Chapter Eight
The front door opens just as I step off of the stairs and into the quiet foyer of the house. My gaze flickers that way when Lorenzo walks inside. He’s alone, and nobody else is home, which means it’s just me and him at the moment.
I pause there, cautiously watching him.
He was gone when I woke up, even though I beat the sunrise. The air in the house was stifling last night, and it doesn’t feel any more comfortable this morning. I’m not sure if it’s leftover tension or if maybe I’m just projecting.
Either way, I don’t like it.
I don’t want to wear out my welcome.
Lorenzo glances my way, hesitating a moment before he shuts the door. “You look nice.”
I glance down at myself, at the casual little black and white striped dress with long sleeves. It goes almost to my knees. I bought it because it has pockets, which is damn near a miracle for women’s clothing. Pockets are kind of like men who eat pussy for fun—unicorns.
“Yeah, I’ve been setting the bar crazy low lately, with all the sweats and junk, so I just thought, you know, why not give looking like myself another go?”
His gaze slowly scans me. “You’re beautiful no matter what you wear.”
“Thanks,” I say, the compliment surprising me. There was not a stitch of sarcasm to it. Weird. He’s wearing faded jeans and loosely laced combat boots with an unbuttoned black Henley shirt and a black coat. It’s strange, how the man can look so well put-together with whatever just thrown on, no thought given to it at all. “You look nice, too.”
Lorenzo glances at himself, making a face, before cutting his eyes my way. “Don’t make this shit weird, Scarlet.”
I laugh as he shrugs off his coat, draping it over his arm. He takes a few steps away, toward his library, before pausing in the hall.
He lingers there, his back to me, like something has him torn, before he slowly turns around again. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I figured I’d get some air,” I say, motioning toward the front door. “You know, get out of your hair for a while.”
“Get out of my hair for a while.”
“Yep.”
“Pity,” he says. “I kind of like you in my hair.”
He walks away, disappearing into his library, leaving the door open behind him. I stand here for a moment, my gaze shifting between the hall and the front door, before following him, my black heels clicking against the wooden floor, so I know he hears me approaching.
He’s sitting in the chair, hands laced together on the top of his head, the sleeves of his shirt shoved up to his elbows. His legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles. While he looks relaxed, I sense the tension. It rolls off of him like waves, written in his silence.
I stall there, mostly still in the hall, and lean against the doorframe as I regard him.
He stares at me for a moment before saying, “You can come in, you know.”
“I know.”
“Yet you’re standing there,” he says, “making shit weird.”
I smile softly. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d want to come along.”
“Come along.”
“Yes.”
“To get out of my hair.”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t say anything.
It’s still tense. And awkward. I can feel it. Can you? I mean, look, I know how stupid I’m probably sounding at the moment, but I’m so out of my element here. It’s not like I’m exactly fluent in relationships. I’ve got no friends... no family besides my daughter... never even had a boyfriend, if we’re being technical. Just a string of men who used me for my body and now I have him, and whatever this thing is, and it’s all just so foreign. But things feel weird, he’s right, and I don’t really know how to make it better.
“I mean, no offense, but you’re a bit of an asshole,” I say. “Figured you might want to get away from that dude for a while.”
Again, he says nothing.
“Or not,” I mumble, giving him a small smile that he doesn’t return before I push away from the doorframe, going back out into the hall. I head for the front door, opening it, and am about to walk out when I hear movement behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Lorenzo as he slips on his coat, coming toward me, moving past me, walking right outside without a word. I join him, shutting the front door as I eye him peculiarly. It’s seventy degrees out, yet he’s bundled up like it’s still winter.
“You hungry?” I ask as we start to walk away from the house, leaving his car parked in the driveway, since I figure the subway will suffice. He follows my lead, like he’s just tagging along.
“Depends,” he says. “You offering?”
“Of course,” I say. “You ever dine and dash?”
He laughs at that. “All the time.”
“Awesome.”
We head into the city, switching trains twice. It takes almost an hour before we finally get off around Broadway. I’m not sure where we’re going, or really even why, but somewhere along the way Lorenzo takes the lead like he’s got a destination in mind.
We end up at a restaurant near Central Park, one of those fancy ass billionaire call girl places, the wine and dine and sixty-nine kind of gals, where you treat her to champagne and caviar before turning her out at The Plaza until your Viagra gives out.
You get where I’m going with this?
Me, with my face all scraped up from the alleyway scuffle, and him being, well... him. We’re out of place here, but Lorenzo doesn’t seem to notice. He waltzes on in the door as if he owns the place, approaching the hostess and saying, “need a table for two,” as if barking that will negate the ‘by reservation only’ sign hanging up near us.
The hostess impatiently mutters the reservation policy before she looks up, silencing mid-sentence. She’s quiet for a second, caught of guard, before she says, “Sure thing, Mr. Gambini. Coming right up.”
Oh-kay.
She shows us to a small table in the back corner, dropping off two tiny one-page menus full of shit that’s foreign to me, like Miyazaki Wagyu (some fancy ass kind of steak, according to Lorenzo). I’m reading through it, making faces as I try to decipher it. “Have you eaten here before?”
“All the time,” he says.
Of course, makes sense, since they recognized him. “You know, dining and dashing only works if you’re able to get away, which doesn’t really bode well for us, since they know your fucking name.”
He laughs. “I know.”
“So why are we here?”
He doesn’t have to answer that, no, because the universe tells me exactly why we’re here when I glance up and come face-to-face with Leo. He’s wearing his tuxedo work uniform.
I realize right away that he’s our waiter. Oh boy.
“What do you want?” he grumbles, stalling beside the table, staring at his brother. He’s kind of adorable, with that little black bow tie, especially with him pouting at the moment.
Makes me want to pinch his cheeks.
“Is that how you greet all of your customers?” Lorenzo asks. “Because if so, I would’ve fired your ass long ago.”
“Look, it’s been a long day already, and I’m working a double, so can you cut me a break?” Leo asks. “I’m doing my best here.”
“I know,” Lorenzo says, snatching the menu from my hand, discarding it. “We’ll just take the tasting menu.”
I scowl. “You’re ordering for me?”
Lorenzo cuts his eyes my way. “Is that a problem?”
“Depends,” I say. “What did you order?”
“Tasting menu,” Leo chimes in. “It’s a little bit of everything, like a sampler or whatever.”
“Oh, well then...” I wave toward Lorenzo. “Not a problem.”
“You want some wine or something?” Lorenzo asks.
“Or something,” I mumble, picking up the drink menu, which is a hundred and fifty times bigger than the food one. Not even joking. A hundred and fifty pages of alcohol. I flip through it, scowling some more. Wine. Wine. Wine. Red. White. Locations and years and who the fuck knows what all the French means. My eyes skim along the price list. “Oh geez, who can afford to even smell half of these?”
“I can,” Lorenzo says.
“Does that mean you’re buying?”
He shrugs.
I take that as a yes.
“Well, in that case...” I close the drink menu, shoving it aside. “A bottle of your most expensive whatever the hell is on that menu, thanks.”
Leo laughs, while Lorenzo snatches the menu up. “Whoa, whoa, I’ll be goddamned... that’s like twenty-thousand dollars, Scarlet. Drop some fucking zeroes, woman.”
I roll my eyes, turning to Leo. “You got anything fruity, like the crap that comes with little umbrellas?”
Leo nods.
“Give me one of those,” I say. “Surprise me.”
Leo looks at his brother again. “What do you want?”
“Rum.”
Rum. Of course.
“Glass of our best rum,” Leo says.
“Cheapest rum,” Lorenzo says. “And the whole bottle will be nice.”
“Glass of our worst rum,” Leo mutters. “Whole bottle, my ass...”
Leo walks away, while Lorenzo glares at him.
My drink doesn’t come with a little umbrella, it turns out, but instead is decorated with some fancy orange peels in curly shapes. I pluck one out, looking at it peculiarly while I take a sip of the whatever-it-is. Sweet and fruity and strong.
“Those are my oranges,” Lorenzo points out as he takes a swig of his rum from the small glass Leo brought him. No bottle.
I eye the peel. “Straight off the Gambini groves?”
“Yes.”
“Huh, isn’t that something,” I say. “Must make you proud, having such a successful business.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s all right,” I say, repeating him. “Geez, man, contain your enthusiasm.”
He smiles slightly. “Forgive me for not squealing like a little bitch about it. It’s a lot of work for not much pay off. It’s kind of depressing, having spent over fifteen years working sun up to sun down, busting my ass to keep the family business going, and not banking even a fraction of what I’ve made since coming to New York. And I don’t even break a sweat here, you know. It pays to be a non-sentimental asshole.”
“But yet you keep the groves,” I point out.
“They’re my home.”
That response surprises me. Home. “You think of that as home?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because of what you went through there, with your stepdad and your mom and—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, cutting me off. “My father built the place and left it to me. Nothing they could do would ever ruin that. I refuse to let it.”
“So why are you here?”
“I already told you why,” he says. “Same reason as you... I saw a movie.”
I know he’s bullshitting. How do I know that? Because I was when I said that to him on the roof all those weeks ago, that I’d come to Manhattan because of the Muppets.
“There are, what... eight million people in New York City?” I ask.
“Something like that.”
“I just thought, you know, that many people, I was bound to find somebody to give a shit about me. So that’s why I came. I was young, and lonely, and sick of being ignored and overlooked. I wanted to matter to someone.”
Lorenzo stares at me, like maybe he doesn’t know what to say to that. It starts to get weird again, with him not speaking, so I’m damn grateful when the food starts to arrive. Thank god. Leo drops off two plates, and I make a face when he explains what it is—some kind of cream sauce with oysters and caviar.
It looks more like art than something to eat.
I try it, though, because fuck it. I don’t like letting food go to waste. It’s salty, and fishy, and ugh... no thanks. It gradually gets worse, with more fish and some artistic-looking artichokes, some funky beef in strong-tasting broth, before there’s even more seafood. And more. And more. And more. There’s a salad with dressing that tastes like sweet and sour sauce and a fucking celery and leek something that’s been grilled with truffles.
Truffles.
The only truffles I eat are the chocolate ones.
Lorenzo, though, devours it all.
We don’t talk.
The last course arrives, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the dessert looks like dessert and isn’t some weird fish shit. Cookies and ice cream and chocolate, oh my god... I shovel it all in, no hesitation at all. I’m still starving.
“I got bored,” Lorenzo says eventually, not touching his dessert.
I glance at him, brow furrowing. “What?”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I know that sounds like bullshit, but it’s true. I got bored, and I wanted a change. Oranges weren’t my father’s only legacy. He grew up in the mob, ran these streets for years, until the Genova family drove him out of town... that’s how he ended up in Florida. But even then, they wouldn’t let him be. So I thought, you know, why not pick up where he left off? So I showed up, took them all out, and here I am, bored again... or at least I was.”
“Not bored anymore?”
“At the moment, no.”
“That’s good to know,” I say. “What happens when you get bored again?”
“I go back home.”
Leo shows up again before I can respond, dropping off the check, which I promptly pick up. It’s damn near eight-hundred bucks. For lunch. “Whoa, buddy...”
Lorenzo snatches it from my hand and tosses it back on the table before standing up. “Come on.”
He starts walking away, and I just gape at him, because he’s legitimately leaving, like we’re actually dining and dashing, because he’s not paying the check, and I certainly can’t do it. I don’t have that much money. I shove up out of the chair, following, keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone, while he looks people dead in the face.
He’s fucking insane.
The second he steps outside, he pulls out his tin and grabs a joint, flicking a match to light it, smoking it right here on the sidewalk as he looks around. “So, where to now?”
“Jail, probably,” I say, pausing beside him, scowling as he blows smoke in my face. “I don’t know how the hell you’ve evaded lockup so far, because you’re terrible at flying under the radar.”
“Who says I’m trying to fly under the radar?” he asks. “I mean, come on, baby... look at my face. There’s no point in me sneaking around.”
I look at him, not because he just told me to, but because of the word he used. Baby. It does the kind of thing to my chest that makes me feel uncomfortable—the squeezing, tightening, pitter-pattering bullshit. Ugh, knock it off, heart. You’ve got no business reacting to him.
I point at his face, waving my finger around. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean you have to flaunt it.”
Lorenzo grabs my hand, pulling it away from his face, still holding onto it as he says, “But that’s what makes it all so fun.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s something wrong with you.”
“I know,” he says. “So, where to?”
He’s looking at me like he wants an answer, but I just shrug, because I’m not sure. I didn’t really leave the house with a plan, you know?
Besides, he’s touching my hand. Holding my hand. Weird.
Lorenzo sighs, finally letting go and continuing to smoke, motioning with his head down the street before he starts to walk. I don’t know where he’s going, and he sure as hell doesn’t tell me, but I follow along regardless.
“So your Broadway story was bullshit?” he asks. “The Muppets didn’t make you want to join the chorus line?”
I smile. “It wasn’t bullshit, per se. I did fall in love with Broadway.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wish I had that kind of talent... the kind where someone would pay me to dance around with my clothes on... but I don’t, so I leave it to the professionals.”
“What’s your favorite play... musical... whatever?”
“The Lion King.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He laughs, like he finds my answer funny. “I saw the cartoon a few times.”
“Me, too.” More than a few times. “Never actually saw the musical, though.”
His footsteps falter so much that I almost run right into him. “How is it your favorite if you’ve never seen it?”
“I’ve never really seen any of them,” I say, “but I heard it’s good, and I’ve seen clips.”
“You’ve seen clips.”
“Yes.”
“That’s just...”
“Pathetic?”
“I was going for more like bullshit.”
“It’s life,” I say, “which, contrary to what you seem to think, can’t always be fun.”
“See, now that is bullshit.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and starts tinkering with it, like the conversation is over now, nothing else to say about it. We stroll along for who knows how long, wandering the streets until my feet start to hurt. I kick my shoes off and carry them, because fuck it, which earns me a peculiar look from Lorenzo. He shoves his phone away eventually, but we still don’t really talk.
I let him lead, and maybe it’s weird, but I’m kind of enjoying the silence. It’s peaceful in a sense and sets me at ease.
I needed that today.
Needed this.
Serenity.
We end up on Broadway in the middle of the afternoon, and I look up, gazing at the yellow The Lion King signs along Minskoff Theater. Lorenzo heads right for the place, getting closer... closer... closer, but I grab his arm to stop him as he nears a gathered crowd. “What are you doing?”
“Going to see The Lion King.”
“I, uh... what?”
I start to argue, but he doesn’t stop to listen to a word of my complaint, heading right inside just as others filter in. The man working the door looks at Lorenzo, averting his eyes quickly in reaction.
I tense. It makes me sick to my stomach.
Lorenzo, though, doesn’t seem bothered.
The guy asks for our tickets, but Lorenzo talks his way right out of it, weaseling past two more workers and an usher inside, like they’re all just too afraid to say ‘no’ to him. We find some empty seats in the back, way up top, but I’m not going to complain a bit. I’m just too damn shocked I’m actually in the theater. Intermission is ending, the second act starting up. We missed the whole beginning, but fuck it... I never thought I’d see this much.
The music starts, and I’m entranced as we second-act the afternoon showing, ignoring the looks of people around us who know damn well we weren’t here earlier. The first few minutes, I’m on edge, waiting to be thrown out, but eventually, the draw of what’s happening on stage is just too much.
I watch, tears in my eyes that I struggle to hold back, pressure in my chest like my heart wants to explode. I’m bursting at the seams with feelings and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s like being swept up in a tornado and I’m just waiting for it to drop me somewhere.
And I land hard the second it’s over.
I’m up out of my stolen seat, cheering loudly, clapping and screeching and crying, because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed outside of my daughter. Nothing will ever be more beautiful than her, but this moment is a close second, and all I can think as I stand here is how much she’d love this, how happy it would make her to see something so touching.
I turn to Lorenzo. He’s just staring straight ahead. He cuts his eyes at me, like he can sense my attention, and makes a face because I’m crying.
“Come on, fuddy-duddy,” I say, shoving against him. “Let’s get the heck out of here.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s out of the chair and heading through the crowd while the performers are still taking bows. I wipe my face as we go outside, knowing my makeup has to be a mess.
“That was... wow,” I say when we walk away from the theater. “I don’t even have words right now.”
“Yet you’re talking.” He makes a puppet out of his hand as he holds it up, right in my face, saying, “blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...”
I shove his hand away with a laugh. “Fuck off.”
He looks at me and smiles. He smiles. It’s genuine, no more than a flicker of happiness, but it’s there, and I see it, and it does something to me.
There’s that damn pitter-pattering again.
“There’s something about you, Lorenzo,” I say, shaking my head as I look away, unconsciously returning his smile. “Sometimes I think you might just be human.”
“You’re making shit weird again, Scarlet.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“So, where to now?” he asks, stopping on the nearby corner, waiting for the light to change to cross the street.
“I don’t know... nowhere, I guess?” I shrug, waving back toward the theater. “I’m not sure how that could be topped.”
He looks at me, raising his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”
“Uh, no...”
“It sounds like one.”
“Well, it isn’t.”
He grins, a sly kind of smile just as the light changes, leaning closer to whisper, “challenge accepted,” before walking away, crossing the street.
I’m not sure what he’s thinking right now, but my stomach twists all up in knots. Shit.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
But I’ve got to admit... I kind of like it.
* * *
Seven lives in a little brown cookie-cutter townhouse. Potted plants line the steps, the flowers in them starting to bloom.
Purple. And pink.
Seriously, he’s got purple and pink flowers leading to his front door.
He stands there in the doorway, dressed like usual but yet barefoot, his eyes scanning us with confusion, like we’re the last people he expected to see when his doorbell rang a moment ago.
“Bruno, love, who is it?” a woman’s voice calls out from behind him inside.
“It’s, uh...”
Seven doesn’t finish, but he really doesn’t have to, because the woman pops up in the doorway beside him. She’s everything you’d expect from someone with potted plants leading to her door, the kind of woman that just looks like she’d pack her husband healthy snacks before sending him off to work—burgundy ruffled blouse, black pencil skirt, with perfectly straight blonde hair, wearing the kind of makeup that doesn’t look like makeup.
You know what I’m saying?
She looks out at us, eyes widening only slightly. She’s either got one hell of a poker face or she’s gotten used to Lorenzo. “Oh, hello, Mr. Gambini.”
He merely nods at her.
Her gaze shifts to me as she smiles. “Hi, there! I’m Sarah. You are...?”
“Morgan,” I say, a little caught off guard by her politeness. “Morgan Myers.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Myers,” she says.
“You, too,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say to that.
“Morgan is, uh... Lorenzo’s girlfriend.”
Oh, whoa, buddy...
My eyes dart to Lorenzo, stunned, and see he’s making a face similar to the one he makes when he sees me crying. He’s disturbed. That should probably offend me, right? Should probably want to hit him. Instead, it makes me laugh.
“Oh, wow, that’s great,” Sarah says, still smiling at me. “I was just finishing up dinner. We’re having tacos. Would you like to join us? There’s plenty to go around.”
“Oh, Jesus, yes,” I say, the words flying out of my mouth without me even thinking about them.
Sarah laughs. “Well, then, come on in!”
Seven looks insanely nervous, watching his wife as she walks away, before he turns to Lorenzo. “Boss?”
Lorenzo just stands there.
He says nothing.
I don’t have it in me to try to figure out their exchange, because my stomach is growling and the woman said tacos. Shrugging it off, I head up the steps, my movement bringing Lorenzo back around to reality.
“Relax, Seven,” Lorenzo says, following me inside. “It’ll be fine.”
I don’t know if Seven agrees with that, because he says nothing, too preoccupied as his wife calls out for him to set two more places at the table.
I start to follow, but Lorenzo grabs my arm, stopping me right in the entryway to the town house. His voice is low as he says, “Do me a favor and be on your best behavior.”
My brow furrows. “What do you think I’m planning to do here, straddle the woman’s lap and motorboat her titties? It’s dinner.”
Lorenzo lets out a laugh of disbelief, not letting go of my arm. “They’re Mormon.”
Okay, that stalls me. “What?”
“Watch what you say,” he continues. “Don’t talk about stealing, or killing, or fucking...”
“What are we supposed to talk about?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Whatever people talk about that aren’t those things.”
“Wait, hold on,” I say when he finally lets go. “If she’s super-conservative, how does the dude get away with working for you?”
It strikes me, as soon as I ask that, that she doesn’t know.
“We deal in oranges, Scarlet,” he says, turning away. “It’s a lucrative business.”
I head to the kitchen, because well, there’s no getting out of this now. Tacos, it turns out, aren’t the kind of tacos I’m thinking about. They’re fancy homemade chicken tacos with some kind of yogurt sauce. We sit down at the table, and they bless the food with a prayer.
Yeah, I got us in deep here…
“So, tell me about yourself, Morgan,” Sarah says as we start to eat. “What is it you do?”
Oh, boy.
I’m waiting for one of the guys to chime in for me, but nope. I’m on my own here.
“I’m kind of in between gigs right now,” I say. “Still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.”
“You’re young. You’ve got plenty of time.” She smiles. Always smiling. “How’d you two meet?”
She motions toward Lorenzo, who is eagerly eating like the guy has never eaten before, avoiding having to talk. Figures.
“Just ran into him on the street one day,” I say. “It’s kind of a funny story, actually... you see, he lost his wallet and I happened upon it and he tracked me down to get it back. I never expected to see him again, much less somehow become his girlfriend.”
Lorenzo chokes.
Not even kidding.
He starts choking, coughing, his face turning red.
Seven jumps up, like he’s about to give him CPR, but Lorenzo pulls himself together before the man can touch him.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles, waving him off. “Sit back down.”
The subject changes, thanks to Seven, who finally decides to chime in and distract his wife, taking the attention off of us. I slouch in my chair, leaning toward Lorenzo, whispering, “It’s just a word. They’re only words, remember?”
Lorenzo cuts his eyes my way. I know he’s got some choice words for me right now, but he stays on his best behavior.
Dinner is over quickly, and Lorenzo makes an excuse about having work to do in order to flee the house. Sarah draws me to her in a hug... a hug... before telling me to stop by anytime I’d like.
Seven walks us out, stalling near the potted plants as I head down onto the sidewalk to wait. So weird, their perfect little life. I didn’t expect it.
“I need that address,” Lorenzo tells Seven. “You got it for me yet?”
“Yeah, hold on.” Seven goes back inside, returning a moment later with a slip of scrap paper, something written on it. “Do you need me to—?”
“No, I got it,” Lorenzo says, fisting the paper. “Tell the missus we appreciate dinner.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Seven goes back inside, closing the door, visit over.
Lorenzo turns to me, slowly approaching, and says nothing, although I know there’s so much he could say at the moment.
“That totally didn’t top The Lion King,” I tell him.
“Yeah, well, you did that shit to yourself, Scarlet.”
He walks away.
Again, I follow.
I don’t know where we’re going, and he doesn’t ask me for ideas this time, so I’m pretty sure he’s got another destination in mind.
As we head deeper into Brooklyn, my nerves grow more frayed. We end up down in Manhattan Beach after sunset, in front of a decently sized gray house. Open and airy, modern architecture with massive windows and a second-story terrace. The lights are all off, nobody home that I can tell.
“You ever been here before?” Lorenzo asks.
“Uh, no.” I look at him with confusion. “Should I have?”
He shrugs.
Oh-kay.
Before I can question that, he scales the fence surrounding the place and heads for it. Shit.
I follow, not nearly as gracefully, keeping my head down. Lorenzo circles the outside, surveying the house, before focusing his attention on the terrace.
I’ve snuck into enough abandoned buildings in my life to know exactly what he’s doing.
“You want me to, like, give you a hand up?” I ask. “Maybe get down on my hands and knees and let you stand on my back?”
“Would you?” he asks.
I shrug. “Why not? Won’t be the first time a guy stepped all over me.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Actually, it might be easier if I helped you up there.”
“To do what, break in?”
“Yes.”
I sigh, staring up at the terrace. Fuck it. “Fine, let’s do this.”
He has the audacity to look surprised, like he doubted my commitment to delinquency (seriously?), but he kneels down, saying, “Climb on my shoulders.”
It’s awkward, but I do it, straddling his neck while wearing a dress, sitting on his shoulders like we’re playing a game of Chicken. I grip him tightly, holding on, as he stands up again, lifting me just high enough to reach the terrace.
Look, I’m not even going to pretend that swinging on poles day after day doesn’t have its benefits. As soon as I get my hands on the railing, I pull myself up, no problem. Climbing is a breeze. Getting down is usually a different story, though. Gravity can be a bitch.
I approach the terrace door, tugging on it.
Locked. Of course.
“Just wiggle it,” he calls up to me. “The locks on those are usually shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, reaching into my bra and pulling out my knife. What, you didn’t think I stopped carrying it, did you? Pffttt. I open the blade, sliding it in the crack, toying with it for a moment before it pops open. “Ha!”
“Good girl.”
I swing around, scowling at those words as I look down at him. “Seriously?”
He waves me off. “Just come let me in, woman.”
I mock salute him, slipping inside what turns out to be a bedroom. A very clean bedroom. Spotless. I tiptoe through the house, making my way downstairs where Lorenzo waits.
I unlock the back door, letting him in.
He locks it right behind him again.
Lorenzo starts searching the house. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I just roll with it, wandering through the kitchen and finding a stack of mail on the counter. I glance at the top envelope, freezing as my eyes gloss across the name on it.
Gabriel Jones.
“Seriously?” I hiss, turning to Lorenzo as he opens drawers, glancing inside of them. “We broke into a detective’s house? Do you want to get arrested?”
“Not sure,” he says. “Never been.”
“Never been arrested?”
“Nope.”
“How?”
He laughs.
He’s been laughing a lot tonight.
“Maybe I’m just good at what I do,” he says.
“That’s insane,” I say. “It’s like you cast some spell that makes you invincible. You’re a fucking wizard.”
He cuts his eyes at me. “Voodoo?”
“Yes!”
He laughs. Again.
“What are we looking for, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Figured I’d take a peek around while I was here, but really, I just wanted to fuck you in his bed.”
He says that so flippantly that it almost doesn’t register with me.
“We broke into Gabe’s house,” I say, “so you could fuck me in his bed.”
“Yes.”
I blink at him, and I know he’s about to laugh again as he heads my way. “You’re insane.”
“You’re starting to sound like a broken record with that shit,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me to him. “Is it so wrong that I want to take you upstairs and turn you out where that asshole lays his head? Make you come, over and over... make you scream my name into his pillow? I want his bed sheets to smell like us... want them to smell like that beautiful pussy, the one he’ll never again know, the one he never deserved. Is that really so bad?”
“Yes.” I wrap my arms around his neck, gazing at him. “It’s demented.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it.”
He grins, leaning closer, kissing me softly before whispering, “I knew there was a reason I tolerated you.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
Grabbing my hand (seriously, he’s holding my hand again), Lorenzo leads me upstairs, straight to the bedroom with the terrace. The second we’re inside, he’s all over me. Lips and fingertips explore hidden places, kissing and touching, as I paw at his clothes. We strip down quickly, because who knows how long we have before Gabe shows up, and he shoves me down onto the bed, on my stomach, not being gentle about it. He strokes me before shoving between my legs, raising my ass up off the bed just enough to slide right in.
“Fuck,” I moan as he fills me. “Lorenzo.”
He kisses my back, biting along my shoulder blades, sucking on the skin. I know he’s leaving marks, I can feel the sting, and I know he’s doing it intentionally, like he’s marking his territory, but I don’t mind. Gabe will never see it, but I let him have his moment. If anybody deserved it, it sure as hell would be him.
“Rub your clit,” he says, his voice strained as he thrusts. “Make yourself come.”
“Pretty sure that’s your job.”
“Aren’t I doing enough of the work here?”
“Seriously?” I laugh. “You lazy son of a bitch.”
I reach beneath me, to touch myself, but he beats me to it, smacking my hand away. His touch is rough, borderline painful, as he strokes my clit hard and fast. My breath hitches, a shrill cry escaping.
I come damn near instantly.
“Oh god. Fuck.” Pleasure rushes through me as I fist the sheets. “Christ, I take it back. You’re not lazy. Jesus...”
He fucks me. There’s no other way to describe it. This way, that way, upside down, inside out, he fucks me until my muscles quake and my body aches, my senses all jumbled. I’m covered in sweat, utterly exhausted, and I think it has probably only been minutes but it feels like hours.
“Lorenzo?”
“Yeah?”
“Make yourself come.”
He laughs, mocking me as he says, “Pretty sure that’s your job.”
I clench around him, squeezing his cock.
He groans.
That does it.
He comes.
He doesn’t pull out, coming inside of me, grunting as he fills me, thrusting a few more times before stilling. His lips find my back again, kissing along the sweaty skin, as he slowly pulls out. He starts to say something, but I don’t know what, because noise outside silences him.
The sound of a gate opening.
The sound of a car door.
Gabe’s home.
“Fun’s over,” I say, shoving Lorenzo off of me to get to my feet, scrambling for my clothes as I throw Lorenzo’s at him. We dress, and I’m looking around, tossing the comforter. “Fuck, where’s my underwear?”
“Leave them,” Lorenzo says, grabbing me as a door unlocks downstairs. “We have to go.”
I want to argue, but I can’t, because we need to get out of here right now. Lorenzo shoves the terrace door open, motioning for me to go, and he follows me outside, again closing the door.
“Shit.” I glare down. “I have to jump, don’t I?”
Lorenzo doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t have to. The man swings himself over the railing, just leaping, landing on his feet in the grass.
Asshole makes it look easy.
Me? I fall.
Lorenzo tries to catch me, but there’s no helping it as I hurl through the air, landing on my back with a thud. I flash him all the goods, since my underwear is gone, nearly taking him down with me.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he says, yanking me to my feet before shoving me toward the fence. “Now you get to do it again.”
I do it again, because I have no choice, managing to land on my feet this time since the drop is lower. Lorenzo lands beside me, not hesitating at all, snatching my hand and dragging me away from the place before anyone sees us.
I’m distracted as he pulls me along, staring down at our hands. It’s not some gushy interlocking fingers handhold, but still, he’s holding my hand yet again, and that’s just... whoa.
“You know he’s going to figure it out,” I say, shaking off whatever feelings are stirring up, because it’s neither the time nor the place for it. “I mean, he’s going to find my underwear tangled up in his sheets or something.”
“So?”
“So? So he’ll know.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “What’s he going to do, call the police? Wah-wah, nothing got stolen, but someone broke in and fucked in my bed.”
I laugh, because he’s right.
Nobody would give a shit but him.
It’s late, so we make the trek back to Queens. Lorenzo finally lets go of my hand when we hit the subway. The house is dark, Leo still at work, Melody off wherever, so it’s again just the two of us.
“Thank you,” I say, stalling in the foyer. “I’m glad you came along.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Lorenzo says, taking a few steps toward the library before pausing, like he’s waiting for something.
“I had fun,” I say, “and you know, while the sex was great, nothing topped getting to see The Lion King. I think the only thing that would ever be better than that is getting my daughter back.”
I head for the stairs, needing to shower, when Lorenzo’s quiet voice stalls me. “I talked to her.”
Turning, I look at him as he lingers in the hallway. “What?”
“Your daughter,” he says. “I talked to her.”
I gape at him. I’m not sure what to say, what to think, what to do, so I just repeat myself. “What?”
“Aristov called while I was at the warehouse this morning,” he says. “She was with him.”
“And you talked to her?”
“He put her on the phone,” he says, “made her ask for you.”
I feel like I’m being suffocated. It hurts to breathe. “What did you say?”
“I said you weren’t there, but you miss her. Then I told her to put her father on the phone, because he was using her to try to get your location, and I wasn’t having that shit.”
None of what he’s saying wants to sink in, like I can’t comprehend it. He talked to her. He heard her voice. “She was with him this morning?”
Lorenzo nods.
How many times have I called Kassian, desperate for a moment just like that?
I’m going to cry. I know it. I can feel the tears building up, stinging my eyes. So I turn away, walking away, going upstairs so Lorenzo doesn’t have to watch when it happens.