by Sam Mariano
Besides, he’s Rafe’s cousin. Surely if anyone would have some insight, he would.
2
Laurel
The food on the grill sizzles, flames jumping beneath the wrought-iron rack. My brother-in-law reaches for the tongs, then sets about flipping over each slice of zucchini.
“Five minutes ago you hated food, now you’re so famished you gotta stand here and watch me cook?”
I tear my gaze from the food and look up at Vince. “I’m not here for the food; I’m here for the family time. Can’t a girl just enjoy her favorite brother-in-law’s company?”
He slides a dry look my way. “I’m your only brother-in-law.”
“Then you don’t have to worry about competition,” I point out.
“What do you want?” he asks, wily enough to see through me.
Damn, I was being so slick, too.
I smile faintly at my own joke before remembering the predicament I’m in. Dumbass girls who find themselves in dumbass situations like these can’t afford smiles. We get scarlet letters sewn onto our garments and waste away in the shame we’ve brought on our families.
Vince quirks an eyebrow since I still haven’t spoken.
I sigh. “All right. I have some questions.”
“All right,” he says, already tentative.
“Okay, so you know I’m a student of science,” I begin.
Nodding once, he says, “Chemistry, right?”
“Correct. And in preparation for my genetics class in the fall semester, I’m doing a summer workshop—online, just for extra credit.”
This is all bullshit, but I don’t expect him to question me. He surprises me by frowning. “I’m no scholar, but wouldn’t genetics fall under the umbrella of biology?”
“It’s science,” I say, waving him off. “I have to take a bunch of scientific classes, not just one type. There are technically chemistry courses that—just, never mind, that’s not important. But since it’s extra credit, the teacher has leeway on the project and she added a sociological component.”
I’m completely crossing schools now, but thankfully my sister’s husband did not attend college, and doesn’t question this oddity. “Okay.”
“There’s a hypothetical situation that I have to do a thorough report on, and I need a male perspective. I thought, ‘hey, Vince is a male.’”
“Thank you for noticing,” he deadpans.
“So, is this a good time to ask you a few questions? I might think of more later, I just want to ask some preliminary questions to start.”
“I guess so.” He nods his head at me, putting the tongs down and asking, “Where’s your little notebook?”
Damn. I always carry my little brown notebook with hearts on it to jot notes in, but I don’t have it with me. That slightly delegitimizes my already-poor story—I would need to take accurate notes—but Vince isn’t Carly, so I might slide by. “I’ll take notes later. Right now I’m asking very general idea stuff. The scenario is about reproduction.”
“Wonderful.”
“Okay, so assume hypothetically you got a girl pregnant. Not a girl you’re in a relationship with or anything, but someone who… lives far away. It was only a few days together, but you got her pregnant.”
His brown-eyed gaze darkens and his face turns to granite. It makes my stomach sink. Does he see through my bullshit? Does he know what I’m talking about? He doesn’t speak, so I’m not sure.
I continue on, but tentatively. “And there’s no realistic possibility of you and this far-away woman being together. You’re essentially worlds away from each other. It’s not like there’s any feasible scenario in which you would be raising a baby together. Even if she kept it, she would have to raise it without you.”
He passes a hand over his mouth and turns to look back at the house. After a second, he looks back at me. “Who have you been talking to? Carly tell you?”
“What? No, I told you, this is a hypothetical.”
“This is fucking specific for a generalized hypothetical, Laurel. Don’t bullshit me. Did Rafe say something to you?”
The mention of Rafe drains the color right out of my face. I’m tempted to tell him never mind, to run back into the house, but I’ve already made it this far into this uncomfortable conversation; I may as well push on until I get some answers.
“I told you, this is just a hypothetical for a class assignment. It has nothing to do with anyone we know. Now, pay attention to the scenario.”
He scowls, not appearing to trust me, but I plod on anyway.
“If you got this woman pregnant, would you want to know?”
“Yes,” he says, without hesitation.
I pause. “Well, wait. I mean, what if she wasn’t even—I mean… Okay, what if she didn’t plan to keep the pregnancy? Do you still think it would be unethical for her not to tell you?”
Now he sighs like I’m killing him. “Laurel, I don’t want to get into shit like this with you and your sister. Do you understand the kind of family I was brought up in? Traditional doesn’t begin to cover it.”
I nod my understanding. “Carly has explained they’re sexist assholes. I understand. Hypothetical Pregnant Chick is not asking permission or advice on what to do from you, the accidental donor of sperm. I’m trying to find out, from your perspective, just yours, Morelli brain and all… would you expect her to tell you? Would you be pissed off if she didn’t, and you somehow found out after the fact?”
“How does this have anything to do with genetics?”
“I told you there was a sociological component. Just answer my question.”
“If I got a woman pregnant, I would want to know. Regardless of the circumstances, I would be at least mildly annoyed to find out later that she was pregnant, went through it all without me, and didn’t even tell me. That would anger, sadden, and annoy the living fuck out of me. Hypothetically.” He adds that last part with more sarcasm than I thought a single word could hold, but I’m too busy processing his response to overthink it.
Since he is a Morelli male, he’s the closest to Rafe’s perspective as I can get. Probably his other cousin, the evil one, would have a closer opinion, but there’s no way I’d reach out to him. I try to envision sitting down at my laptop with some lemon tea and typing out an email to Mateo Morelli, asking him about his perspective for my bullshit assignment. The mere description of my assignment would be enough for him to realize I’m full of shit. I’d probably have Morellis crawling up and down Vince and Carly’s residential street the following morning when I woke up. Maybe Rafe on their doorstep with all his goons from the funeral spread out on the manicured lawn.
That would be bad.
Mostly bad.
Part of me wouldn’t hate seeing Rafe again, but probably not under those circumstances.
Consequently, even though it probably shouldn’t, Vince’s Morelli perspective gives birth to a spark of hope. “So, you would expect her to contact you? Even if you never planned to see each other again?”
“Yes.”
“And you would never be weirded out and think, why didn’t she take care of this without bothering me?”
“I’m not a dick, so no. I created the situation, didn’t I?”
“And what if she had no way of contacting you? And trying to get a phone number would be frankly dangerous?”
“Generalized scenario my ass,” he mutters, shaking his head and grabbing the tongs. “It was your sister’s fucking idea to keep this from you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he states.
I don’t, and it sounds like a headache that I don’t have time for right now. Patting him on the back, I say, “All right, thanks.”
He mutters to himself, but I ignore him and head back inside to see Carly. Personally, I don’t think I have any sort of ethical responsibility to tell the man I’m not even in a relationship with, despite his super sperm that somehow made it through the condom, but I know the Mo
relli men have ass backward attitudes in some regards. Rafe and I never got into that sort of thing. Our days together weren’t spent getting to know one another, they were just for fun. There was no reason to probe; we were never going to see one another again.
I should probably just tell Carly. She would counter Vince’s Morelli perspective with reason and I wouldn’t have these lingering thoughts. I wouldn’t even consider trying to reach out to Rafe. I’m not sure how I would. I could probably ask Vince’s sister, Cherie—I only met her briefly, but she’s the only Morelli I could contact without it getting back to Rafe. He and Mateo were clearly buddies. If I reached out to Mia, Mateo would know. He keeps his wife locked down like she’s the Hope diamond.
I don’t want regrets, though. I don’t want to feel guilty after the fact.
But why should I? We aren’t together. He melted me into a puddle by holding a baby, but I’m pretty sure he’s not yearning for any of his own—especially not with some girl he barely knows.
Maybe I’m trying to invent a reason to reach out. It’s an embarrassing possibility, even inside my own head, but maybe it’s less my conscience and more the memory of his kisses, the way his big, strong hands moved over my skin—the way he pulled me into his arms and the sparks that shot through my body. It was like I’d never been touched before and my body could hardly stand the sensations.
There’s a weight in my stomach that tells me it’s probably that. My perfect Easter fling was… well, perfect. Even if he wouldn’t care about the little problem he left in my womb, even if I could take care of it without bothering him, there’s a small part of me that would like to see him.
A small, stupid part.
The same small, stupid part that got her hand on the wheel over Easter break and thought a fling with a hot guy would be harmless fun.
Harmless fun, my ass.
I should have listened to Carly. I saw the waves that rocked her boat as she attempted to hold the wheel steady, navigating the rough waters of the Morelli family. She tried to warn me there was no such thing as safe, simple fun with them.
That was part of the fun of it, though. I walk the path of the straight and narrow, never even pausing to smell the flowers. A few days with a dangerous, sexy man seemed exhilarating.
It was.
It just also fucked up my life for a minute.
Well, all I can do now is right the wrong. I’ll ask Carly for some money, tell her I need it for textbooks or something. I can’t undo the damage that’s already been done, but I can fix it and move on with my life. That’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
Rafe Morelli may have wrecked my day, but I’m not going to let him wreck my life.
3
Rafe
There’s something deeply entertaining about watching a grown man sweat. Men who have been alive twice as long as you, who have had enough time to learn the ropes—men who, by all rights, should have the wisdom and maturity not to get themselves in a bad situation. Failing that, they should scrape up enough sense not to come to someone like me to help them out with their problems. A scorpion will never help an insect, but if they want to be his next meal, he won’t turn them away.
Some men are fools.
I like those men.
No, that’s wrong. I don’t like them, but I do like putting the screws to them and watching them sweat.
Pour me some cognac and pass the popcorn; my ass is entertained.
The potbellied, double-chinned man who sits in the chair in front of me is sweating. Edmund Carmichael. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t come myself—not now. Not with Ben dead. I used to fuck Cassandra Carmichael, though—not just on a casual basis, she was my girlfriend for a while. Because I’m one hell of an ex, I showed up myself to remind her father of the money he owes me.
Most men, I would have just sent Sin to break an arm or take a couple nonessential fingers.
I’ll be charging extra for the consideration, obviously.
Carmichael can’t hold his hand steady as he waves, trying to get the attention of a cocktail waitress. That this man is in his own club and unable to command his own employee’s attention tells me all I really need to know about him. Cassandra was supposed to take over ownership of this place, that’s why I made the loan to begin with. Old man Carmichael has always been useless, but Cassandra has a good head on her shoulders. Shrewd, able to turn the tides in her favor. Cassandra would’ve made sure her debt was paid.
The waitress finally looks his way, but she appears to be busy with something else and walks away instead of coming over to him.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he mutters, irritably, pushing up off the chair.
I hold up a hand to halt him. “Don’t worry about the drinks. I’m not here for drinks, Edmund.”
“No, I know, of course you’re not.” He shakes his head, his bulbous cheeks jiggling. I manage to stifle a grimace, but it’s a Herculean effort. Cassandra clearly got her looks from her mother and the pool boy she must have been fucking at the time. “I just wanted to give Cassandra a little extra time to get here—I don’t know what’s keeping her.”
“She was never punctual,” I state. “Now, regarding the matter of your past due debt, obviously there’ll be a penalty for your late repayment. I would really hate for it to seem like you don’t respect me, like I’m some kind of charitable asshole who gives away his money and doesn’t enforce a deadline. That would be… unwise, given my new position, don’t you think?”
“I would never—No one would ever think such a thing, Rafe. You’re like a son to me.”
I smile, but there’s no humor in it. It’s not a good move to keep reminding me of my relationship with his daughter, given the way she ended things, but for some reason this dim old man keeps playing that card.
He sweats a little more. “I always had hopes you and Cassandra would patch things up, you know. Before all this, when Ben was in charge, even. She really cared for you.”
“You know what I’m starting to think, Edmund? I’m starting to think you don’t have my money. I’m starting to think you’re under the false impression that my prior involvement with your daughter is going to buy you more good will than it’ll buy you, and I’m thinking maybe you and me are going to have a problem.”
“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “We don’t have a problem.”
“Then you have my money.”
“I don’t, but it’s the craziest—you wouldn’t believe what happened—”
I hold up a hand. “Let me stop you right there. You’re right, I wouldn’t believe it.” I push up off the chair and Sin steps forward, emerging from the shadows he melted into a few minutes ago. His cold, empty eyes zero in on Edmund and the older man looks between us, jowls jiggling, forehead perspiring.
“Rafe—”
“Here’s what I’m going to do for you,” I tell him. “I’m going to give you 24 hours. If you have the money—and an extra five percent, for my troubles—then we can call it square. If, on the other hand, you do not have my money, I’m going to start feeling like our friendship has been taken for granted, my good will taken advantage of. Disappoint me, Edmund, and you’ll see how quickly my friendship can disappear.”
Fear flickers in the old man’s wide-set eyes—the same fear he must have been experiencing when he was out of money and turned to me as his last hope. A question tickles at the back of my mind, but I try to ignore it. Cassandra Carmicheal’s problems aren’t mine, so her father’s sure as hell aren’t.
If he wanted to appeal to someone for money, he should’ve asked the dirty fucking Russian asshole she left me for. He came to me instead. So that must be over.
I haven’t been keeping tabs. Intentionally. I kept tabs too closely when she first left and it was torture. I buried her memory under a mountain of anonymous pussy and eventually got my head right.
I’m not cracking open that Pandora’s Box. I’m not asking those questions. I shouldn’t have given the bastard money in
the first place. That was a mistake.
“You and Cassandra should go out,” he blurts, trying and failing for a slick way to make the suggestion. “She’s been thinking about you a lot lately.”
“Well, I haven’t been thinking about her,” I inform him. “I came here today as a courtesy, but you’ve seen the extent of my graciousness. I don’t accept payment in pussy, not even your daughter’s, so I suggest you find a way to come up with the cash.” I stand, smile, and offer my hand. “Sound good?”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, dread written all over his face as he shakes my hand. He nods anyway, though. He knows that’s the only correct response.
My business with Edmund Carmichael concluded for the day, I drop his hand and head for the door. My men sidle up behind me, all except for Sin, who falls into step beside me.
“Don’t say it,” I tell him.
“Say what?” he asks blandly.
“I shouldn’t have lent Carmichael the money. I already know that.”
“I’m glad you already know that,” he responds, easily. “I wish you had already known that when you said you were going to do it and I tried my damnedest to talk you out of it, but I’m glad you know it now.”
I slide him a dry look, but he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s watching the waitress who ignored us the whole time we were here. We don’t ordinarily come to Carmichael’s club and I haven’t been in my position long, but we’re not used to being ignored. Sin draws his wallet out. I don’t realize what he’s doing until he crosses in front of me and pecks her on the shoulder.
The girl turns back, brushing a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear. Poor thing looks frazzled. Then baffled, as Sin holds out a twenty dollar bill.
“What’s this for?” she asks him.
“The incredible service,” he states, dryly.
She blinks, unsure whether or not she’s just been insulted.
Sin doesn’t wait for her to figure it out. He hands her the twenty and leaves her standing there, confused as all hell, while an annoyed customer waits for her attention back.