby.” She’d stepped forward, motioning with the bag like my words meant nothing. “I insist.”

  “No ma’am. I can’t.”

  No one ever told the woman no. That much I’d gathered from all the tall tales my co-workers told me at the restaurant.

  Not her husband.

  Not her kids.

  Not a single employee or patron.

  Mrs. Carelli was simply a woman who got what she wanted when she wanted it.

  Me, a nobody waitress, the mother of the cutest baby who’d stolen everyone’s heart in the months we’d lived there, had been the one to break the unspoken Don’t-Tell-Mama-C.-No rule.

  I’d thought being sick and her sending soups and breads and her own personal doctor would have satisfied her, and likely done a lot to satisfy any insult I might have caused at turning down the clothes, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Ma holds a grudge,” Smoke had told me before he left my apartment two nights ago as Mateo slept on his chest. “Don’t think she’s forgotten you telling her no.”

  That, I reasoned, was cause enough to play nice and go in early for my shift today.

  Despite how generous the Carellis had been to us, and God knew Smoke had been extra generous lately, I couldn’t always lean on others. Despite my being sick, things were getting better. My finances were firmer now, and I could relax a bit more since this small town and these generous people had made us part of their family. I had to learn to be self-reliant. There was no great plan to rejecting Mrs. C.’s gift. And I’d been as polite as possible. But, if I was going to stand on my own two feet one day, I’d have to start small—by refusing the countless gifts Smoke’s family gave to me and my son. Toys, clothes, purses, cash, jewelry, it was all very sweet, very generous, but it was too much.

  Still, I wasn’t stupid, and I knew how crazy Mrs. C. was over my kid and I’d shamelessly used Mateo to smooth over any lingering hurt Mrs. C. might still feel, hoping spending time with him before Vi picked him up would put her in a good mood. She’d let me pass without an interrogation about why I’d refused her gifts, but I still spent most of my shift avoiding the kitchen when I could, sending my trainee Curtis in to grab the entrees while I made the drinks, just to keep our boss’s attention on him and not me.

  It had worked, and the day had been a good one—nice tips, friendly customers. Everything seemed great, in fact. The summer was turning out to be good for us all and my mood was up.

  Until that conference crowd ordered appetizers.

  “Hey, sweetheart, I’ve got a hankering for an order of thighs. Long juicy ones.”

  The guy was already drunk. I could make that out from the reek of beer coming off his breath as he leered at me. Curtis stood next to me and I hated that I felt more secure with him there, even though he was rail thin and awkward. He was tall and had a death glare that had the drunk asshole and his friends, quieting down.

  “Welcome to Carelli’s, gentlemen. This afternoon’s specials are…”

  “Focaccia bread and fresh mozzarella, please,” one man, likely the most sober of all the suit-wearing corporate types taking up the entire back of the restaurant, said. “And the strongest coffee you have. Start with this bastard.”

  “You’re no fun, Baker,” the drunk asshole said, throwing down his menu to glare at Baker.

  “We’re still on the clock, Phillips, and Reynolds will be here in fifteen minutes.” Baker straightened his tie and shot a look toward the door.

  Curtis returned with two coffee pots, handing me one, and we both began to fill the mugs, starting with the one in front of Phillips as Baker passed two creamers toward the man. I pulled my pad out again, scribbling down the order as Baker continued.

  “You better get as many coffees down your throat as you can. Reynolds sees you’re drunk, and he’ll send you back to Jersey. REN Cyper in Jersey is shipping, not tech. No fun in that shit.” The men around the table laughed, even Phillips who picked up the coffee and motioned for Curtis to pour him another one. When the guy called Baker glanced at me, his attention moving to the half-written order and my pen frozen over the pad, the smile on his full mouth shifted, then lowered. “Miss…”

  “I’ll…” I blinked, shoving a warm, friendly smile on my face, hoping like hell these men bought the act. “I’ll get that order placed for you.”

  REN Cyper. In the city? The tech department? And had that man said someone called Reynolds was coming in? It couldn’t be that Reynolds. There was no way.

  It had been almost two years since John Reynolds had made that offer to me. I hadn’t even known about the baby then. Back then I was just Alejandro’s wife, stupidly believing that her husband had the flu, yet again, and that he was partying to network, that Reynolds needed him to explain the tech to garner more clients. Not that Alejandro was an addict. Not that he was going through withdrawals because he’d been without a fix for more than two days.

  “I can help him,” Reynolds had admitted, laying Alejandro, who wasn’t nearly drunk enough to stave off his sickness, on the sofa. Reynolds taunted him. He leered at
me. “But it’ll cost you.” He licked his lips, his gaze running over my body. “Come on, beautiful. You’ll love it.”

  When the asshole pulled out a baggie and waved it in front of my husband, holding it just out of his reach, and Alejandro grabbed for it, it was then I realized what a mess he’d made of our lives.

  “Get out,” I told the man, stepping away from him when he moved closer.

  “Maggie…please,” Alejandro said, his voice thin, weak, like a fever had taken over him. I’d half-convinced myself that’s what happened. What he said next was too horrible to believe it could come from anyone in their right mind. “Please, just…give him…do whatever he wants…I need it.” He watched that small baggie as he spoke, staring at it like it was beautiful, like he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted me. “I have to have it.”

  “You okay?” Curtis said, stepping to my side when I jogged toward the breakroom instead of stopping to enter the table’s order into the computer. The man was tall, his young face without a line over his brown skin, but as he watched me, small lines appeared around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. “You don’t look so good. You feeling sick again?”

  “I…no…I’m…” What was I? Upset over some asshole who’d wanted to screw me in exchange for giving my husband some blow in what felt like a different life? The same asshole who had clearly worked his way up the corporate ladder and had his underlings worried about having a few beers at a conference. God, if they only knew…

  “Maggie, if you need me to put that order in…”

  “I don’t need…” But I couldn’t finish the thought.

  From where we stood near the back of the restaurant, I spotted Reynolds coming through the door. He walked inside with his cell at his ear and a stupid smirk on his narrow lips. He was pale with dull brown eyes and muddy dark hair that he wore too much product in, giving it an over-textured, piercing look. He was thinner than he had been the last time I saw him. His face gaunter, but he wore a more expensive suit and a Rolex peaked out from beneath the cuff of his designer sleeve.