“Alright,” he answers. “Got a few people mad at me because I refuse to make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” I ask, my ears perking up. Because this is the kind of information I’m supposed to be rooting around for—not wondering about the identity (or identities) of whoever’s been servicing him in bed these last couple of months.
“It’s kind of hard to explain. Guess you could say, I’m looking to expand certain sectors of our family business, but not necessarily within these shores or with the same people my father partnered with back when he was in charge,” he answers.
In the same coded tone, I can’t help but note, that he uses when he and Rock talk business before what I’ve come to think of as the pre-dinner Naima-Luca exchange program.
“I’ve got a vision for the Ferraro brand, and I’m only interested in partners who are on the same page. That means, I’m trying to make new friends these days, but our old friends keep on calling with requests and expectations that don’t fit with the family’s new direction.
“Which means you always have to think of new and inventive ways to say no, politely,” I guess.
“Exactly.” He lets out a tired sounding exhale. “Also, things could get messy if I keep telling these particular old friends no—even if I say it nicely.”
“So…not exactly an eight to five day like CalMart,” I note with a dry smile.
“Nope,” he answers with an even dryer laugh.
And maybe that conversation could have petered out there, but after a few more bites of fish, I find myself saying, “I get why you don’t want to do the same kind of business with your father’s old friends, but what’s keeping them from doing the same kind of business with your father instead?”
“He’s retired,” Luca answers. “And technically, he never wanted the job in the first place.”
“Because your uncle was originally slated to take over the Ferraro Family,” I add, remembering what Naima told me the day I received the phone.
“Exactly.”
“Hmm…” I say, tilting my head with an idea.
“What?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I was just thinking about how half the lawyers working full time at Legal Aid are technically ‘retired.’ A lot of them start volunteering before they’re even a year into retirement. And you should see what happens when I call a truly retired lawyer to get some insight on a current ADA case, similar to one they filed back in the day. Most of them will talk my ear off, a few of them offer to come into my office to assist, and all the others who don’t fit into that category are dead.”
I throw Luca a wry smile. “From what I can tell, retirement gets really boring really quick. Maybe not for your father, but you might try calling him. See if he’s willing to handle all the business you don’t want to take on yourself.”
“Hmm,” he says, the sound short and muffled as he chews a mouth full of food.
“I mean, not that I should be giving you advice. You’re the head of the Ferraro Family, and I’m just someone who doesn’t know much about your world,” I quickly amend, wondering if I’ve stepped into some kind of weird ego minefield by telling Luca how I think he should run his business.
“No, actually, that’s excellent advice. Just kind of stunned you’d give it to me. You know, the worthless scum who’s holding you prisoner.”
I tense at the callback to the elephant in the room, the one we’ve been tiptoeing around ever since we agreed to play nice a month ago.
But then he says, “It’s starting to feel like we’re actually friends now. Guess you were serious about wanting us to be something new.”
“Yes, friends,” I agree. “That’s what we are.”
Friends might actually be the best angle for me to play, I realize at that moment. Forget the Mata Hari stuff. I should develop the friendship. Try to get him to trust me the way he does Holt and Zahir.
“Okay. Thanks for the good advice, friend,” he says as if to confirm my new tactic.
I should answer, “You’re welcome.” Blush and demure like I’m pleased as punch to be nothing more than a friend who cooks his meals, grows his baby, and wants nothing more in life than to provide a sounding board for his work problems. I should listen even more attentively and be agreeable, even if I’m seething inside. That’s the way to get him to tell me more than vague stories about his business dealings and partners.
But when I open my mouth to acknowledge his thank you, the words “So, as your friend, is there a girlfriend I should know about?” come out instead.
8
Gotta Be This Or That
All sounds of eating come to an abrupt stop on Luca’s side of the table.
“Why are you asking me this?” he says, after a long stretch of excruciating silence.
Tossing the ball back in my court, for a match I didn’t mean to start.
“You can do what you want. I mean, obviously. You’re the don,” I answer, awkwardly backpedaling to return to Amber, the cool friend. “I just noticed it’s been taking you an even longer time than usual to come up to bed after dinner. And I wanted to know if you have a girlfriend you’re visiting during that time so that I don’t get ambushed one day. You probably don’t think that could happen but, believe me, I’ve handled too many divorce cases that started with a bitter mistress getting angry at the wife instead of her lover—not that I’m your wife. I just want to know if there’s someone I should be watching out for because I like to be prepared.”
“You just want to know if I have a girlfriend I’m visiting after dinner so you can be prepared,” he repeats, and I don’t need more than my sense of hearing to clearly perceive his disbelief.
“Yes, I like to be prepared,” I answer, nonetheless, clinging to my story.
“Prepared, because why? You think the girlfriend I’ve got stashed away somewhere is going to jump you as soon as I let you out of this apartment?”
I open my mouth. Close it. “Okay, when you say it that way, it sounds a lot less logical than it did in my mind,” I admit on a grumble.
“Yeah, what you’re asking me doesn’t even approach logical, because I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh?” I say, struggling and most likely failing to keep a look of surprise off my face.
“I’m more of a one-night-stand guy,” he finishes before I can get too happy about his no girlfriend announcement. “So, you don’t have to worry about some mistress jumping out at you. I’m not your dad.”
Not my dad…
I could just let it go. Should let it go. No further questions, your honor, then regroup to figure out how to get us back on the friends and confidantes track.
I mean…sure I’ve been horny lately. Especially late at night while pretending to be asleep just a few feet away from a man whose touch used to set my body on fire. But that’s just the pregnancy hormones. Probably the same ones that introduced this conversational topic in the first place, tugging on the Somethin’ Stupid magnet extra hard.
Yes…pregnancy hormones. That’s got to be it. I’m just going to change the subject—
“So you’re sleeping with not one woman but a bunch of them?” those fatal pregnancy hormones ask before my good sense can follow through on the subject change.
More silence. No rustling. No fork clinks. And I know Luca must be staring at me from the other side of the table. Hard.
But then he says. “No. I’m not sleeping with a bunch of other women, Amber.”
“Oh.” A new realization sinks in, churning inside my chest, and I rub a hand over my extended belly. “So, you haven’t tried to do anything with me, because I’m not attractive to you anymore.”
A statement. Not a question. Because the explanation for his sexual disinterest is now so, evident. Oh God, how could I have been so stupid as to even start this conversation? Luca’s overvalued my looks from the very start of our relationship. Of course, the poster child for brohood is not going to want to bang someone with a basketball in her tummy.
Across the table, I hear rustling. Him shifting in his seat? And then he mumbles, “Sorry.”
“No, I get it,” I assure him, rising to my feet. I fumble for something to do and land on the dishes. “You know what, I’ve got the dishes tonight. You go to the gym. Get in your workout or whatever.”
“Amber put your plate down.”
“No, seriously, it’s cool,” I say, gathering up his plate, too.
“Amber, give me the plates.”
“Really, I’ve got it.”
But before I can get around the table a tug of war ensues, one Luca easily wins.
“Look, just let me do the dishes after I explain why I said sorry,” he says as he forcefully pulls the plates out of my hands.
“You don’t have to explain anything. I get it, and I don’t need any further explanations.”
“So you know I said sorry because I pulled my phone out at the table.”
My shoulder’s lower, some of the self-righteousness leaking out of me as I quietly admit. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“That’s a huge don’t ever at my old house. If my mom had been here, she would have slapped me upside the head. But I had to send a text.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well, I don’t really care about stuff like that, so you’re absolved of your texting at the table sin or whatever.”
“You sure about that, friend?” His voice sounds smug like he’s grinning over my poorly disguised fit of jealousy.
“Totally,” I answer between gritted teeth. “And you know what, I will let you take care of the dishes. I’m going upstairs.”
“Good idea,” he answers.
Like he’s just as excited to end this awkward conversation as I am.
Then he takes my shoulders in his hands and turns me around, reorienting me. “Stairs straight in front of you, friend.”
Wow. Dismissed much?
I awkwardly make the walk of rejected shame to the stairs. If I could, I’d take them three at a time. But the only thing more embarrassing than being told you’re no longer sexually attractive to your ex-husband is falling flat on your face while trying to run blind up a set of winding stairs. So much for a dramatic exit. Instead, I hold on to the handlebar and force myself to slowly begin the climb.
However, halfway up I hear footsteps behind me. Luca?
“Keep going, friend,” he says as if answering my silent question. “Don’t stop until you get to the bedroom.”
Even though I’m seriously confused, I do as he says, wanting to get away from him more than I want answers about why he’s following me. However, his footsteps continue to fall behind me, up the stairs, through the open door, across the sitting room, and into the bedroom. In fact, the sound of his heavier footfall doesn’t stop until I’m nearly at the bathroom door.
“Are you going to bed now, too?” I ask.
“Yeah, but you go through your nighttime routine, whatever you do these days before you go to bed. I’ll stay out of your way, friend.”
What the…?
But I don’t protest. Happy to get out of the same room with him at least, I escape into the bathroom. Floss my teeth, brush and wash my face before putting on toner and night cream.
What I do these days is the same as what I did when we were together, just with a higher end night cream. All the boring stuff. But not so boring tonight, because I can feel Luca’s presence in the next room.
“All done, friend?” he asks when I come out. The direction of his voice is now coming from the bed.
“Almost,” I answer, going over to the chest of drawers to fish out one of the five new pajama sets I requested my second day in captivity. Back when I thought there was a chance of Luca trying to make moves on me.
I can feel his eyes on me, all the way there, and it makes me feel like a lumbering elephant as I move across the floor. No way am I changing in front of him, so I guess I’ll have to head back to the bathroom.
I bend down to the bottom drawer, but before I can touch the handle, Luca says, “You won’t be needing pajamas tonight.”
9
This Is No Dream
I rise back to a full standing position, a sudden rush of adrenaline flooding my entire body and leaving it tingling all over.
“C’mere, Ambs.”
Ambs…
His old nickname for me. But I can only stand there, trapped inside my tingling body. Not understanding. Not knowing what to do.
And he says, “I’m trying to be a gentleman here, but if you make me come to you, there’s a good chance we won’t be making it all the way back to the bed.”
I still don’t understand. I still don’t know what to do. But like a thing compelled, my legs start moving in the direction of his voice.
He’s closer than I thought. Not all the way in bed but sitting on the very end of it. I discover his location when his arm catches me around the waist and positions me between his legs.
I’m standing, and he’s sitting, but we’re close now. Closer than we’ve been since he brought me to his place. Closer than we’ve been while lying in bed even. I can hear him breathing.
Is this it? I wonder. My opportunity to get closer to him in the oldest way known between man and double agent? Is this the sex that will level me up from dinner partner to bedroom confidante? Maybe…
But he just sits there, his large hands warm and splayed on either side of my waist.
“What are you…? What are you doing?” I ask.
“Trying to get a hold of myself,” he answers. “I don’t want to hurt you or the baby.”
My mouth drops open, but before I can get my voice back for the counter, he says, “You asked me a lot of questions downstairs, but not the right ones. You should’ve asked me when I had sex last.”
I shake my head. Because I’m not going to ask him that. Of course, I’m not going to—
“It was six months ago, with you in the back of that car,” he answers, nonetheless.
Shock fireworks inside my cynical heart. Pure and bright. Capsizing my mind into a sea of confusion…and relief…but mostly confusion.
“And that text I had to send—the one I apologized for, it was to Rock. I told him to take Naima back to his place tonight. You got anything to say about that?”
Oh…a question…for me. I somehow surface from the tossing sea of my mind to answer, “No, I…”
“Good,” he says, saving me the continued struggle for words.
His hands come up to the top of my drape-front jersey maxi dress. One of several that Naima bought for me last month because they’re stretchy enough for maternity with a wide V-neckline, which will make them an easy wardrobe conversion option for nursing once the baby is here.
Luca proves Naima right in the next moment by pulling the V wide and lodging the neckline underneath my bra.
“Four prong closure in the front. Never seen that before.” I can feel the heat of his breath on the swell of my breasts as he murmurs the words.
“I can do it,” I offer on a shaky breath, my old independent streak flaring as I bring my hands up.
Only to have him knock them away. “Don’t rush me….” He brings his hands up and begins undoing the eyelet closures one by one.
I clench below, remembering the sex we used to have… both in and out of my dreams. And warmth pools between my legs as he takes his sweet time.
I want to rush him. Oh God…. Anticipation shivers through me, remembering how good it used to feel—how good it could feel—when he finally stopped teasing me and gave me what I wanted. What, heaven help me, I still want as I stand there in helpless thrall until eventually, he reaches the last eyelet.
My breasts spill out and…nothing.
He sits there, letting me stew in the exposure until I can’t take it anymore and my hands come up to cover myself.
Only to get pushed right back down.
“Unh-uh, Ambs. I want to look at this body I supposedly don’t want,” he tells me, his voice level as a docto
r, performing a necessary examination.
“Your breasts are a lot bigger now,” he observes coolly.
Yes, they are. I squirm under his emotionless critique.
But if he’s noticing my self-consciousness, I can’t tell from his voice.
“Your areolas are a lot darker. Not like caramel anymore. More like coffee,” he continues on with the same scientific reserve. “And your nipples are hard. You cold, Amber?”
I nod, like “yes, of course, that’s the reason for my reaction to this exam,” and ignore the clench of my pussy below the long skirt of my dress. I can act cool, I tell myself. Just like him.
But then his large hands find my tender breasts and massage them with just enough pressure to make a strange dual sensation of both surprise and relief ripple through me. It’s as if my breasts didn’t realize they were aching until Luca touched them just right.
I moan, head falling forward, and forget clenching. The warmth between my legs becomes a full-on drip, and I bite into my lower lip, wondering if I’ll come just from the sensation of Luca massaging my breasts. It doesn’t feel outside the realm of possibility. It really doesn’t.
I’m close, so close. But then Luca stops, his hands falling away abruptly and resettling on my waist.
“Luca, no…” I moan because he’s being so mean.
But with a sudden surge, he stands up. “No, I’m going to finish looking at you,” he answers, his voice cruel with reserve. Then he fists the jersey material and pulls it up and over my head, somehow managing to pull the open bra off, too.
There comes the soft rustle thump of my clothes hitting the ground, and I find myself only one thin pair of cotton underwear away from the state of entirely naked.
And then…nothing. This time, I try not to feel self-conscious. Try to just play his game. But the silence stretches on between us for so long, my mind starts making up stories.
Maybe he got excited by my much larger breasts but shriveled at the sight of my huge stomach. All my mother’s bitter complaints about what childbirth did to her formerly perfect body come rushing back to me, and soon I’m considering a dash to the bathroom.
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