Taming Marco (The Moran Family Book 2)

by Alexis James

  “You okay over there, sweet cheeks? You got all dreamy-eyed, like you were ready to ask that burger to join you in bed?”

  Hooting with laughter, I swipe the napkin across my mouth and reply, “I’m considering it. That’s one good burger.”

  He grins at me, which sends everything below my waist tingling warmly in response. “Glad to be of service.”

  We chomp through our burgers like it’s our last meal, order another round of beers, and sit back facing the ocean, full to the brim and satisfied. One of the things I like most about Marco is that he’s content with simply coexisting together. He isn’t a constant chatterer, and when he does speak, it’s usually with intention.

  Victor didn’t speak much either, but he also wasn’t content coexisting in silence. He always had to be doing something: watching TV, scrolling through his phone, or fucking me. The time we spent together doing nothing usually meant we were either building toward a fight or coming down off one.

  There are days when I do miss him, though if someone asked me why, I’d find it difficult to provide an answer. I suppose I miss the idea of him, simply for the fact that he was a constant in my life for the past four years. Other than that one long weekend trip I took with Mia to see her folks in St. Petersburg a few years back, we’ve been together every single day since we became an official couple back in college.

  “You’re thinking some heavy thoughts over there, sweet cheeks,” Marco comments, keeping his eyes to the water. “Anything I can do to help?”

  I shrug. “I doubt it. Just stuff I’ve gotta work through.”

  “Vic stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  His perfect fingers reach for mine, and he offers up a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll get through it, babe. And on the days you can’t, you’ll call me. Got it?”

  “Got it.” I can barely speak over the lump in my throat and if my darn eyes get all teary again, I’m going to scream. Getting a handle on my crazy emotions is the first order of business. Normally, I’m not a crier—contrary to how I’ve been acting.

  “You really loved him, didn’t you?” This time Marco looks right at me, as if he needs to witness every feeling that crosses my face.

  I take my time answering, busying my mouth with another gulp of beer before saying softly, “I think I did, years ago. But honestly, I doubt I even know what real love is.”

  “Join the crowd,” he states, dropping my hand and leaning forward with elbows on his knees. “I see it, like with Cruz and Mia or my parents, and I even understand it. But I just don’t think I’m biologically programmed to love.” He offers me a cocky smirk. “Besides, there’s no place in my life for it.”

  “You’re an arrogant bastard, you know that?”

  He grins at me. “Yes, I do, thank you very much.”

  “You’ve also got some very loose morals there, hot stuff. Might want to keep that in mind should the next Mrs. Moran walk into your life.”

  His laughter makes me smile. “Sweet cheeks, I don’t plan on there ever being a Mrs. Moran, so my morals are perfectly fine just as they are.”

  My brow lifts in challenge. “Loose and available?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We fall back into easy silence, occasionally sipping our beers and glancing at one another. What he’s said has made me curious about his fear of love and the parents who lead by such a fine example. It makes me wonder what his childhood was like, what type of a kid he was. Was he rough and tumble or cautious? Was he a good student or one who needed to be constantly challenged to do well? And what, I wonder as I skim my eyes over his profile, happened to cause him to be so anti-love … or is it simply a case of nerves and nothing more complicated than that?

  “Where did you grow up?” I begin, choosing the easiest and least invasive of the myriad of questions that are flitting through my head.

  “Here. And you?”

  “New York.”

  His brows lift. “Really? Do your parents still live there?”

  Familiar shards of pain pierce my heart. “No. I never really knew my dad. He walked out when I was little. My mom passed away when I was eighteen.”

  Remorse darkens his eyes, and he once again reaches for my hand. “Ah, babe, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  He gives me a minute or so to get my head together then, “Why did your family settle in New York?”

  I shrug. “I’m not really sure about my dad. But my mom’s grandparents settled there when they emigrated from India.”

  Marco grins. “I wondered about your heritage. I couldn’t place it.”

  I pull my foot up onto the seat of the chair and settle in. “My mother’s family was from India, but my father was Mexican American, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Do you speak your mom’s home language?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Just plain old English. And you?”

  His face is lit with obvious love for his family. “Mama spoke only Spanish to us growing up, so I easily float between it and English, which is all Papa speaks.” He scoffs. “My know-it-all big brother had to go and learn two more languages, just so he could be sure and one up the rest of us lowly peasants.”

  Glancing down, I realize that our fingers are still intertwined, like it’s perfectly natural to be holding hands and talking about our families. Slowly, an odd, uncomfortable feeling starts to unravel low in my belly. I have no business sitting here holding hands with a man I claim is my friend, especially only weeks after splitting with my long-term boyfriend. I have no business being out with Marco in the first place, except that I enjoy his company and he’s been a good shoulder for me to lean on.

  Pulling my hand away, I reach for my purse. “We should get going.”

  He shoots me a confused look but thankfully keeps his questions to himself, reaching into his back pocket and extracting his wallet. He pulls out a wad of cash and tosses it down then takes to his feet. “Shall we?” When he places his hand on my back to escort me out, I quickly move to the side and put a good two feet of distance between us.

  The silence on the drive home is nothing short of tension-filled. He drives fast, turning hard around corners and forcing me to grip the door handle, jaw clenched tightly as he never once diverts his eyes from the road. I can only guess at his reasons for being irritated with me and oddly enough, I’m sort of glad. He and I were getting much too comfortable with one another and that was bound to lead us somewhere neither of us is ready for.

  When the car screeches to a halt in front of my apartment, he’s snaps, “Have a good night.” I think we both know why he left off his usual endearment. He’s not exactly feeling especially warm and fuzzy toward me.

  “Thanks for dinner.” Stepping out, I slam the door hard and turn to enter the building. The sound of his voice stops me just as I’m punching in my access code.

  “Amita, wait a minute.” Turning to face him, I see remorse and embarrassment littered across his features. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a dick.”

  I lift an eyebrow and pull my arms tight across my chest. “Gee, you think?”

  “It’s just …” He grumbles a curse and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “We were having a good time and then you go all silent on me and cut the evening short. It just felt wrong, I guess.”

  I nod, though I have a hunch his meaning and mine are far different. “It was wrong, Marco. You and I are friends and that’s all we’ll ever be. We have no business sitting there sharing secrets and holding hands like lovers do. It’s not right.”

  His eyes narrow, darkening in anger. “I wasn’t trying to put the moves on you. If I was, you’d know it.”

  “I’m not saying you were doing that. I’m just saying that it felt like we got a little too close, that’s all.”

  “Too close. Got it.” He turns to move toward the car, stopping only when he reaches the open driver’s door. “No need to worry, sweet cheeks. Consider me properly warned.” Stepping into the car, he slam
s the door and jets off down the street just as aggressively as he drove me home from the restaurant.

  That odd, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach surges to life again and rolls around and up into my throat. I can’t seem to shake the notion that I’ve done more than make a point. I think I might have hurt him somehow. I do loathe the idea of hurting him, but I’m not completely sold on the idea that I did. Maybe I simply bruised his over-sized ego.

  Grumbling under my breath, I stomp inside the building and up each flight of stairs until I reach my floor. I refuse to cry, although tears blur my vision and it takes me three tries to get my door unlocked. Once inside, I quickly secure the locks then slide down to the floor and bury my head in my hands.

  “Enough excuses. Get me the damn report.” Down goes the receiver, and I’m actually rather surprised it doesn’t split in half from the force of my hand, since this isn’t the first time I’ve slammed it today. Fucking inept people. I don’t have time for their shit.

  “Hey, man,” Roman says, casually strolling into my office without knocking.

  I throw him a dark look and snap, “The door was closed for a reason, asshole.”

  He tosses me a grin and settles in a chair like he’s got all the time in the world. “So, I hear through the grapevine that you are channeling your inner Cruz.”

  Giving my pen a good toss, it bounces off the computer screen and lands on the floor. “What the fuck are you yammering about?”

  Propping one booted foot on the opposite knee, he replies, “I hear you’re becoming the asshole our older brother used to be. Yelling at people, slamming doors.” He smirks, which is annoying as hell. “I thought I should stage an intervention.”

  Pounding on the keyboard, I do my best to ignore him and try to make sense of the numbers on the screen. On any given day, I could balance these figures in my sleep, not today. Not the past few weeks actually.

  Christ, since when has upheaval with a woman caused me sleepless nights and issues at work? Uh, never. First and foremost, I don’t do upheaval … especially with women. I sure as fuck never let anything having to do with a woman screw with my head so much that I’m a damn lunatic at work. Roman is right. I have been channeling my inner Cruz.

  “What’s going on with you, man?”

  Sitting back in my chair, I prop my expensive leather loafers on the edge of the desk and reply, “Hell if I know.”

  He shows me his signature ‘Romeo’ smile. “I think you do know, Big Brother. And I think it has everything to do with a certain best friend of our soon-to-be sister-in-law.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” It’s lame, but the standard response feels good for a change. Glad something does.

  Roman chuckles and scratches the back of his head. “No need for that. I’ve got plenty of willing ladies to fuck me proper.”

  Rolling my eyes, I admit silently that he’s probably telling the truth. Gross, but the truth all the same. Roman, or Romeo as Mama refers to him, has never been lacking in female attention. Then again, none of us really have, although Cruz spent a good amount of years doing the single thing before he met Mia. But the difference between my little brother and me and Cruz is that he’s constantly convinced he’s in love. He’s brought countless women home, introducing them to the family, enfolding them in our lives for a few weeks before his so-called love fades away and he’s once more back out on the hunt for next Mrs. Moran.

  He’s the charmer out of the three of us, the only one who doles out promises on a consistent basis. I suppose it’s nothing more than a fancy, dressed-up version of what I’m doing, since in the end, we both end up just as single as we were when we started out. The difference is that I want to be there and he doesn’t.

  At the rate he’s going, I sometimes wonder if he’ll ever really meet the right one. I’m half-convinced that he’s probably going to miss her somehow, because he’s so embroiled in his love of the week. Not my worry, but I do. I’m a good brother like that.

  “Marco, you sure you’re all right? You don’t seem like yourself lately.”

  “I’m fine.” Feet back on the floor, I retrieve the pen I tossed and give him a sideways glance. “Did you need something or did you come in here to bust my chops?”

  He snickers and gets to his feet. “Just busting chops and collecting hearts. It’s what I do best.” Moving toward the door, he stops at the threshold and turns to face me once more. “Seriously though, if you need anything, let me know. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Will do.”

  How ironic that I can remember having a similar conversation with Cruz a few months ago, back when he and Mia were trying to figure out their shit and he was spending way too much time pretending like she didn’t matter to him. I guess people really can change. Although, in his case I think all that sweetness and light was buried beneath the hard exterior he created after his high-school sweetheart died. Makes me wonder if I’ll ever change, and if there will ever come a day when I look at myself in the mirror and conclude that there’s got to be more to life than random fucks and empty conversation.

  Somehow I doubt it.

  By the time the workday is done, I’m anxious to get home. I’ve got loose plans for later on, nothing concrete but chances are it will turn into what it always does: a few drinks, a little flirting, and a good, hard fuck. The people I party with are locals, a few friends from high school, but no one I’d call if I really needed something. We have certain boundaries. We make plans: if you show, you show; if you don’t, no big deal. We party hard, drink a lot, and the end game is always the same.

  Amita is right. Me and my morals are loose and available, and I like them just the way they are. Loose and available doesn’t keep me up at night. Loose and available doesn’t interfere with my work or cause me to yell unnecessarily at a subordinate. Loose and available don’t cause me to look at my phone constantly and wonder why the hell she doesn’t text.

  Jesus, Moran … really? You’re getting all bug-in-the-ass hurt because Amita hasn’t called? What the fuck do you expect? She made it crystal clear that certain lines were crossed at dinner, and worse … she dropped the friend card. I don’t get the friend card dropped on me. That’s my game.

  So I ask myself, is that really what I’m pissed off about? Is that why I snapped at her and drove off like some fucking teenager, pedal to the metal, driving with emotion and not my head? Yeah, if I was man enough to admit that is why I’m pissed. Sure, she’s hot as hell, and I’d fuck her in a hot minute if she said the word, but she’s also the same woman who in a short span of time has become someone I trust. Someone I call a friend. Someone I look forward to exchanging texts with every day and getting to know on more than a sexual basis. Crazy, I know.

  Thankfully, I’m saved from all my overthinking when Lacey hits me up Friday night, and I end up at her place with her hot friend for a little threesome action. Saturday I spend a lot of time drunk off my ever-lovin’ ass. By the time Sunday rolls around and I drag my exhausted self out of bed, the only thing I’m pondering is whether or not I’m getting too old for all this shit.

  A five mile run helps. A shower helps more. But the cure to all my pondering, the lingering hangover and the slight twinge I feel in my back from doing two women at once is one of my mama’s home cooked meals.

  I stroll into my parent’s house midafternoon and am instantly pulled into Mama’s warm embrace. She lets loose a flurry of Spanish endearments, followed by admonishments for missing too many Sunday dinners, then kisses both cheeks and sends me off to join Papa in the living room.

  He and I talk business while we nurse glasses of iced tea and by the time the others arrive, he’s dozing. I’m flipping through channels of crap I have no intention of watching and wondering if something stronger might help with the lingering effects from last night’s binge.

  Roman strolls in with his lady of the week on his arm, some statuesque bottled-blonde who looks to be about ten years his senior. Mama is kind as always, knowing as the rest of us do, that
this one will only be around for another week or two tops. They settle on the couch next to me and while Roman spends a good five minutes giving me her life story, I continue to surf channels and secretly hope he’ll just shut the fuck up.

  Isabella arrives next, giving hugs all around and shooting the blonde a good luck, you’ll need it smile. She yaps at me to help her set the table and just as I rise from the couch and prepare to make her life miserable, in walks Cruz, Mia … and Amita.

  Mama embraces them one by one, speaks her usual Spanish to her son and spends a good long time with her hands pressed against the cheeks of the girls. I stand back and take it all in: the easy, no-nonsense way that Mia has become a part of our family, and the almost shy, awkwardness of her best friend as she fidgets from foot to foot under the smothering affection of my sweet, sweet mama.

  Damn, Amita looks fine today, though it’s fair to admit I’ve never seen her looking less. She’s dressed casually in a pair of wide-legged linen drawstring pants and a loose top that sits just off her shoulders. That gorgeous mane of dark, wavy hair spills down her back, coming just inches above the curve of her oh so super-fine ass.

  She turns her head to look directly at me, dark brown eyes illusive and cold as if she knew all along I was checking her out. She gives me a slight head nod in greeting, but the smile is nonexistent, and she makes no attempt to speak to me at all. It’s almost as if she can tell by looking at me what I’ve been doing all weekend. Or maybe that’s just the guilt I’m feeling.

  Guilt? What the fuck? I have nothing to feel guilty about. I’m free and old enough to know what I want. Why the hell should I feel guilty, especially when she made it more than clear that the closeness we had was ‘wrong’ and that we’d never be anything more than friends?

  As we take our seats around the large oblong table that’s been in Mama’s family for generations and everyone starts to pass dishes and talk all at the same time, I can only hope I get lost in the shuffle. I’m too hungover to make small talk, still too pissed off at Amita to make nice for the sake of my family, and too damn anxious to get this meal over with so she and I can go back to the silence which was working so damn well.