by Chelle Bliss
“Walk away,” I whispered, knowing it was best.
All this was for the best.
After he waited a good ten minutes, his fist pounding against the siding above the window, Dale finally sat down on the front porch. His feet dangled off the side as he slumped against one of the columns.
I knew this man. I knew what every expression meant. I knew what he thought when he scowled. What he felt when he curled his fist, ready to slam it into a wall. Just then, Dale tore off his New Orleans Saints ball cap, scrubbing his face as he leaned against his knees like he couldn’t quite figure out what his next step would be.
Then, like a wild man, the fool jumped up and kicked the door in. He tore through my empty house, screaming for me. My name so loud, I heard it two houses down.
“I can’t ever bring myself to love anyone else again.”
I didn’t stop the tears when they came this time. I didn’t stop the low, deep, aching sobs when they left my throat.
“Walk away,” I told him, looking at the man I loved in my rearview mirror as I pulled back onto the road, doing that very thing myself.
17
Dale
Turns out, I fucking hate New York.
The city was nice enough, the people were friendly, but the traffic sucked. The noise was unbearable, and I needed to see the mountains or the ocean or a trail that wasn’t surrounded by concrete. I’d spent most of my adult life with no home to speak of, and somehow, I found myself missing Seattle because it was the closest thing to home I’d ever had.
Even though Gin wouldn’t be there when I got back.
I dodged two yellow cabs as I moved through the intersection, following Joe’s directions as best as I could when the man told me where I could find Carelli.
“You better not go in there trying to whoop that man’s ass again,” he’d told me, smoking a cigarette at the bus stop next to the building where the show had been set up. “Those motherfuckers have guns and know how to hide the bodies.”
“I ain’t a Girl Scout. I just need a quick word, and I’ll be off.” I let the words hang there, not bothering to elaborate.
Joe had looked me over, abandoning his cigarette. If I wasn’t wrong, he looked disappointed in me, and he didn’t even know shit about me. Usually took a month or two before I started pissing folks off enough to disappoint them.
“You just gonna let him have her? No fight or nothing?”
“I clocked him,” I said, and I knew the defense was weak the second it was out of my mouth.
“And?”
“It’s complicated.”
That made the man cackle, slapping my shoulder as he leaned against the light pole next to the bus stop. “No, shit. Women usually are.”
He’d told me where to go, how to get there, and gave me a warning—don’t fuck with anyone in that bar. They all know people.
I didn’t much care about that. I could handle myself if I needed to, but hell, Carelli’s people had once fucked Kiel up so bad he almost didn’t make it back home to Seattle in one piece. And Kiel was a big motherfucker.
I shook off the worry, looking at the intersection, when I spotted Carelli’s bodyguard leaning against a stretch limo, bouncing a ball on the sidewalk next to a sign that read Demonte’s. He’d spot me if I just walked right by him, likely would clock me for getting past him on the set and wailing on his boss. I didn’t have time for that shit and didn’t want to end up in a New York City jail or at the bottom of a river somewhere.
I waited and watched the crowd, spotting the trickle of foot traffic increasing as the afternoon got later and later. I would have to reschedule my flight, but then, maybe that was a good thing. I had no expectations of seeing Gin. I’d burned that bridge. She left. I’d let her go. Trudy had come to New York to get me home, and now I knew why. It wasn’t some bullshit excuse. I was needed and not by her. I’d go, but I had to make sure Gin would be looked after. Even if Carelli was a piece of shit criminal, he would protect her. I knew that much. Hated to ask him, but for her, I’d do anything. Even beg a favor of a mafia asshole.
I saw my chance and followed behind a group of guys heading off of a bus and walking toward the front entrance. From the looks of the place, it didn’t strike me as a spot Carelli would find suitable. He was a little prissy for a roughneck bar. But Joe swore this was where he’d be because this was where most of the crew hung out. Where Carelli found most of the guys he’d hire for odd jobs and day labor. Where he’d found Joe, in fact, so I took the man’s word for it.
I fell behind four guys taller than me, sporting jeans and Carhartt jackets as they headed for the door. I slipped between them when the tallest opened the door. He nodded me in, and I dipped my chin in thanks, my eyes adjusting to the darkened bar as I moved inside.
It was mostly empty except for the front left side of the bar. Off to the right was a second area with around ten tables. In the center of the room was a second level, with a small set of stairs leading up into another bar area.
There were waitresses maneuvering around the larger area. They were checking on the small crowds gathered and refilling pitchers of beer or serving shots. But most of the activity was happening at the bar. It was there I slipped onto a stool, nodding to the old man behind the counter when he asked for my order.
“Jack. Straight.”
“You want a tab?” I shook my head, and he turned away from me to pour the glass.
The old man took the ten I left on the bar and then walked away, leaving me to study my surroundings in the long antique mirror that hung over the bar. There were no TVs in the place, but a vintage jukebox was at the center in the back and played an old Al Martino song. I looked around, my attention on that mirror, watching, squinting close when I made out the couple in the back of the bar next to one of the columns.
Gin and Johnny.
He leaned heavily on the table, balled fist at his temple as she sat cross-legged, not touching him, her body turned in his direction. Something had clearly happened, something that had put that worried expression on her face. Something that made Carelli down two shots of tequila before Gin took the bottle from him.
Couldn’t help myself. Didn’t see a need to.
I moved the long way around the bar, bypassing the center area. I looped up the stairs, coming to the right of the upper-level bar to slip in an empty booth just above where Johnny and Gin sat. There were thin slates between the columned wall, and I could just make out the worry on Gin’s face as she listened to Johnny speak. The music was louder in this part of the bar and had switched to a faster Dean Martin tune. I could only catch a few words from either of them.
“What…say…” I made out from Gin, frowning as Carelli pushed off the table, running his fingers through his hair. Then she nodded, and whatever that asshole told her had her touching his wrist, squeezing it.
I thought she’d let go. That was just my Gingerbread being kind to a friend, but then Carelli put his hand over hers and kissed her knuckles. My stomach dropped like I’d been gut-punched when I caught the blush that brightened her face.
“Come on, baby. Don’t buy his shit,” I whispered, willing her to hear me. Willing that asshole to get his hands away from her.
I’d socked him once. I’d do it again, but with one glance around this place, to the pictures on the walls—Carelli and Cara in a few of them, their father in many—and the guys I’d spotted from the crew, I understood I’d be outmanned. It would be stupid to try to level any kind of attack when this was clearly a solo mission.
“Sammy.” I heard Carelli say, and his head dropped again. This time, he kept it down, and I watched Gin’s face. All that sweetness, all that beauty always there, ready to be given away whenever she wanted, shifting as that asshole cried, leaning forward so she could cradle him against her chest.
“Motherfucker.”
Gin touched his back, giving him her sweet comfort. She gave him her softness that I’d had so many times. I’d fucked up royally, but Car
elli didn’t squander it. He took what she gave him like he needed it. Like he didn’t need anything else. Killed me to do it, but I watched them. I watched as Carelli went on crying, holding on to Gin, as she kissed his forehead. Her lips moved, and she said things to him that probably felt good, that probably eased him. Had to. She’d done it for me a dozen times or more when I’d fucked myself, over and over again.
I couldn’t look away as Carelli straightened, as he thanked her. He kept his fucking hands on her soft face as he kept his eyes closed. Then he pulled her mouth to his and took her kiss. From my Gin.
She was going to push him away. I knew it. How could she not? Gin couldn’t take that touch. She wouldn’t let him cry and kiss her and think it was real? Not when I’d just been inside her. Not when she’d spent years waiting—
But I hadn’t given her what she wanted. I hadn’t done a damn thing but stew in my own fucking misery while my best friend got over me.
Gin didn’t pull away from Carelli. She didn’t stop him.
My Gingerbread took his kiss and let him pull her close. She let that man hold her and take her mouth like she’d forgotten that I’d been there first.
That I wanted to be there again and again.
Forever.
There was only so much a man could take.
This was on me. I’d let her walk away. I hadn’t tried to explain a fucking thing.
This was my fault.
But I damn well didn’t have to watch it.
So, I didn’t. I didn’t watch, and I didn’t look back as I walked away.
18
Gin
What was I doing? No…this wasn’t. I couldn’t.
“Johnny, no,” I said, pulling away from his kiss.
I hated the look he gave me. Half relief, half disappointment. We were both so damn mixed up by the people we wanted. The people who didn’t want us back.
“Bella…” His voice was gravelly, rough, but the apology was sincere.
“It’s okay,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I promise. It’s fine.”
The place was dark and nearly empty except for the loud men at the bar in the front and the waitress who kept coming by to check if Johnny had enough tequila.
From the way he’d tasted, he’d had enough.
God. Tasted. Johnny Carelli kissed me.
He’d been upset and wouldn’t elaborate other than to say that Sammy had eviscerated him out on the sidewalk next to Sofia’s restaurant.
“She looked at me like I was the lowest filth…like she’s never…”
“You still love her.” It wasn’t a question.
I was familiar with unrequited love, and Johnny didn’t deny it.
We understood each other better now.
At least we could relate to each other.
“Bella,” he repeated, voice aching and low. “I’m… Dio, I’m sorry.”
“Johnny…”
He lifted up my chin, and his gaze moved over my face. “I was…upset, and you were very kind. I got…away from myself.”
I spotted the question in his eyes before he asked it. Johnny wanted to know if I was repulsed or turned on by his touch.
He wanted to know, like me, if there was something between us worth exploring.
I was confused, but I wasn’t stupid.
“We’re both in a rotten place, aren’t we? Both so mixed up.”
His smile was slow to come and sweet. It remained there as Johnny wiped his face and mouth dry. “Tesoro…I cannot promise you anything but friendship.”
I sat back, leaning one elbow on the arm of my chair. “I think I’m starting to realize I could use a good friend right about now.”
He moved forward again, resting his hand on my arm. The feel of it was comforting and warm. “There are no guarantees in this life, and love, well, that is not for everyone.”
“No,” I said, meaning it. “It’s not.”
“But friendship…that, bella, is for always.”
“It can be, yes,” I said, pushing down the small flame of bitterness I felt. Dale had once been my friend. Sometimes I wished he would have stayed my friend and only my friend.
“So, I am sad over the bad things I did to Sammy…” Johnny moved his chair forward, rubbing his fingers along my arm. “And you are sad that Hunter can’t seem to get himself together enough to keep you happy.”
I didn’t disagree with that assessment either, but wouldn’t fill Johnny in on why Dale couldn’t make me happy. Whatever was happening with Trudy and the baby, it seemed to me Dale had made a choice, and I wasn’t it.
Johnny opened his hand, offering it to me. It only took me a second to take it. “What if we promise to remain friends, only friends and just have fun? No sex, no kissing or anything else other than a good time, hard work, and more fun celebrating our eventual success?”
“That sounds perfect, Mr. Carelli.”
“Bene.” He lifted my hand to his mouth. The kiss he placed there was soft, sweet, and made me feel something I hadn’t in a long time—happy.
19
Gin
Three Weeks Later
Seattle
* * *
Some things fit.
Peanut butter and chocolate.
Lavender on a pillow.
Strawberries and champagne.
Jazz on a Saturday night in a smoky club.
Sometimes things are perfect, and you know it. It’s instinctual. You can see how perfectly the fitting happens in one glance. I saw that well enough watching Cara and Kiel hold their three-week-old son.
They fit, the pair of them, almost better than anyone I knew. Four hours in a hospital with nurses and doctors moving around them, and then there was no “pair of them” anymore. There was someone new. Someone precious, and just like that, Cara and Kiel were a family.
It fit them.
“My heart,” Mr. Carelli said, his frail smile growing.
Cara held her son next to her father’s chest so the old man could get a better look at his first grandchild.
“Dio mio, il mio amore prezioso. He is perfect. Like his mama. Like his nonna Theresa, God rest.” He leaned forward to kiss the baby, his smile wide, expression amazed. “Bene. Molto buona.”
“Thank you, papa.” Cara choked on her words as Kiel stood next to her. His eagle eyes were on his wife and son, sometimes shifting around Kane and Kit’s large home, to the bodyguards Johnny had insisted follow us when we left New York for Seattle to meet the newest addition to the Carelli clan.
“Now,” the old man said, his gaze following the baby when he began to fuss and Cara stood to pace near her father’s wheelchair to jostle the baby asleep. “The christening…in New York. St. Matthew’s, of course…”
Kiel’s features were tense at the mention of returning to the city with his family. So was his mother, Mrs. Kaino, as she stood next to him. Both seemed reassured when Old Man Carelli began discussing the plans he had for the baby’s christening and the security he’d provide for everyone.
“My entire security team and Johnny…figlio…come…”
The old man called Johnny to his side, and he patted my back as a way to excuse himself as he joined his father. I didn’t mind. I’d become accustomed to dismissals whenever the elder Carelli needed Johnny over the past three weeks. The show kept me busy, so did plans for what might come next, and when it didn’t, Johnny made time for me.
It was nice, being around him. Having no pressure at all beyond what meals we ate and what shows we took in on the weekends. There were a few concerts and some dinners with his friends. It was fun. It was friendship. It was all…very…nice.
But it wasn’t hikes up Mt. Rainier or Clint Eastwood movies on a Sunday night. It wasn’t drive-in movies in Tacoma or picnics with Kit at whatever new flea market she discovered, dragging Kane and Dale along to lift heavy furniture she’d stuff in her storage building for a later show. It wasn’t moonlight beer guzzling in an open field with my best friend talking about life
or talking about nothing at all.
It wasn’t family, the family I’d made in Seattle.
New York and Johnny and the life I’d started to make there was nice.
But it wasn’t home.
It wasn’t family.
I shook myself from the haze of thought I fell into as Johnny slipped to his father’s side, and I used his departure as an excuse to catch my breath and track down Kit.
It had been a week at least since I’d heard from her. Mainly because they were prepping for a new shoot. This one on the lake again, more secluded since Kit’s show had drawn a wider audience and been assigned an earlier time slot. They were pulling out all the stops. The prep required a lot more work than they’d ever had to put into the show before. At least, that’s what Kit mentioned the last time I’d spoken to her. When I’d called to find out if Dale had come back to Seattle.
He had. Kit couldn’t give me any more details than that. It had been the first time since I’d known her that my friend appeared to take a side in the Gin/Dale fiasco, and I hadn’t been her choice. That stung more than I thought it would.
I rounded the back of the den, following the sound of laughter I heard in the kitchen. My stomach tightened when I heard Kane’s booming chuckle and Kit’s teasing tone.
“Stop it, you’ll ruin it.” She slapped his hand away from the pan of roasted salmon she was bent over in the open oven. “Your mother will kill you if you mess up this salmon. She’s been working on it all afternoon.”
“She won’t know.” Kane pinched off a corner before she could stop him. “She’s too busy fussing over her grandson.”
“And hinting for more,” Kit muttered, pushing the dish back into the oven before she closed it.