by Natalie Wrye
“You’ve come a long way since the first helmet,” she comments.
“Yeah,” I wink at her. “I’ve come a long way in other ways you’ve yet to see.” I raise a shoulder, letting it drop. “Take a look.”
Delilah turns towards the Ducati, and the gasp that leaves her lips excites me. She reaches out her hands, her fingers outstretched. She slides them along the sleek black paint of the body, her closely cut nails trailing along its side. The Monster bike is exactly that—part beast. A fully loaded machine. Its silhouette is almost as sexy as a woman’s and watching Delilah explore it with her fingers makes my cock stir beneath my pants, bringing it to life. I’m almost fully hard by the time she stops, her nails digging lightly into the Ducati’s seat, her face lit up as she turns to me, awe in her eyes, an additional glow in her face.
God, she’s so fucking gorgeous. I almost have to look away. I want her so badly.
The wanting is only made worse when she drops her hands from the motorcycle, clasping them together, her light pink nails squirming inside her folded fist. She barely moves an inch.
“I know it’s been a long time…but I can’t wait to ride.”
My cock. It’s the only thought I can think of, but I push it aside, remembering Delilah’s recent robbery, her vulnerability the last thing on Earth I’d want to fuck with. I walk towards the bike, sliding on.
“Then ride, you shall.” I look back at her. “Hop on.”
She saddles up behind me, somehow smoothly wrapping her legs around each side of the beastly vehicle. I hit the red button beneath my right hand, starting up the engine. The beautiful monstrosity of a motorcycle roars to life and the seat beneath me hums through the air, the vibration setting off every one of my senses.
But nothing is setting them off more than the understatedly sexy woman behind me with her hands wrapped around my chest. I push the bike out of its small parking space, taking off, and those tiny hands around me tighten, pressing hard. With Delilah’s thighs straddling me, I head off into the night, careening down the quiet street. The night comes to life as we cruise over the suburban streets and toward the highway, the bright headlights of the Ducati leading the way, and I suck in the spring air, coming to life myself.
This is comfort to me. Delilah. The night. And myself. Mix the three together and you’ve got the fucking recipe to my resurrection, a sultry combination that makes every goddamned thing else seem so small. Including the Bureau.
Staring at the signs that signal the detour to California’s US Route 101, I veer off on a quick exit, turning down the connector to the infamous highway. The air grows cooler, the Pacific Ocean air chilling the atmosphere, and even with the salty winds whipping at my skin, the briny smell hitting my nostrils, I feel nothing.
Nothing but Delilah’s hardening nipples against my back, her womanly curves fitting to mine. I notice how her figure has filled out since the last time I saw her, her breasts fuller, her thighs softened. They sink themselves against me, and my cock grows painfully hard as I imagine how soft she is everywhere, how sinkable, and I can’t stop myself from thinking of how I want to bury myself into all of that new womanliness, those curvaceous planes of hers created by genetics, molded and sculpted by motherhood.
It was something else to see her as a mom. Stern yet soft, gentle but firm, she was every bit of the caretaker I’d always expected her to be, her tenderness as a smiley teenager transferring into her adulthood with ease. She was marvelous with Melanie. And I wondered if anyone ever told her, if anyone ever shared with her how naturally loving she was—how caring. I can tell, every time I look into her slightly sad eyes, how she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her business. Her life. Her family. I doubt that Darren ever lets her know how magnificent she is, and the thought makes me unreasonably angry, my blood boiling as my bike rolls over the undulating terrain of the beautiful bayside city.
My skin is still hot, everything inside of me still raging—hormones and all, when we finally stop, the motorcycle swinging to the side of the road where I put it in park, kicking the kickstand to the ground. I let Delilah hop off the bike before swinging my leg over to join her, reaching my hands out to remove her helmet as she fights to lift it with her fingers, her movements frantic. A curtain of dark brown hair comes tumbling out, spilling over the shoulders of the leather jacket on her body, and she hands the helmet to me, nearly shoving it into my chest. She looks over the hill on which we stand, her hands running through her loose hair. Her dark brows draw together into a frown.
“When you said ‘talk,’ I actually took you seriously.” She turns to me. “What is this?”
“This?” I slide my hands into my pants pockets, my line of sight shooting over her shoulder. “This… Well, this is a restaurant.”
“I can see that. Why are we here?”
“To talk.” I blink. “And eat. Like normal human beings do.”
“There goes that word again. Normal.”
“Overrated, if you ask me.” I walk towards the entrance, ushering her inside. “Come on, princess. Let’s talk.”
Focus
DELILAH
Even at this early hour, the crowd at Sorrentino’s is relatively thick, and though throngs of people dance and dally at his back, all I see is Javi. Panic makes the room shrink. Slow music fills the air, but all I hear is his voice, just as clearly as if he were whispering the very words into my ears.
I order a glass of wine, but Javi simply watches. With a plate full of pasta, he touches nothing on the table but me, and if it weren’t for his fingertips skimming my skin, I’d think I wasn’t even there. Nobody seems to notice me but him. He pulls me close, his hand covering mine.
“Listen, I don’t want to think about what you’ve heard about me. Honestly, I don’t want to know. It may be right… All I want to know is if you’ll give me a minute. Just one full minute. And if it doesn’t scare you, you’ll stay for another. After that, I’ll be gone…but so will my offer. So think about it seriously before sending me to Hell.” He waits. “Okay?”
Tight-lipped, I nod. I honestly don’t know what else to do.
He begins.
“Look, Del.” He slides his hands from my wrist to my fingers. Touching. Teasing. “I want you…” The words steal my breath. “I want you working with me, Del. I need you to understand… There’s a world I live in. A world that exists beneath this one.”
His suddenly emerald eyes grow dark.
“You’ve seen a glimpse of this world… You saw it when you were a journalist, writing about the Gafanelli family and their political connections. You saw it that night in your store.” He keeps going. “Those two worlds don’t often interact…but sometimes they do, and unintended bystanders become collateral damage. You were collateral damage, Delilah. You are collateral damage. And damage comes at a price—one you can’t afford. One that I can…”
My blood, once hot at Javi’s touch, begins to run colder than ice. I’m no fool, and I don’t like being spoken to like one. I rub a palm across the nape of my neck, sucking in air. “So, that’s what this is about… The senator? The assassination attempt at the opera?” I drew the question out. “What?”
“All of it.” Javi’s voice was hard. “You know too much.”
“I don’t know anything!” I practically scream. “I mean…” I lick my dry lips, trying to breathe. “This was Penelope’s thing—their deal. Not mine. I just helped.”
“Doesn’t matter. Like I said, collateral damage.”
I understand what Javi isn’t saying. I couldn’t fake ignorance if I wanted to. “What are you saying here? That there’s a price on my head?”
He doesn’t blink, answering my question. “Yes.”
Blood rushes to my head—pounding. “How much?”
He glares. “The Gafanellis don’t measure price in terms of money. Only blood.”
His words are like a punch to the gut. “When?”
“Soon. Very soon.” He enfolds his fingers
in front of me. “I’m willing to risk that much if you will help me.”
“Help you?”
“Help me find the people who wrote the price tag.” I search his hardened eyes. I find no humor.
I shift in my seat. “What’s in it for you?”
“Come on, princess. Does it really matter?” His retort is like a slap. “Do you want to stay alive…or don’t you?”
I can’t argue. If what Javi was saying were true, then it doesn’t matter. Unless he was the one cashing in… But it doesn’t make sense. He’s had plenty of time to do that. With Penelope. With her boyfriend, Jackson. He hadn’t…and yet still…
What choice do I really have?
I sit still as stone for ten seconds. I nod, willing my neck to move on its own. Within seconds, Javi’s full minute is up and because I stay there, he launches into the next one.
In that minute, he was the Javi I had known—the silent brooding boy with long dark hair and the deep voice. The leather-clad loner with the evergreen, uninviting eyes.
I can’t coincide that version of him with the one who was standing in front of me—the one who’d scared me, suckered and ultimately swindled me. I shake my head, tears starting to sting behind my fluttering eyelids. I take a deep breath.
“So this is all a part of your Criminal Investigations job?”
Javi blinks. “Of course it is.” His voice is serious. “That’s who I am, princess. A nightmare to all who know me.”
I want to smack him where he stands. “I’d say thank you, but I’m incapable of thinking of anything beyond the words ‘fuck you’ so you’ll have to excuse me if that comes out instead.”
For the first time all night, Javi’s face is grim. He looks…apologetic. But the expression passes just as quickly as it comes, and I can feel an icy coldness return with remarkable speed.
Javi nods once. “Understandable. You have every reason to not believe me…”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Or trust me.”
“You think?”
His sea green eyes narrow. “But I’m going to tell you what I told Penelope…” The mention of her name makes my heart flutter. “Don’t trust me. In fact, you’d be wise not to. And I’m not going to ask you to. What I will ask is that you trust yourself. It’s the only way either one of us are going to get out of this alive.”
He reaches in his pants pocket.
“Here.” He hands me a black card. “You didn’t use the last one. Maybe you’ll use this…”
I can’t resist. “And where will you go?”
“To New York. Where this mess began. I’ll come to you in exactly one day. That’s how much time we have. That’s how much time before they’ll replace your position. And I will teach you. I will teach you how to survive. But first we have to make this move, Del. It’s now or never.”
My palms are sweating around the black card. “So what you’re saying is that working with you will save me?”
Javi inhales. Harshly. “No.” He answers firmly. “Working with me will break you. Working with me will put you in front of many more enemies, make you question everything you’ve ever learned about our justice system, and take everything from you and give you nothing in return. Working with me will be your beginning…or your end. It’s up to you, Del.” He paused. “Nothing and no one will save you, but you.” He stares me down. “Are you ready?”
I glare back. “No.”
“Good. Finish up, princess. I’ll take you home.” His green eyes glare. “But I’ll be back for your answer tomorrow.”
I Won’t
DELILAH
I never thought I’d see him again. Hell, I thought I’d imagined we’d met.
The spring air that night was thick, almost sticky. Aunt Reba was gone—gambling what little money she had on her annual Atlantic City trip and Penelope was away at debate camp.
The summer was looming, close enough to taste. And on a empty, uneventful Saturday, I’d let my friend Carrie convince me that throwing a party was exactly what I should do—that a little beer, music and mayhem was normal for a couple of juniors on the brink of graduation, heading into their senior year with nothing to do but submit their college applications and wait.
I’d been good. Hell, I’d been angelic.
My grades were spotless, my school record clean. I hadn’t had a date since never, and I’d even helped my old blind Aunt Reba cook and keep a clean house whenever she had company. Which was almost always.
And I made sure my sister Penelope got to school on time, took her academics seriously. I’d been an adult since I was seven, wrote checks before I knew how to sign my own name, so it was easy to convince me. Convince me that a weekend bender was just what I needed to be normal.
Normal. Like that was possible. Safe to say, it wasn’t my brightest idea.
But the rest of St. Mary’s Prep High showed up in droves. Drums of beer came barreling through Aunt Reba’s brickfront door at ten o’clock, and by midnight, half of the student body at my Manhattan Catholic school was wasted, stumbling around with cups full of alcohol and bodies packed with hormones.
Me included.
I sipped on a red Solo cup with Carrie waiting for Darren Cook to walk through the front door. I nudged her for the ninetieth time.
“Have you seen him yet?” I asked over the loud speakers.
My best friend turned to me. “No, I haven’t yet. But even if I did, I might not tell you. You’re losing it, Del.”
“Am I?” I hid my face behind the rounded plastic in my hand. “I’m no good at this. This alcohol tastes like ass. There’s lipstick on my teeth. And I’m pretty sure there’s puke in my Aunt Reba’s petunias.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “This party was a bad idea.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Carrie barked back. “Don’t worry; he’ll be here. And in the meantime, go.” She nudged my shoulder with hers. “Mingle. Move around. Find some hot guy and stick to him like glue. That’ll get Darren’s attention as soon as he walks in the door.”
I scrunched my nose. “You think?”
“I know.” She smirked. “Nothing gets a guy’s blood running like seeing another guy with his eyes or hands all over you. Now go find a sexy pair of hands.” She got up from the kitchen table. “I’m going to do the same.”
She wandered off into the living room, shooting me a wink. I switched the solo cup in my hands, going for another sip, and when a sliver of the cheap vodka hit inside my lips, I winced, the clear liquid burning my throat as it scratched its way down.
I wandered to the back porch, the bottom of my belly on fire. My head was light. The skirt around my hips was tight and I shimmied my way out into the slightly cool night air, passing over the wooden patio until I hit the stairs, my sore feet staggering all the way to the bottom
I sat on the last step.
Maybe Darren wasn’t coming. I didn’t blame him.
I was popular enough…but on the sliding scale from the bed-wetters and band geeks right up to Carrie, sometimes it felt like I was closer to neither. Not a Prom Queen. Not a leper. A nothing. Nothing normal, at least.
Most teenage girls dreamed of dates, hidden kisses behind cars and in dark theaters. I dreamed of a world without health scares and kissing boo-boos, without budgets and making breakfast. A world where I could be a kid. A regular kid. And in that world, my parents were still alive, and like those sappy Rom-Coms I watched with happy beautiful couples with their happy beautiful lives, my family was still whole, still happy, still together.
Still breathing.
The alcohol swirls in my stomach, and I lean off the side of the stairs, emptying the contents of it, tears burning the back of my eyes as I gag. I hear the sound of footsteps over wood on the stairs behind me and when I raise my head, the smell of vodka slams into my nostrils, making them sting. The smell is attached to a set of hands, but these ones aren’t the sexy ones that Carrie talked about. These ones reek of liquor and the fingers attached comb through the strands of the
hair on my head, stroking. Petting. Playing.
I blink, looking up at the ceiling and find an earth brown set of eyes staring back at me, the blonde brows furrowed, more finely defined than they were fifteen years ago.
Carrie stares back at me. “I thought you’d never wake up.” She strokes my hair. “You fell asleep on the couch.”
I glance at empty wine glasses on the coffee table in Carrie’s living room, searching for the time. Instead I find three quarts of Cookie ‘N Cream gelato three inches from my face. My head hurting and my tongue still tasting of chocolate, I peel myself off my oldest friend’s suede sectional, cutting the TV off to the tune of “Benny and the Jets” streaming from the movie on “27 Dresses” on the screen. My mouth still reeks of the red wine that has yet to settle in my stomach, and the mix of flavors churn in the pit of my gut like butter, the sight of Haagen Daaz and Hallmark movies scattered along the floor only reminding me of how low I’ve sunk.
Another bad decision to line up with the rest of the ones I’m making. I rub my eyes.
“How long have I been asleep?” I moan.
Carrie turns the faucet on over the sink. “Only two hours, seven minutes and thirty-six seconds.” She smiles over at me. “But who’s counting? You passed out sometime around seven PM… when the Hallmark movies turned into a Katherine Heigl rom-com marathon and the Cabernet slowly turned into Haagen Dazs. I’m surprised you don’t need a stomach pump.” She raises one eyebrow. “And a lobotomy. You’ve been babbling about Javier Mondello all night.”
I groan. “I have?”
“In your sleep.” She grabs a wine glass, cleaning. “But who’s eavesdropping?”
I look over at the beautiful blonde. “You, apparently.” My heart starts to beat hard. “What exactly did I say?”
“Just something about the FBI and something about chasing ghosts. It was sometime around your fifty-sixth glass of wine and when all the ice cream was already gone.” She glares. “You even licked some chocolate off the floor.” She sets the glass down, rounding the counter. “Want to tell me what this mini-meltdown is all about?”