Twisted In You_A Twisted Romance

by Rachel A. Marks

  I walk to the front of the building with the right address and the smell of Thai food winds around me. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten lunch. A woman walks up, handing me a menu. “We have special, only $6.99 for early-bird dinner.”

  “I’m looking for a music studio,” I say, studying the dining room, considering staying for a small bite. The place smells amazing.

  “Yes, next door,” she says with a smile. “Nice men. Just sent over food.” She’s looking like the nice men may have done a little flirting with her and she didn’t mind at all.

  “Oh, great.” I pause, looking over the menu. “Can I get some cucumber salad and coconut chicken to go?”

  She nods and motions for me to sit at a table by the door. I pull out my phone and make a group text with Lance and Fin.

  Verity: I’m next door getting food.

  Lance is quick to respond.

  Lance: Tell Boon-Mee I said hi.

  Verity: I’ll get right on that.

  Lance: She brought me noodles. I want to marry her.

  Verity: She deserves better than you, noodle boy.

  Lance: There’s no one better than Noodle Boy. He fights evil by night and pleasures females by morning. A true hero.

  Verity: Whatever you say.

  Fin: Why is my phone vibrating every ten seconds instead of my girl sitting here next to me?

  Lance: I just vomited up my noodles.

  Verity: Get back to work. You’re supposed to be pretending I’m not here.

  Fin: Impossible.

  Lance: More vomit.

  I FIND THE ENTRANCE to the studio down the alley beside the Thai restaurant. It’s a glass door, painted all black to keep out light, as if vampires live inside. I guess musicians pretty much live like vampires. Other than the whole blood-drinking thing.

  There’s a button next to the door and a handwritten sign that says, Buzz or fuck off, on it.

  I buzz.

  An unfamiliar voice crackles through the speaker, “Yeah, what?”

  “It’s Verity, here for Fin,” I say.

  Several seconds tick by and I look up and down the messy alley, wondering why I never bought that Taser I’d been wanting. But then there’s a click and the door pops open.

  I slip inside and am instantly wrapped in a blanket of music; a ruddy yet ethereal blend of strings and drums. It grabs me by the heart and I suddenly find myself praying that’s the score for this mystery project Lance is doing. I stand in the hallway, listening and soaking it in.

  My god. It’s amazing.

  Lance pops his head out of a door to my left. “Hey, get in here. Your boy has something for you.”

  My ears buzz at the sound of him calling Fin my boy, but I smile and follow him into what looks like a sound room. Or a mixing room.

  Lance points behind me through the glass, and I realize he’s pointing at Fin, who’s in the other room, playing a violin. Shirtless. His muscles and tattoos are an epic display. Sweat beads on his face and chest, and his eyes are closed as he draws out high notes from the strings.

  Okay. He should be way more cocky than he is.

  Lance pushes a button on a panel of a million buttons and says into a mic, “She’s here, Romeo.”

  Fin stops playing and opens his eyes like he’s waking from a dream. His sweat-coated face lights up when he sees me and my heart melts like wax in a furnace.

  He sets down his violin and bow, then comes around, into the mixing room. He wraps me in his arms and gives me a squeeze, getting sweat all over me, but I could care less. He’s glistening.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, motioning to a stack of white boxes. “We have Thai. We always have Thai. As you know, Lance is engaged to the hostess.” He laughs and keeps his arm around my waist.

  He smells salty and manly. The intensity of it makes me want to pull away, but I don’t want him to think I'm not loving his hands on me right now. Because I am. A lot more than I should.

  “Can we show her the piece?” Lance asks, actually sounding excited rather than patronizing for a change.

  Fin’s hand grips the back of my shirt and he seems almost nervous, not answering right away.

  “It’s amazing, Ver!” Lance says, handing Fin a towel to wipe his face, then sitting down in the chair, fiddling with buttons on the board in front of him. “Fin was having trouble getting it right, but then he said he saw your painting—some tree person or something—and he babbled on about it to me for a half hour. Then he played this.” He pushes another button and a single note fills the room, long and light.

  My painting? When did he see that? I look at Fin but he’s staring at the carpet, his pale skin turning rosy behind his ears.

  The single note grows, becoming two, then three. They wrap around each other in this hesitating rhythm that feels almost like a caress. It floats around me, higher and higher until it begins to fall apart in the bridge and I feel tears spring into my eyes.

  The music returns to its melodic dance for several more bars, then falls back, two notes, then one again, shivering at the strings until going silent.

  The room is still, nothing but our emotions fill the space around us.

  Until Lance ruins it, as usual. “Tears! You made her cry, Fin!” He looks perfectly giddy.

  Fin glances at me, a question in his smile. “Like it?”

  I pull away from his touch, sitting in the chair beside Lance and shake my head, speechless. There are no words to describe how that song made me feel.

  “Oh, she liked it,” Lance says, his face all pride, dollar signs in his eyes. He sees the same thing I do. He struck gold with Finbar MacNeil.

  EIGHTEEN

  I get to Diego’s studio but stand outside the back door for several minutes before I can work up the nerve to go inside and face him. After the hour I just had with Fin, I’m completely torn in two. He’s so much more than I expected. So much more than some musician. He's an artist with a beautiful soul. I feel like I’ve discovered a hidden secret.

  Lance let me listen to three other songs by Fin, one where he played all the instruments, including the drums, electric guitar, and also did the vocal track. He’s like a one-man-show. And his voice . . . holy Irish gods! It was a good thing Lance was there or Fin would’ve had his own private Verity show.

  Fin’s style is different from what I expected. It’s not rock, but it’s not classical. It’s like a weird hybrid of fight mingling with flight.

  And he was inspired by my lame painting that he apparently snuck a look at somehow. A thrill runs through me at the thought.

  But how can I walk down the boyfriend road with Fin, when my heart can’t manage to shake Diego? He deserves a girl that’s all-in.

  I should’ve never kissed Diego that night. It’s ruined everything. If I'd just left it all alone, I'd still be shoving all my feelings down like always, pretending it's just a school girl crush, and at least I would still have him as a friend—even if it wasn’t all real on his end.

  But now I can't pretend. Reality is smacking me in the face. I need to be honest with myself. And with Diego. No more unsaid things or glazing over emotions.

  It's time to clear the air and let him know he’s hurt me. I’m not some high school girl anymore. If he’s going to brush me aside, he can do it honestly.

  I take a deep breath and walk into the storage room. I call out a greeting as a warning, in case he’s making out with French Lady again.

  “Behind the Dega,” Diego calls back.

  I steal myself and walk down an aisle of boxes and unused frames, turning left at the end of the row. When I come around a stack of crates, I spot him. And I can’t help the release of surprised laughter.

  He’s alone, standing five feet away, tangled in bubble wrap. “I’ve made a bit of a mess.”

  I giggle again. That vulnerable look on his face, brings all my walls down instantly. “Wow, you’re not kidding,” I say, trying to stay annoyed at him and failing. I step closer, inspecting the
plastic that’s twisted over his torso and leg. “I can’t leave you alone for a second.”

  “The scissors are over there.” He points with a plastic-draped arm across the aisle to a box.

  I grab the scissors and try to decide where to cut first. “How the hell did you accomplish this?”

  “It wasn’t easy, but I managed. The shipment company wrapped that Bowen statue like the devil lived in it.”

  I roll my eyes at him and begin cutting at his torso, pulling away the three layers he’s managed to wrap around himself. I try not to notice how hard his chest feels against my hands, or the shape of his muscles under his blue cotton V-neck. But being so close to him, knowing what I want to say, remembering how it felt when we danced, when he held me with these arms, the way his smell is currently filling my head . . .

  I make myself speak. “The devil, huh?” I glance up at him with a forced grin.

  But the look on his face makes me stop breathing.

  It’s perfectly deadly. Like he’s trying to restrain himself from moving. Like he wants to . . . touch me. He’s never looked at me that way before. Not ever. With . . . fire in his eyes.

  I’m not prepared.

  “Why did you kiss me after Lance’s party?” he asks, suddenly.

  My mind reels. I stutter in my head, trying to decide what's going on. Trying to find my mental footing again. I was going to be the brave one and begin the awkward conversation, confess my frustration and hurt—but now I can’t seem to speak.

  “Was it because you were drunk and lonely?” he adds.

  I’m frozen, holding the scissors open in front of his chest. Do I want to admit to him that, yes, that is why I kissed him? Because I've wanted him for so long, and once I felt him, tasted him . . . now that I know he’s not— “Why did you let me think you were gay?” I ask back.

  He blinks at me, like he’s caught off guard now.

  “Because I’ve only joked about it with you a hundred times,” I add, pointing the scissors at him. “And you never corrected me. It’s like you were laughing at me—silly stupid Verity. It really hurts, Diego.”

  His brow pinches over his nose, like the idea pains him too. “You assumed, the same as others did. I let everyone believe it.”

  “But I thought we were friends. You couldn’t have been honest with me at least?”

  “I told you, I didn’t want you to think I was a possibility. Especially you.”

  My insides twist. “So, you really don’t feel anything? You were trying to avoid me?” This . . . this is why I never came right out and said what I felt. This horrible feeling in my stomach, in my heart.

  Deep down I knew the truth.

  Why would I think he’d ever want me as a woman? That possibility was only something I made up in my head.

  “Verity,” he says.

  His tone sounds like he’s about to tell me something parental, so I stop him, waving his words away with the scissors. “Please, don't. I think I’m emotionally scarred enough.” Then I go back to cutting through the plastic, moving down to the stuff wrapped around his leg.

  “That’s not what I meant.” He takes me by the arm and pulls me to my feet as the last of the bubble wrap falls away. He’s obviously irritated. “Will you just listen.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I try to look indignant but the pain surfaces in my voice.

  “We need to make this right.”

  I shake my head. “I don't know if we can.” The finality of it all fills me. How can we ever make this right, how can I ever be friends with him again with this shredded heart?

  I shake off his touch and walk away, going into the studio, looking for a place to hide.

  But he's close on my heels. “I need you to understand,” he says under his breath.

  I turn on him. "You want me to understand?!" If he’s going to push this, why am I holding back still? I’m not swallowing this crazy anymore.

  Pandora’s Box is open, so let’s just dig in.

  “Oh, believe me. I understand, Diego.” I look him right in the eyes and let it all finally spill out. “I understand all too well. That you're my superior. That you’re a man and I’m a child in your eyes. And I can’t seem to get away from the fact that even though I want to touch you, even though I want desperately to kiss you again, to show you everything I’ve felt for the last three years, that I’m wrong to you, that I’m not someone you’ll ever care for. I understand it doesn’t matter to you that everything in my heart has basically belonged to you since the moment we met.” My throat clenches and my words come harder. “But worst of all, I understand that I’m fucking in love with you, you asshole. I understand that you’ll never care about me the same way I care about you. That I’m alone. And it’s time for this little girl to grow up.” I take in a shaky breath as he gapes at me, his features unreadable. “You don’t have to worry, Boss,” I say, feeling deflated now. “I get it. You’ve made it painfully clear. You have no desire to deal with me and my—"

  He steps forward and I choke on my words as he reaches out, takes me by the nape, pulls me close.

  Then covers my lips with his.

  I gasp into his mouth, the shock of it all rolling through me like thunder. A part of me doubts its even real as he presses me against his chest, his warmth and smell surrounding me, his lips moving with mine, insistent, hungry, taking the moment to sixty miles an hour in a breath, turning my insides liquid, my legs beginning to shake.

  Oh my God, he . . . Diego is . . . he's kissing me.

  Everything in me is destroyed, my heart, my body, and definitely my good sense. I hold onto his shoulders to keep from falling as he devours me, backing me against the wall, pressing into me, his urgency growing, even as his hands move to my hips, gripping to pull me closer, holding me so tight my skin aches. My skin wants. My skin needs.

  The way his touch plays over my body, rough, gentle, rough, as if he's having a war in his mind, and the seconds pass like years, the kiss goes on forever, and ever, whispering a million things into my heart; how much he’s been holding back, how much he's been fighting.

  Could he really want this as much as I do?

  “Please,” he breathes, “Tell me to stop.” But then he's moving his mouth to my neck, scraping his teeth over my pulse.

  I gasp and nearly crumble as he holds me up. I search for his warmth, his skin, with my touch, skimming my fingers under his shirt, up his back. “God, no, don't stop.”

  He makes a pained sound in the back of his throat and takes my mouth with his again, hard enough to make my lips sting. His hands move from my hips to the hem of my shirt but he doesn't lift it, he just brushes his fingertips over my stomach and makes butterflies come to life under my skin.

  “You can't want me, Verity,” he whispers into my mouth. “Not you.”

  I don't want to stop kissing him, but I pull back enough to see his eyes, unsure what he could mean. “Why?”

  And I instantly regret it. He lowers his hands, stopping his caress, leaving my chest hollow as he steps back a little. Damn, why did I say anything?

  He shakes his head like he can't speak. His eyes look wild, his body a held back spring.

  I won't let him go, though, I grip the belt loop on his jeans and tug him back toward me. “Don't do that. Talk to me.”

  “So many reasons why we can't do this.” He looks past me, lost.

  I swallow, afraid this is heading backwards. After that kiss there's no way my heart can reverse; it’s beating right on the razor's edge, between fulfillment and heartbreak. “Because you're my boss? That doesn't matter.”

  His eyes find mine. “Because I don't want to hurt you. Why do you think I pull away? I care about you too much, Verity.”

  “What? Why would you hurt me?”

  He steps back and walks further into the studio. “I always hurt people. It's what I do.”

  That makes no sense. I follow him, staying close behind. “You're the kindest guy I know. What are you talkin
g about?”

  He stops and leans on the back of the couch, running a hand over his face and then through his hair like he's trying to clear his head. “Listen, you've known a totally different man. There are things behind me, things in my life that aren't resolved.”

  I step closer, touching his arm. This is more than money trouble and stress. This is guilt. I've never seen him so naked and tormented.

  He looks at me, pain clear in his dark eyes. Then he whispers, “I'm not a good person. I haven't lived a good life. I've been trying to get away from it, but I can't.”

  I don’t like the way that sounds, but it doesn't explain anything. “Please, just tell me. What's really going on, what's wrong?”

  His eyes leave mine and he studies the floor. “I'm a . . . thief.”

  My brain isn’t sure I heard right. “Excuse me?”

  Is he kidding? This has to be a joke. A thief is a guy who runs around climbing through people's windows with gloves and a mask on. That does not sound right.

  “I've been working as an art thief since I was eighteen. I've helped broker deals for insurance fraud and helped fence very hot pieces. In Paris, Germany, New York, Chicago, I've lived all over the world, passing off fakes as originals, lying to insurance companies, working marks out of their expensive pieces for barely anything.”

  I step back and stare at him. How in the hell is all that possible? Diego is a criminal?

  No. No way.

  But he said the words. He’s confessed. And he seems tormented, like it all might be . . . true.

  Now that he’s talking, he can't seem to stop. “Francesca found me when I was just out of foster care. I'd been sleeping in my friend's car, in doorways—wherever I could. It was winter in New York and it wasn't good or safe to be on the streets. She found me outside of a pawn shop where I'd been considering stealing this piece of jewelry. She took me under her wing and taught me everything about the business. She was kind to me and . . . I think I might have loved her in some strange twisted way for a while.”