by Natalie Wrye
“Geez,” I stare into his face. “Blunt, much?”
“With you,” he winks one eye. “I could always be. Unless something has changed. Unless you’ve gotten a little too ‘West Coast.’ A little too ‘gluten-free’ these days.” He snorts.
I lean forward. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means nothing. Just means you’ve changed, Delilah. We all do it.”
I laugh, a humorless sound. I squeeze my thighs together, unhooking them. I almost can’t believe what I’m hearing. I can feel my eyebrows drawing together. I glare at Javi.
“Sounds like you haven’t. You’re the same severe, humorless asshole you always were. Making a mockery of everything. Criticizing from the sidelines, but never wanting to get involved. You never get invested in anything.”
“Oh, you mean like Darren?” He raises both dark brows. “Mister Prom King? The guy was a jack-ass and a coward. The only thing he ever got involved with was himself. He wasn’t a bully, no, but he never said anything to his ‘best friends’ who were. I got involved in lots of things, alright; they just weren’t the kind of things your snobby friends gave a fuck about. Like, helping people for fuck’s sake.”
I open my mouth, but have no retort. The room goes silent. Our raised voices were just moving scarily towards being shouts, and it seems in that moment, we both realize it. I can feel my face turn flushed and Javi stares at that damned table in front of us as if his life depends on it. Fifteen years of emotional baggage are being unpacked right before our eyes, but it seems we can’t do anything to stop it, the curious connection between us rearing its ugly head, revealing all our deepest problems with each other. I decide to start first, running my fingers through my messy hair before finally speaking. My tone is low.
“I—I’m sorry for getting out of line.”
Javi glances at me. “I think I started getting out of line before you.”
I give him a small smile. “It seems that you and I bring out the worst in each other. Always have.”
“Or maybe that was the best of each other.” He stares at me. “The brutal parts. The ones no one wants to face—the ones that you and I could always share with each other…” He trails off. “Before other people’s opinions got in the way. Before we started giving a fuck what others thought.” He raises his stubbled chin. “But then that’s just my opinion.”
“And you’ve never been afraid to share it with me,” I quip, my tone going light. Javi shakes his head, his words quiet as he chuckles. His white smile brightens up the room, and my heart squeezes. His smiles are so rare. So gorgeous.
“That’s because you gave as good as you got, Delilah. Have you forgotten?” He locks me with a green-eyed stare. “I haven’t. I haven’t forgotten a thing about you. Because I know you. And I know you need my help. And I don’t give a damn what you say… I’m going to give it to you. Whether you accept my help or not. Whether you like it or not. It’s the only thing I’ll ever force on you, Del. Everything else is up to you…”
Touching the underside of my chin, he lets the statement linger in the air. His presence is powerful, his stare hard and soft at the same time. He regards me with the reverence of a prized possession and yet his gaze is steely enough to chip at anyone else—to make them break.
With me? There’s a ‘tender’ to the ‘tough’ that is Javi, and I remember vividly when I experienced both. All the tender parts. All the tough parts. Around me. On me. Inside of me.
I squirm for a totally different reason.
Because Javi hasn’t let go of my jaw, and suddenly nothing is very funny at the moment. In actuality, things have become serious, dead serious in a very short amount of time.
We’re staring at each other, and neither one of us seems able to look away.
His hand is the only thing that moves between us; his fingers run absently along my jaw, tickling gently on the smooth skin beneath. His glare deviates from my own, trailing its way to my mouth.
He’s going to kiss me. I want him to.
I close my eyes slowly, preparing myself for the pressure of Javi’s mouth.
But it never comes. He withdraws suddenly, clearing his throat and standing before I can even blink. I open my eyes to discover the dark-haired Adonis shifting strangely on his feet, his green eyes uncharacteristically deep and soothing.
And suddenly the door opens behind his back. Another federal agent knocks lightly as he cautiously enters, a worried look on his face…and Darren at his back. My slick-haired husband steps into the room as if he owns it. The federal agent merely looks at me.
“Hate to interrupt Mondello, but this, uh, Mr. Cook here,” he glances at Darren, “threatened to sue this entire department if we didn’t let him see his wife.”
And from the look on Darren’s face, I can see he means it. This red-faced Fed must have seen it, too. Darren was capable of giving the sort of hundred-watt smile that made you smack your grandmother if he wanted you to. But he was equally capable of cutting you down to size, to exalting himself to the levels of the god he believed himself to be, his searing blue stare showing no mercy.
It’s the same look he gives me now, his slightly red eyes ruthless as they look me over. I turn back to Javi, finding an even more ferocious one in his evergreen irises. He glares at Darren as if he were walking gonorrhea. And right now, I don’t blame him.
I straighten to my feet, causing Javi to do the same. Javi nods at the other agent and the man goes, tearing out of the open door, leaving us in the dust. Javi looks at me, bringing my eyes back to his.
“We can always talk more about this later, Del.” He nods at me. “I want to delve more into what happened.” And then he shocks me. “And I want to delve more into whether or not the new Gafanelli Enforcer is all behind it.” He hands me another of his cards. “I’ll be in touch.”
Say It Again
JAVI
Director Langley:
Apologies for the late response. I was busy catching a Gafanelli hitman. Almost positive that something like that warrants further investigation. I’ve decided to stick around San Francisco and speak to my source further.
Will keep you updated. Boss.
Mondello
I hit the “Send” button and go to the next e-mail, this one from Ang. I open it.
Hope all is well, Jav.
Your phone’s been out for two days. Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive. I haven’t started planning your funeral yet, but I got a priest on stand-by, if I don’t hear from you in twenty-four.
Love ya,
Ang
I chuckle, the quiet sound echoing through the empty room, my rented San Francisco house eerily quiet so early in the evening. I remember when I used to like the solitude, when silence was one of my very best friends. Doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. The quiet doesn’t just emphasize the seclusion of the life I’ve led; it now highlights the emptiness.
With my best friend Sienna gone, Ang is practically the only connection I have to the “human” world—a world where people actually have relationships, make connections, build friendships. A world I knew nothing about, never wanted to know anything about.
Until her.
Sitting here at my keyboard in the tiny home office, I imagine Delilah Castalano—excuse me, Delilah Castalano-Cook, and what she’s doing. Where she’s sitting right now, who’s she talking to, how her hair smells…
And whether or not she’s lying beneath the man who waltzed into our last conversation without preamble. A man who doesn’t deserve her.
Darren Cook and Delilah should be the last people on my mind amidst an investigation under more scrutiny than the president, but there they are, in the back of my mind. I think of the look in Del’s cobalt blue irises as she stared at me in the interrogation room, legs crossed, head high.
I remember what it felt like to have those legs wrapped around me when I scroll to my next e-mail, opening it only to find her name reflected back at me. I click on her message
without thinking twice, my fingers moving without my mind to back them up.
I start reading.
Javier,
I’m ready to talk.
I can’t make any promises. In fact, I won’t. But when you’re ready to continue our last conversation, then so am I. We won’t be interrupted.
I look forward to hearing from you. Hopefully soon.
Delilah
She signs it without her entire name. No “Castalano-Cook” tonight. I take it as a sign, and though the clock reads almost nine, I decide to go for it, while I still have the fucking gumption, to make that “talk” a little sooner than we expected. I don’t want Delilah to back out of it. Not now.
Her danger has already gone too deep and with Senator Fletcher awake and now jumping back into the fold, it’s only a matter of time before all Hell breaks loose, the long-standing rivalry and bond practically bursting at the seams with violence.
The relationship between politicians and the mob has always been like a marriage. Constantly turning. Ever-evolving. As much friends as they are enemies, the ties between Senator Fletcher and the Gafanelli family were no different—nothing more than a wheel of emotion that spun ‘round and ‘round. Friendship on one end. Murder and mayhem on the other.
And right now, we were caught on the wrong side of the wheel. I could only hope that Delilah and I wouldn’t be crushed by it, trampled by the turn of two power-hungry entities.
I grab my jacket, heading for the front door. Seconds later, I hop on my Ducati, heading for Delilah’s home address. I pray that the local police put on “Delilah-patrol” don’t interfere; I don’t need another mark on my marred record. I push the motorcycle faster, the black bike speeding into the night like poetry in motion. I tighten the helmet on my head, glancing over the horizon as I speed.
The Bay is beautiful at night. The smoky terrain in my view is breathtaking and with the mountains taking up my periphery on both sides, I feel enclosed, calm—made at peace by the gorgeous beasts of mother Earth towering majestically just above me. The hills are alive. Alive with both light and dark, the small glow of the houses among them, twinkling like stars—leading me to the one place that feels like home.
Delilah.
New York had always been that for me—my sanctuary. In recent years, the familiar feeling of comfort that washed over me every time I walked within those city limits had receded, like the tide on the coast. The Bronx barrio where I had grown up no longer filled me with the sense of contentment it had offered me as a child, which was one of the few reasons I rejoined the Bureau, diving back into the danger, tying myself to the one thing that made me feel like I was making a difference.
But who knew if that was the case any more…I’d almost been too late with Delilah. I was too late with my best friend, Sienna. I hadn’t helped ease the burden of evil that had surrounded her, and she had run.
The thought makes the back of my throat scratch and my eyes burn. They’re still burning when I pull into the park across the street from Delilah’s well-kept townhome, a mansion in San Francisco terms—regal with its Victorian shutters and white walls. I hop off the bike, removing my helmet as I walk. I hug it to my side when a man approaches, a plainclothes cop, with a distinctive frown. He crosses his arms in front of him, taking an intimidating stance that intimidates no one.
He has no idea who the fuck he’s talking to…and I smile.
“Hey buddy.” He stands in front of me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Well, pal…” I scratch the underside of my jaw. “I’m here to see a girl. A girl I know you’re here to, most likely, protect. But I have to tell you: I protected her first…” I move closer, lowering my voice. “So move out of my way.”
The plainclothes officer scoffs, dropping his hands into fists, and ten minutes later—after I show him my FBI badge and beat him with it, I head up the small set of stairs towards Delilah’s front door. I knock three times before she answers, and when she does—in a tight tank top and well-worn jeans, I have to fight to keep my eyes on her face and off her figure, which is just as dangerous. Make-up less, her hair down and flowing around her face, she looks seventeen again, completely beautiful.
Her innocence is still in her eyes, only it’s been hardened by time, molded into strength, made into a skilled willpower I can’t describe. I lean against the doorway.
“You know,” she says, parking her hands on her hips, “I heard you when you first pulled up. Saw you outside. Seriously considered calling more cops as I watched you fight with this one and then decided against it at the last minute.” She shakes her head slowly, her eyes widening in wonder. “What are you doing here?”
“Testing out your ‘protection,’ for one. Quick recap: They’re not that good. I’ll have a conversation with the San Francisco police department in the morning. You can bet on that. And two: I came here tonight to see you.” I straighten. “Got your e-mail. Saw that you were ready to talk, so I thought I would stop by for a chat.”
Delilah lifts an eyebrow. Her arms wrap around her own midsection, holding. “You decided to come tonight? Sorry to disappoint you, but when I said I was ready to talk…that did not mean immediately. A normal person would know that.”
I grin. “It’s a good thing that I’ve never been normal then.” I peer over her shoulder into the house. “Did I wake Melanie?”
Del glances back behind her. “No, she’s with my friend, Carrie. I didn’t want her around any of this more than she had to be, and Carrie keeps on-call protection.” I narrow my eyes, to which she rolls her own. She drops her hands. “Crazy ex. Don’t worry; he hasn’t been around in years. Still, she’s the paranoid type.”
“And Darren?” My voice loses its warmth.
“Darren’s back on the job. Wherever that might be. Being president as part of an oil conglomerate will do that to a person. He has…priorities.” She scoffs. Her voice turns small. “Anyway, he’s not here, either.”
“Great.” I touch the edge of her arm. “Then you can come with me.” I start back down the stairs until Del calls over my shoulder, her words sharp and hurried. She hurls them at my back, nearly shouting.
“Wait, wait. Come with you?” I hear her footsteps next. “I never agreed to go with you anywhere.” She snorts softly. “And I barely agreed to talk, so…”
I spin towards her. “So…you need convincing. That’s why I’m here. To convince you. I know this routine, Delilah. I know you. Every point you concede is a tentative one…and I want to win this one. Not for my sake.” I point at my own chest. “But for yours, for Melanie’s. Figuring out what the Gafanellis might be up to is worth it, don’t you think? They sent one of their own to rob you, steal what you know. And God knows what else.” I watch her pink lips purse. “Don’t you think that’s worth exploring? Do you think that’s worth a ‘talk,’ at least?”
She sighs, her fingers fiddling with the edges of her lush brown hair as she stands there on the steps, staring at the sky. Her fingertips move the ends of her gorgeous mane tirelessly, and I can practically see the anxiety pulsing through her veins, the panic slowly rising to the surface as it had so often when we were teens. Too young to get her the proper help. When I was stupid enough to believe I could push her pain away with my touch.
Not much has changed for me in the stupidity category, but it’s worth a shot. I wait.
“Okay, fine,” she relents, blowing out air. “I’ll come with you. But only somewhere where we can talk. I swear I can feel the eyes of the undercover cops sent here all over me. It should make me feel safe. But all it’s doing is driving me batshit crazy.” She heads back up the stairs. “I’m going to grab my jacket.”
I climb the stairs after her. “No need,” I say. “Take mine.” I shrug it from my shoulders, handing her the heavy leather. I stand by as Delilah takes it slowly, pocketing her small house key as she glances from me to the jacket, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the two. She takes it from my hand, careful not
to touch my fingers. She looks at the garment and nods, putting it on.
I watch it swallow her small frame, her tiny shoulders. She’s fucking adorable. The picture of purity. My ocean-eyed girl. The former cheerleader with the bright eyes and the wide smile, sinking into the cloth of the bad boy, the outsider. She lets the jacket hang there open, sliding her tiny hands into the sleeves, and I want to kiss her. I’m barely able to resist the urge to do so, and when she glances at me with a wry smile that says “How do I look?” I almost do it.
I touch her chin, swiping my finger over the skin, and then I drop my hand, shoving it into my back pocket as I reach for my keys. Delilah looks at my long-sleeved shirt and frowns. She points towards the cotton.
“That’s what you’re going to wear?”
I shrug. “What can I say? It’s a nice night. A little cold never affected me. I’m a New York boy, remember?”
She shakes her head, laughing a little. “And you won’t ever let me forget it, will you?” She bounces back up the stairs, turning to lock the door. She returns to my side in seconds and we descend down to the street, crossing it. We make it to my motorcycle, and I hand her my black helmet, helping her put it on as she stands there, shifting on her feet, her small hands fidgeting with the face shield as I slide it over her head, fitting it over her entire face. She touches the fiberglass over her eyes, and knocks her knuckles along the side. She looks at me, her eyelashes fanning apart as her round eyes morph into saucers. She whistles low inside the helmet, her fingertips brushing along its jaw, feeling the weight.