“No, it's not like that,” she says.
“Then what's it like?”
She shakes her head. “I honestly don't know,” she replies. “I mean, I'm not the kind of girl who just randomly hooks up with guys. I've never been that way, Carter. I don't want you getting the idea I am.”
“I didn't think you were,” I say.
“That was amazing, though.”
“Oh, I know it,” I reply. “I'm pretty damn good in the sack.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “You're terrible,” she says. “And incredibly humble too.”
“I completely agree with both of your assessments,” I say with a laugh.
“Right,” she says. “You may be able to fool other people, but I've seen behind the curtain. I know what lies beneath.”
“Yeah, well, in this neighborhood, you get by on your reputation most of the time,” I say. “This place will eat you alive if you show weakness.”
“Sounds like it's still all smoke and mirrors with you,” she says, her voice dreamy. “Like you brought that kid from the orphanage out into the real world with you.”
Her words strike a chord deep within me. As I replay those words in my head again, I suddenly realize – for the first time – that she's right, that I never really left the home. I'm the same kid I was back then – getting by on my reputation. That my existence around here is nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
“Yeah, maybe I did,” I say and then look at my watch. “I should probably get you home.”
Darby sits up with an earnest look on her face. “This was not what you think it was,” she says. “I love Jade, but I'm not like her. I didn't sleep with you just because –”
I cut her off with a gentle kiss. Pulling back, I stare into those sparkling emerald eyes. We sit like that for a long moment, a silent communication passing between us, in that exchange of intimate energy.
The edge that had been there a moment ago fades, and she seems to relax a bit.
“I know,” I say. “I know you're not. I just don't know how we're going to co-exist in each other's worlds. They're just so – different.”
“I don't know either, but I think it can be done,” she says. “I mean, I'd at least like to try.”
I give her a soft smile and place a gentle kiss on her forehead. I won't deny that I'm intrigued about the possibility of spending more time with Darby.
* * *
For the last couple of weeks, Darby and I have spent as much time together as possible. Which, hasn't been much, given her schedule, and my need to keep studying for my certification tests and working for Pops.
But, we're doing what we can. And the time we've been able to spend together has been – nice. More than nice. She's great to talk to and even better just be around. She's made a point of taking me to art galleries, teaching me about her passions, and has opened my eyes to things I never really noticed before.
Darby and I are keeping our – whatever this is – on the downlow. For a lot of obvious reasons. For one thing, I doubt her aunt and uncle would approve of me – especially given our age difference. Darby is eighteen but, I'm twenty-four.
And I am sure that her aunt and uncle would disapprove of me, I'm even more certain her brother would hate it even more. Everything she's told me about Mason just screams elitist snob. Somebody who looks down their noses at guys like me.
Dude was handed everything in life, and thinks he got there on his own merit. Guys like Mason don't know what hard work and busting their ass is like. He's never had to decide between eating or paying the light bill. He doesn't know what it's like to struggle. It makes me sick, right down to my very core. They have no idea what it’s like to be a real man – though, they'll always play at being one.
But, that's fine. I'm not gonna sweat it. Mason and his band of prep school thugs don't mean a thing to me. Darby's the only thing that matters.
Leaning back in my chair, I rub my eyes. I feel a headache coming on from spending the evening reading for my certification tests. I love reading, but not these kinds of books. They won't give me a license to start trading without knowing this garbage.
Trading – like setting lines and picking winners – is totally instinctive for me. I go over all the data, sure. Soak it all in like a sponge. But, when it comes down to it, I'm relying on my gut to make the right decisions. And, not to toot my own horn – okay, maybe a little bit – I'm right far more often than I'm wrong.
Unfortunately, that's not going to get me a license. I need to be familiar with the rules and laws and all that boring shit. It's tedious, but if I want to make a career out of it, I must learn it. Plus, if I slack off, Pops will kick my ass. He's put a lot of time and energy into helping get me where I am – which is no small feat for a man his age.
I really need to show him my appreciation for everything he's done for me. And I've vowed, more than once, that as soon as I'm making good money, I'm going to do just that. I'm going to make sure that old man can retire in luxury and style and live out his golden years doing – well – whatever the hell he wants to do.
I stand up and stretch my legs and back before I head to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. My apartment is tiny. Apartment is probably too generous a description for the space, really. It's a studio with a tiny little nook that serves as a kitchen that has a sink with shitty water pressure, and a stove that only works half the time. The rest is one room. My bed is pressed up against the wall under the windows, I've got room for a dresser on the wall next to my bed, and that's where I've got my TV, and a small, round table sits across from the windows that serves as my place to eat and study.
The place is so small, I can almost fall out of bed and be blocking the front door. There's literally no room for a couch or any other amenities. I have a few pictures hanging on the walls – my sole effort to make the place feel a little more like home. The walls are cracked, the paint is dingy from years of wear, and the windows overlook an alley that treats me to the nightly stench of decaying food and the sounds of people fighting..
Every night, I'm serenaded by the sound of police sirens, drunks arguing on the street, and bums digging through the trash, yelling at the dumpsters and walls around them. On more than a few occasions, I've seen these guys challenge the dumpster or wall to a fight.
Yeah, good times.
I stand at the windows, looking down at the alley as I sip my coffee. The stench coming from the dumpsters hits me, so I close the windows and light a candle. It's unfortunate, because even though the air is brisk, I like the fresh air – or rather, fresh-ish air. It's never truly all that fresh, with those dumpsters sitting down there.
I turn away from the window, looking around at my small, cramped, dirty apartment. This is not the life I want. I want so much more than this. I want a place with a view. A place where the paint isn't peeling and cracked, and I can open the windows and breathe fresh air.
Superficial shit, yeah. But, because of Pops' urging, and insane belief in me, I've started to want more out of my life. So much more. More than that, I've started to believe I can attain it.
It's such a stark difference in my attitude and thinking from my time back at St. Aggie's. Back then, I was content just getting by and doing whatever I had to do to survive. I always figured that was the best I could expect out of life. Now, everything's changed. Everything's different. Not only do I want more, want better, I know I can achieve it. And I'm busting my ass to make it happen.
I set my coffee mug down on the table and am about to sit down and get back to studying, when there's a loud, firm knock on the door. I glance at my watch and see that it's almost eleven – which means it's probably not Darby dropping by unexpectedly. Unless she managed to sneak out of her place for a little late-night fun. Which frankly, I'm kind of hoping for. It'd be a nice distraction from the books.
With a spring in my step, I move to the door and open it – only to find a man standing there. He's about my age, has dark hair, a trim but stro
ng frame, and is dressed in well-tailored slacks, loafers, and a blue button-up shirt with a dark patterned tie.
It's his eyes though, that tell me who he is. They're the same color as Darby's, but his don't spark the way hers do. His are somehow duller, less vivid, and less full of life – and far angrier than hers.
Just by looking at him – his stance, the set of his jaw, his narrowed eyes – I can tell he doesn’t view life the way she does. He's not a man who sees life – or people – as anything but commodities to be sold, traded, or bartered away. They only exist to serve his needs, and his purposes.
“Mason White,” I say.
“Carter Bishop,” he replies and nods, his voice cold and unemotional.
Curious about what's made him darken my doorstep – though, already having an idea – I hold the door open and let him in. Mason steps through the doorway and looks around, an expression of distaste upon his face. He obviously doesn’t like having to sully his shoes with the dirt of Hell's Kitchen. That high society living seems to have agreed with him.
He turns to me as I close the door, and lean against it, folding my arms over my chest.
“Been a long time,” I say.
He nods. “It has.”
“So, not that I mind seeing old friends, but what brings you by, Mason?” I ask. “Taking a nostalgic little stroll down memory lane?”
“Hardly,” he says, his eyes falling on me, that look of disdain not leaving his face. “I'm here about Darby.”
“Your sister, Darby?” I ask. “How is she doing?”
He looks at me evenly, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched so tight, I'm half-afraid he's going to bust a tooth.
“Don't bullshit me, Carter,” he growls. “I know you two have been seeing each other.”
I shrug. “Yeah? And who told you that?”
“Doesn't matter,” he says. “I'm here to tell you that the two of you are done. You're not to see her again.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Wow,” I say. “So, you're her keeper now, are you?”
“I'm her brother,” he says. “And she's a kid.”
“She's eighteen years old,” I reply. “Old enough to make her own decisions.”
Mason's face darkens as he stares at me. “She's naïve,” he says. “She's got a soft heart and is easily conned by snakes like you.”
I feel my eyes widen and my mouth falls open. “Wow, Mason,” I say. “You've got some balls on you, man. Some serious balls. To come into my home, and –”
“Darby doesn't know what's best for her,” he says, cutting me off as if I hadn't even spoken.
“Oh, and I suppose you do?”
“Far more than she does, yes,” he replies. “She's just too young, naïve, and stubborn to understand that. She has a bright future ahead of her and shouldn't be saddled with somebody – somebody like you.”
“Somebody like me, huh?” I ask, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. “And no offense taken, just in case you wondered.”
“I didn't wonder,” he says. “And yeah, somebody like you. Somebody on the lower rungs of everything. One step up from the gutter.”
I run a hand through my hair as waves of disbelief wash over me. Darby told me how arrogant and condescending Mason had become but seeing it live and in the flesh, is a whole different experience. It's breathtaking and about all I can do is laugh.
“Something funny?” he asks.
I shrug. “Just your presumption that you can tell her – and me who we can and can't see,” I say. “It's really something.”
“She's my sister,” he response. “And you – you're just a piece of street garbage.”
A wry grin touches my lips. “Maybe so,” I reply. “Still beats being an uptight, pretentious prick with delusions of grandeur like you. You fell into a pile of shit, Mason. If not for your aunt and uncle, you'd probably still be there. With me. And yet, because they came in, saved your ass, and handed you a silver spoon, you somehow think you earned your way to the top. I still remember what a little punk you were back then. If not for me, you would've gotten your ass beat on the regular back at St. Aggie's.”
“I've earned everything I have,” he says, seeming to bristle at my suggestion otherwise. “I've worked my ass off to get to where I am.”
His tone is hard and icy – and defensive. I've obviously hit too close to home and he knows it. Doesn't like being reminded of where he came from. Doesn't like being reminded that he's just a pretender in that rich, elite world he exists in. He hates being reminded that he was handed his position, and given plenty of advantages normal people don't get, in this life through no effort on his part.
“You didn't earn shit, man, and you know it. Somewhere deep in that little reptile brain of yours, you know you're a pretender. Know you had it handed to you on a silver fuckin' platter,” I say, digging the knife a little deeper. “So, don't stand there and pretend that you're better than me. Because I remember you for what you are. You're just a weak ass kid who got his ass beat at St. Aggie's and cried like a little girl. And I'm the one who saved your ass.”
He looks around my place, his jaw clenching and unclenching furiously. I can see he's doing his best to control the anger inside of him. He wants to take a run at me. Wants to throw a punch. I can see it. I have a feeling though, on some level, he realizes it would be a mistake.
“You know, being a lawyer helps you make all kinds of connections,” he says. “You get to know cops, prosecuting attorneys, judges – people like that. You get to know and be friends with them. You do favors for each other from time to time.”
“And I care – why?”
He shrugs. “When I found out about you and Darby, I started doing a little light reading on you, Carter. Quite an interesting story you have.”
“Get to the point,” I say. “And then get the fuck out of my place.”
“My point is that interestingly enough, there are still a ton of unsolved homicides around Hell's Kitchen, right around the time Pops Ramazzo was running his little crime family out of the neighborhood,” he says. “And, maybe you don't know this little fun fact, but the statute of limitations on murder never runs out. Could well be worth it for the police to open up some of those cold cases and take a fresh look at them. You just never know what they might discover.”
A pit opens up in my stomach, and that old familiar rage wells up within me. It's all I can do to keep from beating the shit out of him right then and there. It's one thing to threaten me, it's something else entirely to threaten Pops.
“You leave Pops out of this, asshole,” I say. “He's twice the man you're ever gonna be, you piece of shit.”
Mason shrugs. “Please. He's no saint, and you know it,” he says. “Pops is a murdering crook who has somehow managed to evade justice all these years. Maybe time has a way of catching up with a guy like him.”
Rage in my eyes, I take a menacing step toward him, and Mason retreats a step. Realizing what he'd done – showed me his weakness and fear – he stops moving and stands up straight, doing his best to look tough and unintimidated. I can see it in his eyes though – he's terrified of me. As he fucking should be.
“You go anywhere near Pops, and I'll cut your fuckin' heart out and feed it to you,” I hiss. “You got me, asshole?”
He clears his throat and tries to stand even straighter, doing his best to look like a tough guy. Trying, and failing miserably.
“You stay away from Darby, and I won't have to,” he says. “And we can avoid all of this posturing and unpleasantness.”
He steps around me, doing his best to avoid touching me, like I'm a leper or something. He reaches for the doorknob and I stop him. He turns to me, a look of triumph in his eyes.
“You know,” I say. “It just occurred to me that you're still the same little bitch I found getting his ass beat on the playground that day. You're just a scared little punk looking for somebody else to save his ass. I guess some things never change, huh?”
His e
yes flash dangerously, but he quickly tamps it down – though I can see the effort it takes. There's a moment when I think he might take a swing at me. But the moment passes, and I can see it in his face – he knows that if it comes to blows with me, he'll lose every single time.
“Stay away from her,” he says. “Or Pops goes down. Your choice.”
“You are a real piece of shit, Mason.”
“I win, Carter,” he says. “And I'm always going to win. People like me – that's what we do. We win. Total and complete victories. Not that I expect somebody like you to understand that.”
I let out a snort of derision and stare him down. “Yeah, you should probably go,” I say. “Before the cops have another unsolved homicide in the neighborhood on their hands.”
He gives me a greasy smirk. “Stay away from Darby,” he warns.
“Good seeing you, man,” I say. “We should grab a beer and catch up sometime.”
“Final warning, Carter.”
I give him a smirk. “Yeah, and Merry Christmas to you too,” I said. “Hope Santa brings you that ass kicking you so richly deserve.”
He rolls his eyes and leaves my apartment, slamming the door behind him so hard it makes the frame rattle. I stand there and seethe for a few minutes, doing my best to gather myself. I'm half-tempted to call Darby and tell her what just happened. I grab my phone, and start to make the call, only to hang up again.
I open the line again and am determined to tell her what a piece of shit her brother is – at least, until an image of Pops floats through my mind.
My heart is heavy and the anger within me surges high like a black tide. I really am caught between a rock and a hard place. The hardest of places. Continue dating Darby? Or risk sending a man who's been so good to me to prison?
I call up Darby's contact information again, my head and heart a swirl of conflicting emotions. Do I call her? Or, do I not? Do I let Mason win? Or do I tell him to get fucked and roll the dice with Pops’ life?
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