Sticky Fingers: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Starr, Tara

  Picasso or no Picasso, Sonia’s the only masterpiece I care about right now.

  * * *

  “Don’t you ever miss it? A normal life, I mean.”

  Stroking the nape of her neck gently, I open my eyes as we gently rock back and forth on the hammock we set up next to the docks and the bungalow. Sonia’s feet dangle from it, caressing the clear water right under us, and I watch her smile as the setting sun paints her lips in a smooth orange tone.

  A few feet away from us, right on the sand, a bright fire pushes back the cold breeze that settles on the island at night.

  “Should I?” I reply with a question of my own.

  “I don’t know.” She merely shrugs, turning her head slightly so that she can look into my eyes. “I always found a normal life to be boring, but this…this is nice.”

  “Well, sure. As long as you consider a private island part of having a normal life.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” she chides, gently punching my arm. “It’s just…being here with you, not a care in the world…it feels good. I just want it to last.”

  “And it’ll last until I open the boxes, right?” I find myself saying, looking straight into her eyes.

  Even though I couldn’t give any less of a fuck about what’s inside those boxes—Jimmy Hoffa’s body, a collection of edible strawberry thongs, or a Picasso’s watercolor equivalent of a dick pick—Sonia constantly brings it up.

  We’ve been here for four days now, and she has asked about the damn boxes more than a hundred times.

  Whenever we wake up.

  Whenever we go for a walk.

  Whenever we go for a swim.

  Whenever we sit down for a fucking meal.

  Whenever we lie together after a massive earth-shattering orgasm…the fucking boxes are always there, like a fucking shadow I can’t seem to shake off.

  Don’t you want to see what’s inside?

  That’s Sonia’s new catchphrase and, swear to God, I’m starting to have nightmares with these seven words.

  “Well,” Sonia whispers, the hint of a teasing smile on her lips, “don’t you want to see what’s inside?”

  See? Like fucking clockwork. Shit, okay—this time I was the one bringing it up, so I might as well call her bluff.

  “Alright,” I start, swinging my legs off the hammock and jumping into the water.

  It doesn’t go higher than my ankles, and I feel the soft sand under my feet. Just two steps and I’m on dry land, the heat of the fire lapping at my skin as I walk past it.

  “Where are you going?” she calls after me as I step inside the bungalow, the wood floor protesting with each step I take.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I go straight to the end of the living room, where the staff has neatly stacked the three boxes.

  I place my hands on my hips, stare at the boxes for a couple of seconds, and then drag them out onto the beach. Sonia’s already out of the hammock, a surprised—and anxious—expression on her face.

  “I guess you’re right,” I announce, only stopping when the boxes are resting between me and her. “It’s time I see what’s inside.”

  She doesn’t say a word.

  She merely looks at me, lips pursed as she clasps her hands behind her back.

  Without a smile, I bend over to pick up the first box; as I bring it up to eye-level, I let my right hand go and the box clumsily tumbles right on top of the fire, the flames waltzing over the wood to devour it whole.

  “Ah, fuck,” I say with a grin, taking a step back as the fire devours the box whole. “I hope that wasn’t the Picasso,” I continue, enjoying the look of pure disbelief on Sonia’s face. “Well, good thing we’ve got more boxes, right?”

  Moving toward the second box, I purposefully drag it away from the fire, dipping my feet into ocean’s water.

  “Wow, heavy,” I say, never taking my eyes off Sonia’s as I turn around and purposefully drop the box into the water. “Fuck, so clumsy. Do you think water will ruin it? Maybe I should toss it into the fire to dry off.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Am I?” I ask her, taking one step towards her and lowering my voice. “Maybe I am. Or maybe…I just couldn’t care less about what’s inside these boxes.”

  I stop right before the last box, and I go down on one knee in front of it. Looking down, I place my hand right on the box’s latch, and then I look back up at Sonia.

  “Maybe you’re crazy enough to risk a Picasso like this. Maybe you’re just trying to see how far I’m willing to take this.”

  Reaching toward the fire, I grab a piece of wood and then place the burning end right over the box. It doesn’t take long for the flames to spread over the box, the wind carrying away the wisps of smoke as they climb up in the air.

  “I guess I’ll never know, huh?” I finally say, getting to my feet and closing in on her.

  “You’re the textbook definition of insane, Malcolm,” she breathes out. “The Picasso could be ruined right now…and even if it isn’t the Picasso…”

  She raises one eyebrow at me, that teasing smile back on her lips, and says, “Who knows what kind of paintings you’ve just ruined.”

  “As long as we’re not talking about the stickman drawings I did in preschool, I’m fine with it. I have an emotional attachment to those, you know?”

  Stepping towards me, she lays one hand on my chest.

  “I hope that’s not the only thing you have an emotional attachment to.”

  Leaning in, one hand on the nape of her neck, I gently press my lips against hers.

  “What do you think, Sonia?”

  “I don’t wanna think.”

  “Then don’t.”

  We tumble onto the sand, devouring each other as the night falls around us, the flames casting long shadows over our naked bodies.

  “I love you, Sonia,” I whisper into her lips as I hold her head, her legs still wrapped around my waist as she draws me in, her body as eager for mine as mine is for hers.

  “And I love you, Malcolm Push,” she whispers back at me, the sound of her fast breathing making my heart grow tighter and tighter.

  For the first time in my life, it doesn’t feel like I’m having sex.

  It feels like we are making love.

  And that’s because, for the first time in my life, I’ve fallen for someone.

  For the first time in my life, I’m in love.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sonia

  “Oh my God, if you got any browner they wouldn’t let you back in the country, Sonia!”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?” I ask Kathy, standing in front of her with my bag still slung over my shoulder.

  Only then do I notice that she’s looking at my skin appraisingly.

  “Oh, right. I have a pretty nice tan, don’t I?” I laugh and then throw my bag on the couch.

  Although these past few days were as dreamy as they were wonderful, in a way it feels good to be back in my apartment. And I missed Kathy and her seriousness as well. Thank God I let her have the apartment while I was away—she kept the place safe and tidy, and this way I can see her right away.

  “A tan?” She laughs as I close the door behind me. “Babe, you look like you were sunbathing in a frying pan. Even if it suits your figure.”

  “Thank you.” I laugh again, plopping myself down on the couch and propping my feet up on the coffee table.

  I feel exhausted. Sure, Malcolm has a private jet with all the comforts and whatnot...but having sex all throughout the flight wasn’t easy. All those naked acrobatic feats require a lot from your body, especially if you’re doing it all in a place as a tight as plane’s cabin.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  “I take it that your little getaway went well?” Kathy asks me, sitting on the small couch opposite to mine.

  She’s wearing loose sweatpants and a blue tank top; her hair looks all messy, and I notice a hint of bags under her eyes. Her skin seems a bit puffy as w
ell, and her voice sounds mellowed out and tired. She must have been working all night—no matter how many times I tell her to take it easy, Kathy sure is an A-grade workaholic.

  “It went perfectly,” I whisper lazily, stretching my back while I offer her a smile. “A private island... Can you even believe it? I knew that Malcolm was a billionaire...but to have an island like that, just to himself.”

  “And the boxes?”

  “He burnt them.”

  “WHAT?! Is he insane?!” She jumps to her feet, her jaw hanging open. “What if the Picasso really was in there? He would have burnt it!”

  She looks at me, eyes wide open and fists clenched, and then she cocks one suspicious eyebrow. “Or...did he know you just had some cheap-ass paintings in there? Maybe he figured it all out. He might be playing you, Sonia.”

  “I don’t think he knew,” I admit, remembering the way Malcolm simply threw everything into the fire.

  The tone of his voice, the way he looked into my eyes...and those three little words that made me weak in the knees.

  I love you.

  He sounded so earnest, so genuine...

  I know that to climb to the top, Malcolm had to be cunning and ruthless. I know that. But in that moment, he looked just like someone I could trust with my life.

  Jesus, when did things change between us?

  When this little game of ours started, it was all about the fun. I’m that kind of girl, you know? I take it easy, one day at a time, and I don’t overthink anything.

  I never think ahead, and I don’t like making plans that’ll take a long time to execute. I like moving fast and without thinking twice.

  But with Malcolm…

  I don’t know when or where it happened... All I know is that someplace down the road, it stopped being just about the fun.

  It became about something else. Something I couldn’t really put my finger on...until Malcolm told me he loved me.

  That’s when I realized it went from just fun to...love.

  As foreign as that word sounds to my ears, I can’t help but smile as I remember that moment when we admitted it to ourselves. God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I’m in love with Malcolm Push.

  And it feels freaking amazing!

  “Oi! Are you listening?” Kathy snaps her fingers right in front of my eyes.

  I turn to face her and blink twice as I see the frown on her face. She must’ve been talking while I spaced out. Not that unusual, and it never fails to piss her off.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about—”

  “I know what you were thinking about. You were thinking about Malcolm,” she says, sighing and rubbing her temple with two fingers. “And you have that silly smile on your face...and I don’t like that, not one bit.”

  “C’mon, Kathy, you should chill for a bit. I’ve met Malcolm, and even though he’s the head of the oh-so-evil Push Organization, he’s not as bad as he seems. In fact, I think I’m starting to trust him. He’s different from other guys.”

  “Jesus, Sonia, he got you good.” She sighs again, this time shaking her head. Slowly, she gets up from the couch and walks toward the dining table, where her laptop has been set up. “C’mere, take a look at this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Now standing next to her, I look to her screen. There are a lot of pictures from Malcolm there, all of them apparently taken after he dropped me off at Clarendon Tower.

  “You had him followed?”

  “Well, I told you we had to be cautious with him, didn’t I?” She merely shrugs and then taps the keypad a few times and brings up just one photo.

  It fills the screen entirely and, even though the photo has been taken from a distance, I can see still see Malcolm perfectly. He’s shaking a man’s hands, a man that looks suspiciously like…

  No way.

  Why the hell is Malcolm meeting with Detective Strong?

  “Holy shit…” is all I can say.

  “That’s right. If a crime lord and an NYC detective are meeting...it can’t be good. I’m sorry, babe, but I think that...Malcolm might be trying to set you up.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Malcolm

  “Are we solid?”

  Looking at Strong, who’s sitting by my side, I push a stack of documents across the table. He stares at me for a long moment, perches an unlit cigarette at the corner of his lips, and then finally reaches for the documents.

  “As long as you’re not trying to play me, Malcolm,” he says, a growl hiding behind his words.

  I don’t take it personally—Jeremiah Strong is the kind of man that can only speak with veiled threats, even when he’s doing his best to act like a caring surrogate father.

  In a way, I appreciate that; blunt as he may be, the world needs more men willing to say it like it is.

  “I’m not,” I reply, casually raising two fingers toward the bartender.

  He turns around with a quick nod, grabs the bottle of whisky on the shelf behind him, and refills the two glasses in front of me and Strong.

  “You’ll see.”

  “I guess I will,” he growls once more, laying his cigarette on the counter and downing the whisky all at once.

  Playing with his cigarette—a throwback to when he started out as a beat cop and every bar was permanently hidden by a cloud of smoke—he stares right back at me.

  “You’ve come a long way, kid.”

  “I have,” I agree, bringing the whisky up to my lips. “The times…they are a-changing, huh?”

  He doesn’t bother to reply. With a small grunt of acknowledgment, he starts leafing through the documents I just handed him. Some he will need; others are just proof that I’m serious about making a change.

  Contracts, leases, letters of intent—all of them signed with only one purpose in mind: burying the seedy side of the Push Organization. From racketeering and match fixing, to money-laundering and contraband, I had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. Which means that I made a shitload of money over the past few years.

  And I won’t lie: These past few years were fun.

  I enjoyed it.

  I thrived on it.

  In the end, it was about more than just the money… It was about the power. The kind of power where you can bend a whole city—if not an entire country—to your will.

  That’s probably part of the reason why I went through so many women, you know? Nothing got me harder than knowing I’m the baddest motherfucker around.

  That was, of course, until Sonia showed up.

  Then, the conversation changed.

  For the first time in my life, money and power had to ride in the backseat.

  “Seems like you mean it,” Strong finally says, stacking the documents together and pushing half of them back to me. “All loose ends have been tied, and the DA is willing to sign the deal once we have the last of your associates, Louis Abigale, in custody.”

  “Good,” I nod, sneaking a glance at my wristwatch.

  Shouldn’t be long then.

  Now, don’t think I’m throwing my associates under the bus just to save my own fucking ass. It couldn’t be any further from the truth; as ruthless as I might be, I’m loyal to those who are loyal to me. Thing is, whenever you run an organization like mine, there’s always someone who thinks they can outsmart you.

  Someone like Louis.

  First, he started by skimming a few grand off the top, and then he moved onto moving millions behind my back. With the amount of money changing hands under the Push Organization umbrella, it wasn’t that hard for him to do. Then, when he was turning enough of a profit, he moved into setting up side-operations of his own, undercutting my own profits.

  There are a lot of ways you can fuck with an organization like mine, but Louis and few of my associates decided to go down this route, hellbent on toppling the Push Organization.

  Most criminal bosses would respond with a quick bullet to the back of the head, but not me. I bid my time, kept tabs, and dis
creetly made sure that all criminal activity led back to them.

  And now, I’ll use Louis and his asshole friends to buy my freedom.

  Motherfuckers bought a war. I’m just delivering it to their doorsteps.

  “Look,” Strong says, pointing somewhere outside.

  Narrowing my eyes, I look through the large glass panel of the bar as two black vans park in front of the building on the other side of the street.

  Yeah. Don’t think I parked my ass on this bar just because I needed a whisky.

  I’m here for the fucking show.

  “And here we go,” I whisper to myself, drumming my fingers on the counter as two SWAT teams jump out from the back of the vans, all the guys armed to the teeth.

  With a few Feds trailing behind them, their black FBI windbreakers flapping in the wind, they march straight into the building.

  It doesn’t take long before they’re hauling out a blonde guy in his forties. Tall, out of shape and with a broken nose, he looks like someone threw a bunch of Swede and Italian clichés into a blender and then dropped a few shavings of Wall Street crookedness on top of it.

  Meet Louis Abigale, the motherfucker who wanted to be king.

  “Is that him?” Strong asks me, raising his eyebrows as he peers at the scene outside.

  I do my best not to laugh.

  The long wig sitting atop Louis’ head is skewed, making him look like someone out of an asylum. He’s bawling like a baby, his cries carried by the wind into the bar, and his tears have ruined his makeup and turned his face into a Picasso painting.

  Kinda fitting, huh?

  Get this, though—more than just the wig and the over-the-top makeup, Louis is also wearing a shiny black dress and high-heels. Being that he isn’t exactly in shape, he looks like someone tried to stuff an overcooked sausage down a very tight condom.

  “You didn’t tell me he was a—”

  “Crossdresser?” I smirk at Strong. “I do my best not to act prejudiced. It’s America we’re talking about, right?”