UNPROTECTED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Hanley Family Mafia)

by Zoey Parker

  Me on her, and her on me, so moist and fits so perfectly, and the dance is picking up speed, me in her, her urging me, and I’m in then out and again and the slams are just part of the dance and even the colors are picking up speed – see we’re the ones setting the pace now, and I’m slamming into her, our bodies fused, our hands sliding all over each other, both of us on the brink, not able to stop, yet not wanting to continue, wanting to prolong it, this feeling, this union, this fusion.

  God, this feeling— but our grasps are becoming violent, our limbs restless, we can’t take much more of this and it’s time so I do: I pick her up and shove myself into her as hard as I can, give her the grand finalé she’s been waiting for, swoop my cock in and out of this perfect fit. We’re perfectly in synch, the mash of our hips, her lips, fingers gliding – the colors explode and we do too and yes, yes, yes - we collapse to the ground, and she pushes me back and lays herself flat so I can spread my own color across her bare form, paint her body, just another one of the movements now.

  And when we are done, we don’t turn off the colors and we don’t turn on the lights. We take a giggled silence of a bath, bubbles from somewhere and that vanilla body cream that got me so hard last time.

  And then it’s to the bed. For more or less, I’m not sure.

  As soon as body hits sheet, we both know. That was fantastic and more than enough. Being with each other, here, now is enough.

  I glance over and realize I know nothing of her. She looks sad.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, but she only shakes her head.

  Murmurs, “Family trouble.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, running my hands over her shoulders, massaging them.

  She doesn’t move, doesn’t even glance over. She really is beautiful, like a sort of Mexican princess: jet black hair and that olive back… I feel like telling her, like taking her in my arms and covering her with it, my adoration, this feeling I still can’t quite place, that I still don’t exactly have a word for.

  But right now, her back is turned to me as if she’s somewhere else, and I can see my words would fall just as flat as my question had. I sit up and turn, look past her into the mirror at myself, who’s no different than her. I’m just as closed off. I want her to share things, go places I’m not even willing to go myself.

  What am I doing?

  I slide under the covers and she does the same. Almost looks happy.

  We watch the light show in silence, the restless strands of color swirling on the uneven walls.

  “Where did you get that thing?” her half-smile asks.

  “It was under the bed,” my grin answers.

  She nods, snuggles under the covers deeper, then turns to me with a look I’ve never seen in her eyes.

  God, if I’m not careful this woman could be the death of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m just not used to this. Usually I don’t see the same person this much. I’m with you – this casual thing works, I’m just not… used to it.”

  She nods, closes her eyes, burrows herself into me, murmurs, “Ever think this is casual not because of our work, but because of our fear?” As soon as she realizes what she’s said she starts back, turns away so that her back’s facing me again.

  I move closer. “Yes,” I tell her back, kissing it, “Maybe.”

  And then I see the tense muscles of her back relax and more words spill out of my mouth, “I had something like this once. Something passionate, intimate, different - a woman I worked with. It ended horribly, went horribly – she took over everything. And, once she was gone… there was nothing left.”

  Tony turns to face me, my words on her face, she nods.

  “I’m so afraid,” she says, and I take her in my arms, and rock her.

  I want to tell her that she need never be afraid, that I’m here for her, that I’ll always be here for her.

  But I look at her oblivious sad face and I know. I can’t lie to her and a lie is all that such a statement would be.

  No, Tony can’t know me, can’t love me, can’t be with me – it would only put her in danger.

  No, I must remain alone, those passing intimate nights my only pleasure.

  Now more than ever, the fight with the Piccolos is coming to a head. I can’t afford this.

  “Tell me more,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She says nothing because we both know that I know exactly what she means.

  I stop rocking her.

  There’s only one thing to tell her. One more thing I can. The most important thing.

  “I have a sister. Hannah. A beautiful, funny, loving saint of a sister. She’s everything I’m not. She’s the greatest person I have in my life. She’s in university, lives in an apartment on the other side of Toronto, but we still tell each other everything. She’s…”

  My voice dies away. I can’t tell her.

  My jaw clenches with the words, the revelation I can’t say. All the lies that have been coiling around me, until, trapped in their cage, now I’m speechless.

  “She’s what?” Tony asks, straining to look up at me.

  “Never mind,” I say, avoiding her gaze, “What about you?”

  Now it’s her turn to avoid mine.

  Her face falling, she says, “I have a brother. A half-brother. But he’s nothing like that. He parties, drinks, wishes I wasn’t around, gets in my way whenever he can. We agree on practically nothing these days. He’s my half-brother but he’s as good as a stranger. We used to be close. I would miss him if I didn’t hate him so much.”

  Now her body is all clenched muscles and tension.

  I start massaging her again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She shakes her head, arches her back, stretches out further.

  “Don’t be. We’re here, now. This. This is enough.”

  She closes her eyes, and I kiss her smile, and close my eyes.

  ###

  When I wake up and see that ruby half-smile, I know. There’s no choice in what I’ll do today. There’ll only be a “must.”

  I dress quietly, turn off the light projector, check my phone.

  It’s 9:29 am and I have five new messages, none of which I check.

  I have a beautiful woman in my bed; the world can wait.

  I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth – 100 for Momma and a 100 more since I missed last night. I call a taxi, whisper the address.

  And then, I wake my sleeping princess. She looks pleasantly surprised at where she is, at seeing me, at having me clothe her, put her stuff in her bag, pull her to the door.

  “You’re not a morning person, are you?” I ask.

  Her only response is a sleepy nod.

  “I called you a taxi,” I tell her. Then I press her to the wall in a kiss, breathe in her ear, “Oh, I’m not finished with you yet.”

  The taxi is right on a time, and my raven princess is a sunny smile.

  “Close your eyes. I want this to be a surprise,” my kiss informs her ear.

  She obliges smilingly.

  For the whole ride, even when we get there, I make her keep her eyes closed.

  It’s only when she’s standing in the exact same spot as before that I let her open them.

  She looks up and then up and up, sees the familiar tower, and her face falls.

  “Gabriel.”

  I squeeze her hand, but she pulls hers free.

  “I thought we agreed.”

  I grab her hand again.

  “Come on now. It’s not dinner, it’s breakfast. Revolving breakfast at the restaurant 360.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Gabriel, I can’t do this. I’m not having breakfast or revolving breakfast on the CN Tower with you. I’m going home now.”

  “Tony,” I say.

  She takes a step away.

  “Tony, please.”

  She takes another step, pauses. When she turns to me, her eyes are full of tears.

 
“I’m sorry Gabe.”

  And then she walks away, my morning plans, the one woman I’m starting to think will be the death of me. This is the first time she called me Gabe, and the first time she’s walked away from me.

  Chapter 22

  Toni

  As soon as I’m down the block and around the corner, the tears come.

  I wipe them away angrily.

  God, why do I have to be such a fool?

  That look in Gabriel’s eyes, I know that look. It’s the one I’m feeling too.

  That I don’t want to spend just breakfast with him. I want to spend the whole day with him and the day after that too. I want weeks by his side.

  The thought terrifies me, as do the possibilities of its opposite. What if he knows? What if he’s just toying with me, trying to use me for all I’m worth, trying to mess with the Piccolos through me, trying to ruin all of us? What if he knows?

  My phone rings. It’s him. Gabriel.

  I don’t answer.

  If he doesn’t know, then it’s not me he cares for, anyway. It’s the woman he met in that bar – the devil-may-care seductress who doesn’t have family baggage dating back three generations, who isn’t in charge of his competitor’s business. Who hasn’t been lying to him for weeks.

  I turn off my phone.

  I can’t do this. Not now, maybe not ever.

  By the time I get to a bus stop, the man with the low-brimmed hat has been walking behind me for four blocks.

  When he stops a few feet away from me, I hail a taxi.

  Maybe my brother’s having me followed. Maybe he knows already, just needs proof, a nice photo to inspire the others to turn on me.

  For the taxi ride, my phone stays off, but my thoughts won’t shut up: What’s Gabriel doing now? Exploring his latest conquest, checking out our old office – touching the same door handle I touched, yet unaware of it? Is he thinking of me, is he missing me already, does he want me now, there, beside him?

  I want him.

  “Can you turn on some music?” I ask the long-haired cabbie.

  He obliges with some good old “Uptown Funk,” the song that was playing when Gabriel and I met. Me and my albino on shining motorcycle.

  I check my phone.

  There’s two missed calls from Gabriel, and a text from Carlos: Where are you?

  The taxi pulls up to my house slowly enough. I pay him, get out and throw my coat over my head, run in.

  This is getting too risky. I can’t keep doing this, and yet, I can’t stop.

  Inside, I shut the door as quietly as I can. Immediately, Carlos is there.

  “Again,” is all he says.

  I unzip my boots, not bothering to dignify that with a response.

  “The men are getting restless,” he says.

  “We’ll find a place,” I say.

  “I’ve got something to show you,” he says, “Something to do with the Rebel Saints.”

  “Later,” I say, turning away and running up the stairs.

  I don’t want Carlos to see me cry.

  I fall asleep to a tear-stained pillow and muffled sobs. I awake to night.

  I inhale, then exhale.

  It’s not a new day, but it can be if I make it. What do I want to do today?

  I stand up, sashay to my mirror. Smile.

  I want something new. Something different. Someone different.

  My reflection beams back and we realize at the same time: that’s the problem – I haven’t had anyone new for a while. That’s all. That’s why I’m hung up on this impossibility – Gabriel Pierson of all people. I just need to go fishing again.

  Getting ready is easy: Tonight’s outfit is a fuck-me black leather crop top and a fuck-me blue leather skirt that covers my ass more or less. Then a few swishes of mascara, a smear of pink on my lips and I’m good to go.

  Tonight’s venue is the same old – the only place I can walk to, the easier place to sneak to: the very bar I met Gabriel at. Babylon, my old hunting ground.

  The pond is full tonight – a lot of minnows with their university sweats and oblivious smiles. A few swordfish, all earrings and intent eyes. Maybe I’m feeling adventurous tonight.

  I stop in front of the swordfish with the gaze that doesn’t shift, that’s stuck on mine. He’s got black little orbs, so black that the iris is joined with the pupil to form one giant intense gaze.

  I put my hand on his chest, and he puts his on my hip.

  Our smiles understand each other: Yes, this will work.

  This will be my tonight. He’ll do just fine.

  He feeds me drinks, though on the dance floor I’m rubbing myself on him without being drunk.

  Most men don’t get it. That’s it’s more fun when you’re drunk, but when you’re doing it for the escape, you don’t have to be.

  They just have to be like my swordfish: curly black hair he lets me run my fingers through, a hint of a smile, roving hands and broad chest.

  They just have to lead me to the dance floor, press themselves into me, sway us into one dance that was like the other dance. Gabriel, the colored lights, me.

  I freeze.

  The swordfish takes my face in his hands, and I need another drink.

  “Toni,” James the bartender says once I get there.

  “James,” I say, sitting down and giving him a “free Sex on the Beach wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world” smile.

  I could always ask the swordfish, but right now I can’t stand him. A few more drinks’ll solve it.

  “Some guy was here asking about you,” James says with a smirk, “That guy from a few weeks ago. The albino.”

  I stare at him.

  “Want me to give him your number?” he asks, just as the swordfish returns.

  He’s all hand on my ass, but he doesn’t understand.

  That my stomach is swirling, not from too much alcohol, but from the last man who touched my ass.

  I jerk upright, away from him.

  He smiles like he understands, slings his arm around me, moves me along except I don’t. Can’t. I can’t go with him.

  I look out onto the dance floor, full of all the other nobodies. The men who are notable only in that they are not him. And, in that, that they are useless to me.

  I rip myself out of the swordfish’s grasp, stride out the door without a word.

  Outside, I tear off my heels so I can run the rest of the way home as fast as I can. So I can jolt the dawning realization away, so I can focus on the fatigue instead of the feeling.

  And yet, I can’t escape him, can I? The whole reason for all of this. The man there is no escaping: Gabriel Pierson.

  What would he say if he saw me now? Running down the street, barefoot, high-heels in hand, tears rolling down my face, trying not to think of him? Trapped?

  There’s no tears this time, only a shocked horrible flop into my bed, a dry-heaving over the toilet, a staring in the unforgiving mirror, into the reflection who’s as dismayed as I am, who doesn’t know any more than I do: What am I going to do now?

  Chapter 23

  Gabriel

  I’ve had better mornings.

  I wake up to the usual: eggs benedict and well-crisped bacon, brought by Teresa, my maid, and a text from Tony, my I-don’t-know-what.

  Let’s cool it for a bit was all her text said, but we both know that’s just the start of it.

  I respond the only way a reasonable man would: Okay, how about tomorrow?

  She doesn’t respond, but expecting her to in 10 minutes probably isn’t very realistic, especially for someone who… oh right, I don’t even know what she does.

  As soon as I’m on my last bite, Jaws calls me.

  “Just had it confirmed that Hannah was seen round the Piccolo house, and that Papa Piccolo is in the process of croaking.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?” I ask.

  When I visited him in the hospital yesterday, the cast gave him a Michelin Man upper leg. There’s no w
ay he’s ready to be out.