Point of Submission

by Remy Landon

  “Tell me more about this girl,” Brock said, biting into his beer bread sandwich. “When you called the other night, you didn't give me many details.”

  “I wanted to sit on it a while. To be sure.”

  “And...?”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Excellent. How many contacts have there been?”

  “Just the two—last week and tonight.”

  Brock grinned, raising his beer glass. “Got to compliment you on your timing, buddy—I found mine five days ago and didn't want to wait too much longer.”

  “Cassandra was very unexpected—the stable was probably the last place I thought I'd find a suitable woman.”

  “You and I could have our pick here.” Brock looked around the packed pub. “Not that finding one is a guarantee, but bars are havens for needy women.”

  “And needy men.”

  “Ha! Very true. It's much more challenging to have bars off-limits. So...official start tomorrow?”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “I like your enthusiasm. Tonight it is, although I won't see mine until my meeting with her next week. I don't mind giving you a head start. You may need it—I'm on a roll.” Brock winked.

  “What was this one again? Bank manager?”

  “Financial planner. Very cool, self-assured. Wouldn't even flirt. But I caught her looking at my package when I stood up...she got quite red in the face when we made eye contact. So there's definite potential.”

  “It's your turn to decide on the prize, correct?”

  “Hmmm...” Brock paused. “What are your thoughts on boats?”

  “Just got one for the house in Maine. I'm good.”

  “All right...I'm still in transportation mode. How about a bike? I've had my eye on the new Erik Buell 1190 RS. I'll show you a picture.” Brock picked up his phone, scrolled through his photos and handed the phone to Carlo. “Here. Hundred seventy-five horsepower...it's got some balls. One sweet ride. Around $40K.”

  Carlo felt his jaw clench. Could Brock really be that forgetful, or was he just that insensitive?

  His silence prompted Brock to look up. And then, the realization. “Ah, shit—totally forgot. I'm sorry, friend. Should have known better.”

  “Moving on.”

  “Yes. Let me find something else.” Brock hastily returned to his phone. After a series of taps, he turned the screen to Carlo. “What do you think of this?”

  Carlo scanned the picture and description. Patek Phillipe watch with a platinum case, black leather strap and a midnight blue face, just over fifty thousand. Classic, elegant. Brockton Dall could always be counted on for his good taste.

  “I like it. I'm in.”

  Brock laughed richly. “I'm not planning on you getting it, my friend...I fully intend to win. Again. Besides, we both know it's not about the prize, anyway. It's about the game.”

  “Very true.”

  “To the game, then.” Brock raised his beer glass, and Carlo did the same. “We also need to discuss the final display—if we want to make any changes. The last one was a bit tame for my liking. I'm thinking of using more toys.”

  “Always wanting more, Dall, aren't you?” Carlo shook his head and grinned.

  “Always.”

  Carlo checked his watch. 9:25. “We'll have to discuss that later...I need to make a phone call.”

  “Big plans?”

  “Could be. Thanks for the beer. I'll see you Monday.” Walking out of the pub, Carlo felt a sudden surge of adrenaline at the thought of the new challenge—and of the woman in it.

  chapter seven ~ Cassandra

  Fifteen minutes. That was all that stood between Cassandra and freedom. Closing had, mercifully, come sooner than she'd anticipated—she had vacuumed the red room and put up the stools. She'd made it through the hectic shift relatively unscathed, except for a small, oily stain on her apron from salad dressing. Now she only needed to slice some pies for the next day, and then she could go home...watch a little Netflix with her close friends Jar of Nutella and Spoon. Maybe she'd invite a couple of Smirnoffs. She was actually looking forward to some quiet alone time so she could gather herself and put everything back in perspective.

  Carlo had stayed at the restaurant a while after finishing his meal. She had been shocked to find that he'd left her a $100 and a $50 bill tucked under his plate with a note on his napkin: Thank you for the stellar service and the stimulating conversation. Please thank Allison as well with the $50. ~C.

  Cassandra had ended up giving Allison the hundred; she wasn't about to let Carlo dictate what she should do, and besides, Allison was supposed to have waited on him.

  Because the curiosity was killing her, Cassandra had asked him (as nonchalantly as she could) how he'd found her other workplace. Carlo had simply shaken his head and smiled, responding that he'd rather keep her guessing, and that it was to one's advantage to keep a sparring partner off-balance.

  Cassandra's look of confused indignation had made him laugh. “I hope that one day, you'll be more than just a sparring partner, Cassandra,” he had added. His earnest tone had surprised her.

  She'd casually asked Allison, as they were waiting in the kitchen for their orders, how old she thought Carlo was.

  “Mmm...mid to late twenties? Hard to tell. How do you know him, anyway?”

  “I don't really know him...I met him at the stable last week. It was weird—he just showed up.”

  “And he just 'shows up' here, and asks for you? Sounds like some cosmic forces at work here. At the very least, he's into you.”

  Cassandra had waved off Allison's comments. “It doesn't matter. I don't want to get involved.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seriously. I don't. I'm good with things the way they are.”

  Allison had taken her arm then, her voice gentle. “Don't push every guy away just because you got burned. There are good ones out there.”

  “Yeah, but it's more than just me getting burned a couple of times. I grew up with it. It was like a lifestyle. And I took a chance with Dylan, was totally into him—pretty sure I loved him—and he screwed me over. I'm sorry, but I don't believe in unicorns and rainbows and sugary-sweet happy endings. Plus, how can you even defend anyone with a penis after Jeff just walked out on you?”

  Allison's eyes had been misty and bright. “Because I still believe in the sugary-sweet happy ending. And I want it.”

  Cassandra contemplated this again as she slid the last piece of chocolate cream pie into the display case. She couldn't deny, even to herself, that she was attracted to Carlo—despite the dangerous vibe she got from him. Or maybe it was because of it.

  She shook off her thoughts as she turned out the lights. It was always a bit eerie being the last one in the restaurant late at night, especially with the night noises—the hum of the coolers and the ancient air conditioner, the occasional sounds of the building settling. Outside, the night was still and warm with stars scattered across the sky, the moon a softly-glowing pearl. Cassandra fished in her purse for her keys as she walked out of the restaurant and into the dark parking lot. She had gotten a text from Ingrid that said she didn't have to be at Windswept until noon. Sleeping in tomorrow would be a definite bonus.

  She could hear faint music pulsing from Nocturnem, the bluesy dive bar down the street. Teal's new bf was playing there tonight, so she would undoubtedly be in the audience. For a fleeting moment, Cassandra contemplated heading over, but then remembered she hadn't left a change of clothes in the car as she often did.

  She shifted the strap of her purse on her shoulder at the exact second she felt fingers closing on her arm. Instinctively, she pulled the purse tightly to her side, her heart beating wildly. Was she being mugged? She was whirled around to face the person who had grabbed her.

  It was Blond Goatee. His mouth was twisted with anger, and he reeked of alcohol. “Thought you'd get away with it, huh?”

  Cassandra decided to play dumb. “Get away with what?”

  “You kno
w what I mean,” he scoffed, his voice ragged and breathy. “Dumping the fucking pitcher. I knew it wasn't no accident, cupcake—the whole table knew it.”

  “I have no idea what you're talking about,” Cassandra replied innocently. “It just slipped out of my hands. Kind of like the comment just slipped out of your mouth when you humiliated my friend. Let go of my arm.”

  He was glowering. “Listen, you little bitch—” His fingers sank deeper into her arm and she used her free hand to shove him back.

  The sound of a car door slamming, and then someone calling her name.

  Cassandra's jaw dropped at the sight of Carlo, standing beside a polished black Mercedes convertible with his hands on his hips. “What seems to be the problem?” His tone was cool, even, but the muscles along his cheekbone were tight with tension.

  Blond Goatee narrowed his eyes, still holding onto Cassandra's arm. “There's no problem. Just having a little discussion here with my waitress.”

  “She's no longer your waitress. I believe the pub is closed. I suggest you let go of her.”

  “And I suggest you mind your own fucking business.” Blond Goatee was sneering.

  Carlo moved with quick agility to stand beside them, grabbing fistfuls of Goatee's uniform and shoving him against the red pickup behind him.

  Goatee's eyes widened. “Hey...hey...buddy—no need to get all up in my face. I was just having a conversation with her.”

  “And now you're done.” Carlo's lip curled. “You're drunk. I suggest you head down to Crider's, get a cup of coffee and sober up before you go home.” His tone turned almost pleasant. “You should plan on staying away from her. I know people. People who wouldn't hesitate to beat the shit out of you on my behalf. Do you understand me, buddy?” He tightened his grip on the shirt.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure I do.” Blond Goatee was nodding in earnest. Cassandra rubbed her arm where his fingers had been. It hadn't occurred to her to be afraid, but she was grateful Carlo had shown up when he did, because a redneck wannabe-jock mixed with alcohol was a risky concoction.

  Satisfied, Carlo released his hold on Goatee who hastily stumbled off. He turned his attention to Cassandra, his eyes traveling anxiously over her face. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. Just a little excitement to end the evening.”

  “You must have been scared.”

  “I was actually too pissed to be scared. I think he's basically harmless—just a mean drunk.”

  “You're probably right, but I'm glad I showed up when I did. I take it this was the customer you had a problem with?”

  “Yes. I dumped a pitcher on him. Accidentally, of course.” She felt herself blush, grateful he wouldn't be able to tell in the dim streetlight. “How did you happen to...were you waiting for me?”

  He stared down at her, grinning. There was a shadow slanting across part of his face, but she could see his dimple. “I met a business colleague for a drink in Lititz and came to the conclusion I hadn't seen enough of you. So I called Tucker's and asked what time you were done your shift.”

  A young couple walked through the parking lot, the man's arm casually slung across the woman's shoulders. She was leaning her head into him, and as they walked past Carlo and Cassandra, they kissed. Cassandra felt something uncurl inside herself.

  “So.” Carlo folded his arms across his chest. His biceps were well-defined, and Cassandra fought the idea once again of how it might feel to be held by him.

  “So. I guess I should head home before more trouble finds me.”

  “Will you be all right?

  “Yes. I am always all right.”

  “You have this beautiful, delicate exterior, and yet on the inside, you're tough as nails. It's a very intriguing combination.” He paused. “I have a feeling you would have handled him yourself just fine if I hadn't shown up.”

  “I'm glad you did show up. Like I said, I think he's harmless, but I've been wrong before.”

  “Have you?

  “Oh, yes. My instincts have failed me.”

  “And what are your instincts telling you about me?”

  To run. But I can't decide if it's to run away from you, or into your arms.

  Carlo was looking at her mouth, his own lips parted slightly. She hardly knew him, and already he had the uncanny ability of making her feel like he was studying every hair on her head, every pore of her skin—as if he was looking not only at her, but through her.

  “No comment.”

  His eyes were earnest and searching. “I'm sorry to hear you've been let down before. I hope that doesn't make you leery of new relationships. And by new relationships, I'm referring to the one I'd like to start with you.”

  How was she supposed to respond to that? Cassandra's mouth opened slightly, but words escaped her. This whole night—from the moment she'd been surprised by Carlo sitting in the pub, to her spilling beer on Blond Goatee, to this unexpected scenario of being grabbed by one man and rescued by another—had been unsettling. She would need to talk to Teal about it, although she knew full well her friend would focus only on Carlo being her hero. Right now, though, Cassandra just wanted to get back to the safety and familiarity of her apartment and crawl in bed.

  “I—I need to go home,” she murmured. “I'm really tired.”

  “Of course. Even though it's been a strange night, I'm glad I got to see you.”

  “Thank you. It's been...interesting. I have to say, your persistence is impressive.”

  Carlo walked her to her car and waited as she got inside. “You're sure you're all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I have other qualities besides persistence, Cassandra. When you get to know me, you'll see them.”

  She watched Carlo walk toward his gleaming car, well aware that instead of “if,” he had said when.

  chapter eight ~ Carlo

  Carlo settled comfortably into his black Bugatti sofa with a martini, his laptop and his phone, reflecting on the events of the evening. It was only a ten minute drive home from downtown Manheim to his house in Lititz, but in those ten minutes he had already envisioned his first physical encounter with Cassandra. Even just standing in the parking lot with her under those circumstances, he found himself filling with desire and with the need to protect her. It had taken every ounce of restraint he had not to beat the shit out of that redneck brute for accosting her, but Carlo certainly didn't need an assault charge, and he had a feeling Cassandra would not have approved of any physical violence, even on her behalf.

  There was definitely a fresh, innocent quality about her, but there was also something else in her eyes—a wariness. What was it she had said? My instincts have failed me. So she had been wronged before, most likely hurt. He would have to be cautious. Baby steps.

  Carlo shifted on the couch, the leather creaking in mild protest. He'd yet to meet a woman without issues; in the dating world, everyone had baggage of some sort. Even him.

  He chided himself. He really wasn't going to be dating Cassandra—he'd need to remind himself of that. If Brockton Dall knew he was pondering Cassandra's psyche for any reason other than to progress in the contest, he'd never let him live it down. Although he and Brock had a great deal in common, as long as Carlo had known Brock¸ he had never heard of the man being emotionally intimate with anyone. But then again, it was infinitely safer that way.

  He sipped the last of his martini and set the glass on the end table. He was feeling drowsy and hoped he could get more than a few hours of sleep, but with the alcohol he'd consumed tonight, he'd most likely wake up repeatedly. Insomnia had become his unwelcome partner for the past few years, and it didn't seem to want to leave him. He'd weaned himself off the sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed, since the bizarre dreams that accompanied them negated any positive effect. His routine of rigorous exercise helped—somewhat. It was when he was alone like this, late at night in the heavy stillness of his house, that his mind became restless, his thoughts loud and scattered, like marbles on a
tile floor.

  He chased the thought of his mother first. Tomorrow would have been Paolo's fifty-second birthday. Gianna would have driven home, and the two of them would have taken their mother to Massimo's Cucina Italiana (the only Italian restaurant she didn't scoff at) for the Fruta di Mare family platter they all loved, with homemade gelato for dessert. And Scott would have been there, too. Carlo may have been a man of logic, but he was firmly convinced his stepfather had passed away of a broken heart the year following Paolo's death. The love they had shared...it was warm and real and vibrant, the kind of love people find only once in a lifetime. The kind that renders your heart frozen when you lose it. But you learn to live with this, because feeling numb is immensely better than feeling pain...because a cold, rigid heart is impenetrable, and safe.

  Enough. Carlo gave himself a harsh mental shake. All of this brooding was pointless bullshit. When the road of life became bumpy, the weak and ignorant were the ones who kept riding the same path, searching for the smoothness that would never come. It was the savvy survivors who quickly learned to get the fuck off and blaze a new trail. Or many new trails.

  Cassandra was one trail he was eager to explore. Even if he hadn't met her at the stable, their paths may have crossed one day at Tucker's, although Carlo didn't usually eat in Manheim. As much as Cassandra had tried to hide it, she had clearly been flustered with his flirting at the restaurant. Carlo closed his eyes, bringing forth the image of Cassandra self-consciously tucking stray wisps of hair behind her ear, her face coloring. He wanted to slide that elastic from her ponytail, put his fingers up under her hair and fan it across her bare shoulders...then run his hands down the front of her, listen to her sharp intake of breath as his fingers found her nipples...