Chapter Twenty-Four
Is a library still a library if there aren’t any books?
Wouldn’t it be more of a study?
That’s what I’m thinking about, as I sit on the floor in the library right beside the door, knees pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped around them, back against the wall. I mean, he’s got a handful of books, maybe a dozen, but the shelves are pretty much barren. Are twelve books enough to push it into library territory?
I don’t know.
Don’t really care, either.
But I’ve got to think about something or else my mind will just drift to thoughts I’m trying desperately not to have, so I’m thinking about him, and his room, and his life...
Lorenzo.
He’s working on the puzzle. I’ve seen him do it before in little spurts, but he’s been at it now for hours consistently, making quite a bit of progress as I watch. He’s methodical, the whole process clearly serious to him, but at the same time I think he’s actually enjoying himself. It’s strange. Every now and then he’ll get this look on his face, like contentment and relief and pride all rolled into one.
I’ve seen the man in the throes of passion. I’ve seen him excited, and agitated, and dangerously cold. I’ve watched his emotions fluctuate the spectrum, but I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him calm.
Like, this is the guy who raised his little brother to be the responsible, respectful guy Leo is. This is the guy who could actually have a library and not just a barren room with bullet holes littering the floor.
Yeah, I noticed them...
He’s wearing his glasses, a light illuminating the area around the table, although the rest of the room is dark. Night fell hours ago. We’re the only ones here. None of his guys have come back yet.
He doesn’t seem worried, but I am.
Knowing Kassian, they could all be dead.
And I kind of like the guys, you know, what I know of them. Not a single one has ever made a pass at me, thinking because I’ve done certain things obviously that’s all I am. Men that treat me like a person… what a concept. So I’d rather them not lose their lives because I’m here.
“I’m going to bed,” I say quietly, pushing up from the floor. I know Lorenzo hears me, because he glances my way, but he says nothing.
I make it down the hall, toward the stairs, when the front door shoves open. My heart stalls a beat, thinking finally maybe one of them is back, but Leo walks in, along with Melody.
“Hey, Morgan!” Melody says. “I love the color of that top!”
I glance down. It’s some watercolor-looking mash-up. I took the money Lorenzo paid me and invested in some new clothes of my own. “Thanks.”
Leo smiles in greeting, and I return his smile, but jet out of there before any further conversation happens. Trekking upstairs, I kick my shoes off, pulling off my jeans and unhooking my bra before climbing into the bed, snuggling up with a pillow.
I’m not tired.
Hell, I can’t even sleep.
I lay here, listening to the sounds from downstairs.
Maybe another hour passes, I don’t know, before the front door opens, voices rushing through the house. Carefully, I climb out of the bed, creeping out into the hall, pausing as I lean against the banister at the top of the stairs. They’re all here, gathering in the hallway, Declan and Frank even sharing a laugh about something. I can’t hear much of what they’re saying, but they survived, so I guess that’s something.
I make my way back to the bed, curling up on my side, hugging the pillow again. Relieved. For now. Barely a minute passes before I hear noise, and I peek over just as Lorenzo walks into the room. He meets my eyes, so he knows I’m awake, but he says nothing, tugging off his shirt, stripping down to nothing before climbing into the bed beside me.
His arms snake around me, pulling me back into him, his lips going right to my neck, leaving a trail of kisses along the sliver of exposed skin.
“Tell me a story,” he says, hand sliding beneath my shirt to palm a breast.
I smile to myself. That’s his not-so-subtle way of telling me he wants to stick it in. “Why don’t you tell me one?”
“You didn’t like the last one I told you,” he says, tugging at my underwear, pushing it down to my knees, just enough for his other hand to slide between my thighs. A soft moan escapes me when his fingertips graze my clit, and I shove the underwear the rest of the way down, kicking them off to spread my legs, so he can reach better.
“I’m sure you can come up with a better one.”
“True story or fairy tale?”
“Hmmm… both.”
I yelp, surprised, when he yanks me around, over on top of him. He lays flat on his back as I straddle his waist, his cock right there, hard, pressing against me. I shift my hips, rubbing against him, my hands flat against his bare chest. My shirt is long enough to cover everything so he can’t see, but I know he feels it. He lets out a low groan, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me down for a kiss.
I lose myself for a moment, kissing him deeply, roughly, groaning as he nips at my lips, tingles flowing through my body when he grasps my hips, pulling me up. I feel it, his cock pressing into me, slowly slipping inside as he teases me with the tip. My head goes fuzzy, warmth consuming me.
It isn’t until he thrusts up, hard, filling me completely, that it knocks some sense back into my brain. I pull from his lips, barely able to get the word out. “Condom.”
He looks at me, his hands moving, running along the curve of my ass before he grabs my shirt, pulling it off and tossing it over the edge of the bed. His gaze scans me, from the top of my head to where we’re connected as he reaches over and starts rubbing my clit. “Do I need one?”
“I, uh... I mean...”
What kind of question is that?
“I’ll pull out,” he says, shifting his hips, pulling out just a bit before pushing back in. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I, uh... Christ... I can’t get pregnant.”
“You physically can’t, or you mean getting pregnant is the worst thing that could happen?”
“Uh, I mean...” Fuck, he feels good, deep inside of me, nothing between us. “Both.”
I start moving, rolling my hips, sliding up and down slowly on him. My brain is still trying to argue a point, chanting, ‘condom, condom, condom,’ like a twelve-year-old boy, but the haze is taking it over, the tingles blocking it out. ‘Fuck it,’ my heart frantically beats. ‘Just let him fuck you, you know you want it.’
Closing my eyes, I gasp as he thrusts up into me, meeting my rhythm. His fingers steadily stroke my clit, rubbing circles, sending jolts of pleasure along my spine, stronger and stronger, until the explosion hits.
My muscles seize up, my toes curling as he rides me through a strong orgasm. As soon as it starts to fade, he grabs me by the back of my neck, pulling me down closer to him, making me look him in the face.
I brace myself, hands flat against his chest, holding on as he bucks hard, fucking me, gripping tighter every time my eyelids start to flutter, parts of me trying to drift away.
Another orgasm hits, and I cry out, my breaths strained, but before I can recover, Lorenzo throws me off of him, catching me off guard as he pins me to the bed.
“What—?”
Before I can get anything else out, Lorenzo covers my mouth with his hand, squeezing my face, silencing my words. Shoving my legs apart, hitching my knees up, he thrusts inside of me, barely giving me a second to adjust before he starts to fuck me.
Hard.
Deep.
Fast.
BAM
BAM
BAM
I scream into his palm as sensations flow through me. Pleasure and pain warps every inch of me as he rests his body weight on top of me, making my chest ache, my muscles clenching. My fingers dig into his back, scratching at the skin, as he brings his mouth to my ear, his voice low and gritty.
“Once upon a time, there was a woman—a woman with a gorgeous little body and a mouth made of sin. The only thing sweeter than this woman’s pussy was the thirst she had inside of her, a thirst for fucking and fighting, for tempting fate,” he says, and I let out a whimper, gripping to him tightly, as another orgasm starts to take over. Fuck.
It hits me so intense I buck against him, my fingernails tearing skin as I bite his palm.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls, yanking his hand away from my mouth, griping instead to my jaw, shoving my head away, forcing the side of my face into the mattress. His mouth is back on my ear, tongue swirling around it before he says, “This woman, she tempted fate so much it was a goddamn miracle she wasn’t dead, but she was lucky, I think, because fate brought her a man, one who would kill for a sip of the thirst inside of her, who would start a war over that sweet, sweet pussy.”
His words send a chill through me as I close my eyes. He fucks and threatens, kisses and caresses, grabs and bites, over and over and over again, until my body starts to give out. Groaning, he pulls away from me, shoving my legs further apart as he pulls out. Opening my eyes, I watch in the darkness, breathing heavily, as he strokes himself, coming right there, between my thighs. He rubs it in then, gently stroking my clit with his fingertips, before leaning down, kissing along my stomach, his tongue circling my belly button, before moving down even further, his mouth on my pussy.
“Oh God,” I whisper, my toes curling. I don’t know how the hell he does it, bringing my body right back to life again with nothing more than the tip of his tongue.
He’s gentle, so fucking gentle, almost painfully so as he brings me to yet another orgasm. I gasp, grabbing ahold of his hair, arching my back as the pleasure ripples through my trembling thighs. As soon as I collapse back onto the bed, he makes his way back up, kissing along my stomach, before his mouth finds mine.
I kiss him, tasting myself on his lips, but more than that, I can taste him. Every inch of my body flushes at that realization.
“I think you’re trying to kill me,” I whisper.
He laughs into my mouth, nipping at my bottom lip. “If I was really trying to kill you, Scarlet, you’d be dead.”
* * *
The sun’s starting to rise outside, but you can’t tell it looking at the horizon. Thick gray clouds cover every inch of sky, blocking the warm orange glow from appearing. Everything just seems to gradually get lighter, like a veil is being lifted, exposing what was already hidden beneath.
Sunrise, it always makes me feel hope, another day dawning, another chance at things turning around for me, but today?
It all just felt so horribly bleak.
“Ten months,” I say. “Before we know it, it’ll be a year.”
An entire year. I can’t even fathom it.
Detective Jones lets out an exasperated sigh as he scrubs his hands over his bleary face, rubbing the overgrown scruff along his jaw. He looks like shit. His suit is rumpled. There’s a stain on his white shirt. He’s in need of a trim, his hair sticking up in a few places, and his socks, well… they don’t even match.
He’s a mess.
But I have no sympathy for him.
Maybe that makes me a bitch.
I used to come here, begging, pleading, feeling like a burden for needing his help, but those feelings faded as I became more jaded. The first few months were the worst, though. Back then, I didn’t think the tears would ever stop. But at some point along the way, my anger surfaced when I realized I was on my own, that nobody could help me. I had to help myself.
And here we are, ten months in, and I’m still treading water, closer to sinking than I am to swimming. I’m slowly drowning.
Gabe picks up his coffee mug, gently blowing into it, steam rising out, surrounding his face like a cloud. I got here before him this morning, was waiting in the lobby when he eventually wandered in, fifteen minutes late for his usual shift, which is fifteen minutes he could’ve spent working on my case.
Yeah, right... like that would ever happen.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, sipping his coffee.
“Yeah, well, where else am I supposed to go?”
“Wherever you’ve been these past few weeks,” he says. “Where have you been, anyway?”
“Around.”
He casts an annoyed look my way, not liking my evasive answer, but I’m not telling him where I’ve been staying. That information is classified.
“After the attack at the club, I figured you’d be laying low, maybe finally getting the hell out of the city,” he says. “Especially with George Amello being dead.”
I gape at him. “He’s dead?”
He nods, swirling his chair back and forth, still sipping his coffee… still not doing any work. “Someone shot him.”
I sigh, looking away from him to glance out the window.
It’s silent for a few minutes.
George is dead, and it’s probably my fault.
“I went to the house the other day,” I say quietly. “I haven’t gone there since everything happened.”
He mutters something under his breath. I don’t catch it all, just a few words here and there, notably ‘stupid’ and ‘death wish’.
“It looks the same,” I tell him. “It was strange. Seeing it, being there... it felt like just yesterday, like no time at all has passed. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect it to still feel so raw.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives me says enough: ‘get over it’. He’s never uttered those words directly, but I know he means them, I know he thinks them, every single time he looks at me this way. Pity. He pities me. Not enough, obviously, or else he’d actually do something about my situation, but just enough for him to humor me, for him to pretend to want to help.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” he suggests.
“I am. I’m talking to you.”
“I mean somebody who might be able to help you.”
“Again, I thought I was.”
He sighs, setting his coffee down. “I mean a therapist, Morgan. Maybe a grief counselor.”
“I don’t need a shrink. I just need someone to give a fuck about me.”
“Come on, don’t be that way,” he says, shoving out of his chair to step closer, pausing in front of me. “You know I care. I’m doing everything I can. I’m monitoring the situation.”
“Monitoring the situation.” I shake my head. “That sounds a hell of a lot like you’re just sitting back, watching it happen.”
He grasps my chin, his thumb stroking along my jawline as he tilts my head his way. “It’s going to be okay. I swear it. You just need to be patient for a little while longer. You want the case to stick, don’t you? When we take him down, you want him to stay down, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then it’s going to take time. We can’t rush this. We’re not stopping, we’re not giving up... we’re just taking the time to get it right so what happened before doesn’t happen again. Okay?”
I used to buy his bullshit. Used to hang on to every syllable, believing he meant every word. And maybe some part of him is genuine, but that doesn’t mean he’s being honest.
I sometimes say I’m fine when I’m not. I say nothing’s bothering me when I’m distraught.
Little white lies to keep harmony. And I can tell, by that ‘get over it’ look Gabe gives me, that he doesn’t think they’ll ever nail him.
I say nothing, which the detective assumes means I’ve been placated, judging by the way he visibly relaxes, his thumb swiping across my bottom lip.
This son of a bitch…
He smiles, a smug little smile, as he tugs the zipper of his pants down. His free hand snakes inside his boxers, stroking himself beneath the material as he says, “It’s been too long, babe. I’ve missed seeing you.”
Before he can whip it out, I smack his hand away from my face. “You bring that thing anywhere near me, Detective Jones, and you’ll never use it again.”
His eyes widen. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “but I know what’s never getting into me again, and that’s you. I’m not your little fucktoy. Your job isn’t to use me as you see fit. Your job is to serve and protect. So do your goddamn job, detective, and keep your dick in your pants, because I’ve been waiting for ten fucking months, and I’m running out of patience.”
I got no sleep last night, none at all, every inch of me exhausted and sore. I haven’t even showered yet, leaving when it was still dark, while Lorenzo soundly slept. I didn’t want to wake him. He looked so peaceful. So I just threw on the first clothes I saw, pulled my hair back in a sloppy bun and headed out, remnants of the man all over me. I can smell him on my skin.
Gabe just stares at me with disbelief, hand still in his pants, clutching his dick, but he makes no move to whip it out, lucky for him.
After a moment, a series of beeps ring out, sucking away some of the awkwardness infiltrating the office. He unclips the department-issued cell phone from his belt, glancing at it before fixing his pants.
“Got something I need to deal with,” he grumbles, waving the phone in my face before heading for the door. “Show yourself out, Miss Myers.”
I sit here, even after he’s gone, staring across the office out the window. Nobody says a word about me being here, nobody bothering me.
It’s like I’m invisible.
Eventually, my eyes wander to the messy desk, to the stacks of files covering the top of it. It blows my mind how outdated things are here, case files kept as actual files, folders full of papers instead of being stored digitally.
Not really secure, is it?
I glance behind me, out of the office, double-checking nobody is paying me any attention, before shoving out of the chair and slipping around the side of the desk. The files have names scribbled on them in pen. I shift through them quickly, glancing at the handwriting. Blah. Blah. Blah. Bingo.
Aristov.
I bring the file to the top of the stack. It’s thick, bursting at the seams with paperwork. Flipping it open, I scan through some of it, skimming paragraphs and pages, glossing over most of it.
Drugs. Guns. Fraud. Murder.
A lot of allegedly this and allegedly that, he said/she said bullshit, but not much in the way of evidence. No ballistics, no fingerprints, no forensics. A stack of witness statements, each one wrecked with writing, covered in black marker: retracted… missing… deceased… uncooperative… unreliable…
I stall at the last one, blinking a few times at the name on the top of it: Morgan Olivia Myers. Unreliable.
“Whatever,” I grumble as I flip the page.
I skim through the rest. Blah. Blah. Blah. Nothing.
“You have to be kidding me.” I shove it all aside as I scan through files again. There has to be another one somewhere. There has to be more. Besides my original witness statement, there’s very little about my history with Kassian and not a goddamn peep about the pain of the past ten months. “Motherfuckers.”
I shove a stack of files, sending them scattering along the desk as anger runs through me. Have they even done anything?
Shaking my head, my eyes scan the desk again, and I’m about to walk away when a name catches my eye. Gambini. It’s sloppily scribbled on a fresh folder.
I know that name.
I pick it up, and am about to scan through it when the phone on the desk lights up and starts to ring. Shit. I jump, caught off guard, and shove the file beneath my hoodie, securing it with the waistband of my pants as I get the hell out of there.
I keep my head down as I make my way to the elevator, heading down to the first floor. As soon as it dings, the doors opening, I step off and freeze, hearing the unmistakable sound of a familiar booming laugh echoing through the lobby.
Oh my fucking—
My head snaps up, my eyes going straight to a man just ten feet from me. I catch a glimpse of his profile as he stands there, elbows against the front desk, leaning over to talk to Officer Rimmel working the command center. Markel. He’s laughing, flirting, and she’s smiling at him. Smiling.
The woman, with her neon pink nails, has never smiled at me. Not once, in ten months.
As the elevator doors behind me close, my eyes bounce from Markel to the exit. Shoving my hands in the pocket of my black hoodie, I lower my head, my eyes on the checkered linoleum.
I hope like hell I stay invisible as I force my feet to move.
You can do this. You can do this. You can do—
Shit.
I’m yanked to an abrupt stop as a hand wraps around my bicep. Turning my head, I catch his eyes, piercing through me as I’m pulled toward him so fast I damn near lose my balance.
“Suka,” he says, grinning, using that word so casually, as if it’s my real name. Bitch.
My heart pounds furiously.
My head is swimming.
I’m in deep shit.
Deep, deep shit.
‘Let go of me.’ Those words damn near come from my lips, but I know it’s a lost cause, pleading at this point. He’s not going to just let me leave. So I’ve got about five seconds to save myself, to find a way out of this, because being in a police precinct won’t be enough to stop him from throwing me over his shoulder and dragging me out of here.
One. Two. Three. Four.
“Pussycat got your tongue, suka?” he asks, letting out a laugh. “Haven’t you missed me?”
Five.
I don’t think. I just react.
Pulling my hand from my pocket, I point a finger at his face, poking him right in the eye, jabbing hard. BAM. He flinches, letting out one hell of a sound, the shriek so loud everyone turns our way in alarm.
“You bitch!” Markel shouts, covering his eye with his free hand. I know he’s pissed when he says it in English. His hold on my arm loosens in reaction to the sharp pain, letting me slip from his grip and move away.
He tries to recover, realizing he doesn’t have his hands on me anymore, lunging my direction but he’s too slow. Chaos erupts, the command officer calling for help, the police trying to intervene, but it’s too late for that.
I scream at the top of my lungs, scream so loud my voice cracks. “He’s got a gun!”
Does he? I don’t know. Probably not. But who gives a fuck? It does exactly what I need it to do, inciting panic all around us. People try to flee the precinct, the police frenzied, as I run for the exit, shoving through the crowd.
I damn near make it out before someone else grabs me. Ugh, please don’t be Kassian. Turning, reacting, I swing blindly, striking something.
“Jesus, what the hell, Morgan?”
Detective Jones.
Fuck.
He rubs his shoulder, where I punched him, looking around in confusion, but I don’t have time to explain. I push him off, heading out the door as Markel shouts something in Russian.
I shove past people, moving as fast as my feet will go. It’s not safe here. I need to get off of the street. I need to get out of Brooklyn, but the subway isn’t an option right now. Markel is probably already sounding the alarms. They’ll be watching, swarming the area, trying to smoke me out.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I run a few blocks, cutting down some alleys, heading the direction of Coney Island. I know these streets well. I’ve run them before. I’ve hidden in the abandoned buildings in the neighborhood.
But Kassian knows that.
He knows all of my old haunts.
It’s the first place he’ll check.
So fuck it, I instead swing right into a busy coffee shop. It’s not a Starbucks, but close to it, some mass-produced franchise full of hipsters wearing bow ties and suspenders. I get in line, nervously looking around, making sure the coast stays clear, not really caring to actually order anything.
I don’t even like coffee.
Yeah, yeah, I know. There’s something wrong with me.
“I’ll have whatever she ordered,” I say when it’s my turn, motioning to the girl who went before me, some young blonde that reminds me a bit of Melody. I dig some cash from my pocket, paying the astronomical fee for the drink.
“Name?” the cashier asks, grabbing a cup and a marker.
“Scarlet,” I tell him.
I wait some more then, waiting for my drink, still looking around, observing everybody.
I zero in on a guy working alone at a small table near the door, his gaze fixed to his laptop, stickers covering the front of it. Bands, I’m guessing. Music. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with a drummer on it. Scattered along the table are papers, a cell phone sitting on top of a closed textbook.
“Scarlet?” a barista calls, shoving a caramel-colored frozen drink up onto the pass. Guess that’s mine. I snatch it up, sticking in a straw, as I head for the door.
“What’s your favorite Avenged Sevenfold song?” I ask, pausing beside the guy alone at the table, trying to turn on the charm and act interested.
He looks up at the sound of my voice as I lean over, against the table, all up in his space. “Nightmare.”
“No shit?” I smirk, straw against my lips. “That’s mine, too!”
He grins at my response and seems to be at a momentary loss, which is for the best, because I don’t even know who Avenged Sevenfold is. I just saw the sticker on his laptop and rolled with it. Poor guy. I grab the cell phone while he’s distracted, trying to come up with something witty to say, slipping it up the sleeve of my hoodie before pushing away from the table and walking out.
I go another block, passing an apartment building just as someone is leaving. Darting over, I grab the door before it closes, slipping inside as I take a sip of the drink.
I expect it to be bitter and gross, but it’s actually light and sweet. Huh. I pull out the stolen cell phone as I lean back against the wall near the mailboxes, pressing a button, breathing a sigh of relief when it comes to life. No security code needed.
So, okay, I don’t exactly have any friends.
I used to call George in a pinch, but I don’t foresee him coming back to life to help me.
I’ve turned to Gabe before, but seeing how I just assaulted him, he’s out of the question.
So that leaves me with one person. Lorenzo.
Other than 911, it’s really the only number I know.
Or, well, I hope I know it. I memorized it, weeks ago, when I tried to call him to pay back the money I stole, but my memory’s a bit shaky, so...
I dial it, bringing the phone to my ear, as sirens wail in the distance, flying by. The phone rings and rings and rings, and I’m about to give up, when the line finally clicks and a voice greets me. “Gambini.”
I pause. It’s not Gambini. Not technically. Seven answers. It catches me off guard.
“Hey, Seven... it’s, uh, Morgan.”
“Morgan,” he says. “Everything okay?”
Nope. “Yep.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Did you need something?”
Yep. “Nope.”
He’s quiet for a second before saying, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t know that I’d say anything’s wrong...”
“But?”
“I kind of got myself into a bit of a pickle. Not sure how to get back out.”
“A bit of a pickle, huh? Where are you?”
“Coney Island,” I say. “There’s this apartment building right on west 17th. Big ugly brick one. I’m kind of, you know, hanging out.”
“Hiding out, you mean?”
“Pretty much.”
He laughs. “So Brooklyn, huh?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
He hangs up before I can say anything to him, but I respond anyway. “Thank God.”
* * *
I got stuck on a Ferris wheel once.
I think I was five or six at the time.
Something shorted, the operator screwed up, and there I was, stuck in a bucket thirty feet in the sky. Instead of being scared, though, I found it almost calming, being so high up, where nobody could reach me and nothing could touch me.
I still feel that way most of the time.
Like right now, as I sit here, legs stretched out along gray asphalt shingles on the sloped roof of the house in Queens, surrounded by the kind of quiet suburban neighborhood where carpool and playdates are things that exist, I feel okay.
That’s saying something, you know, after the day I’ve had. It seems almost surreal, and I’d think it didn’t really happen, except the file in my lap tells me differently. Gambini.
I’ve read it already.
Actually, okay, I’ve read it a few times.
Can you blame me? Pretty damn sure you would read it, too, if you could.
Sighing, I suck down the last of my frozen sugary coffee when I hear a door open nearby. Glancing down, I watch as Lorenzo steps out of the house, a cloud of musky smoke surrounding him, a joint between his lips.
It’s the first I’ve seen him today. After Seven valiantly rescued me, bringing me back here, I discovered the library door closed for only the second time since I started coming around.
He’s got a headache today, Seven explained. Might not see him.
Yet, there he is...
His hair is unkempt, all over the place, like he hasn’t done a damn thing to it since I wound my fingers through it last. The rest of him, though, seems to be put together—white shirt, dark jeans, black boots. He smokes quietly, alone, watching the neighborhood, before Seven joins him.
“I’m heading home, boss,” Seven says. “Wife is making lasagna for dinner, if you want me to bring you some.”
“I appreciate it,” Lorenzo says, “but I can fend for myself.”
Pfftt, fuck that.
“You can bring me some,” I call down. “I’m not dumb enough to pass up home cooking.”
Seven laughs, waving toward me. “I think I’ve done enough for you today, Morgan.”
I make a face at him.
Seven pulls out Lorenzo’s keys and phone, passing them over before departing. Lorenzo shoves it all in his pocket, continuing to smoke in silence, watching as Seven drives off, leaving us alone.
Lorenzo tosses what’s left of the joint down, smashing it with his boot as he turns slowly, his gaze flickering up to where I’m sitting.
He goes back inside, not saying a word.
I figure he went back to his library, but after a moment, the window from his bedroom shoves open and he climbs out onto the ledge before maneuvering around and pulling himself up onto the roof.
I wish I could say I got up here that smoothly, or that I even considered doing it that way.
I stole a ladder from a neighbor’s backyard.
It’s propped up against the side of the house. Oops.
He sits down beside me, knees bent, elbows leaning against them, his gaze surveying the neighborhood for a moment before he looks my way. He scans me slowly, his attention drifting to the file on my lap.
I know he can see his last name on it. It’s written clear as day.
“You got a file on me, Scarlet?” he asks, his voice casual, nothing accusatory in his tone.
“No,” I say, looking down at it. “Well, I guess I technically do now. It’s your police file.”
“My police file.”
“Yeah, it’s everything they know about you,” I explain. “I kind of stole it from the detective’s office.”
“You stole it.”
“Yes.”
“Takes balls to break the law in a police precinct.”
“Yeah, well, just add it to the list of other laws I broke. I probably have warrants out for me right now. Disorderly conduct. Criminal nuisance. Assault on a police officer. It all adds up.”
“Sounds like you had an interesting day.”
“Very.”
“Kind of jealous,” he says, eyeing me for a moment before turning away. “So, what’s the file say?”
“What makes you think I’ve read it?”
“You wouldn’t go through the trouble of stealing it if you weren’t nosey as shit about what’s inside.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick up the folder and flip it open. There isn’t much to it, just a few papers.
“Lorenzo Oliver Gambini,” I say, reading the top sheet before cutting my eyes at him, watching as he whips out an orange, like he carries them around in his pocket. “Oliver? Really?”
“I distinctly remember your middle name being Olivia,” he says, “which isn’t much different.”
“Yeah, but that’s me,” I say. “You’re you.”
“We’re a lot alike, you and I.”
He says that casually, and I’m not sure how to take it, because my brain suddenly gets hung up on something else. “Wait, you know my middle name?”
Shrugging a shoulder, he starts to peel his orange, like him knowing my middle name doesn’t mean anything, like him remembering any part of my name isn’t a big deal. But it is, so I just gape at him, trying to make sense of that.
“What’s the file say, Scarlet?” he asks again. “Less staring, more spilling.”
“It, uh…” I look away from him, back at the papers. “Born and raised in Kissimmee, Florida. Your father was murdered when you were four. Your mother and stepfather disappeared about fourteen years after that. You officially became legal custodian of one Leonardo Michael Accardi on your nineteenth birthday, although you’d been taking care of him for a year by that point.”
“You already knew all of that,” he points out, seeming rather bored by my facts.
“You inherited an almost 200-acre orange grove that has more than doubled in size and profit under your control. Your business seems on the up and up, so no Al Capone level take down in your future, although they suspect you’ve got something hinky going on down there.”
“Something hinky,” he says with a laugh. “What, like we’re running guns through the grove? Because they’d be right.”
“They seem more concerned about Cuban imports.”
“Ah, yes, priorities. The rum.”
“They don’t have any evidence, though.”
“Of course not.”
“They do, however, have a shitload of stories about you. You’re kind of like Bigfoot.”
“Bigfoot?”
“Yeah, everyone’s heard about him, most people think he’s a myth, with nothing more than a couple blurry pictures and unreliable first-hand accounts as proof of his existence. Most of this file isn’t even about you. It’s a bunch of scary stories about a guy with a scar. Half this shit isn’t even believable.”
“Like?”
“Like you lit a building on fire in Manhattan with a bunch of men inside of it.”
“I gave them a chance to get out,” he says. “Not my fault they didn’t take me seriously.”
“You blew up a storage building in a public park.”
“I just flicked a lighter,” he says. “I’m not the one who made the place explosive.”
“You detonated a grenade, killing most of the mob bosses in the city.”
“See, okay, that’s bullshit. They were already dead by the time that grenade went off.”
“I, uh... wow.”
I don’t know what to say.
“In my defense,” he says, not sounding like he really cares to defend himself, “they were all terrible people, so it’s not like they didn’t deserve it.”
“So you’ve never hurt an innocent person?”
A smile touches his lips. “Do they exist?”
“What?”
“Innocent people.”
“Children,” I say. “Your brother.”
I almost say me, but well, I think I’ve crossed too many lines to ever qualify as innocent.
“I would never hurt a kid,” he says. “I guarantee there’s nothing in that file that says I would.”
I look down at it, frowning, pulling out a scrap piece of paper with the detective’s handwriting on it and holding it out to Lorenzo.
Suspected to have been involved in the death of 14-year-old Sally Walters in Kissimmee.
He takes the piece of paper from me, looking at it for a few seconds before balling it up, crushing it in his palm. He tosses it behind him, onto the roof, and goes back to peeling his orange.
The fact that he’s not refuting it bothers me. My stomach gets tied up in knots.
“Is her autopsy report in there?” he asks after a moment.
“No.”
“So you don’t know she was strangled?” he asks. “Don’t know she was brutally raped before being put out of her misery?”
“No.”
But he does, and the fact that he knows it makes my head dizzy, bile burning the back of my throat. I don’t want to think he’s capable of such a thing. No, scratch that. I don’t think he is. Killing people, yes, I’ve seen him do it, but rape is different. It’s another level of cruelty inflicted by a different type of monster. I’ve met many of those monsters in my life, but he’s not one of them.
“For the record, I didn’t do it,” he says. “She was my first girlfriend. Only girlfriend. I didn’t hurt her. I just got lucky and stumbled upon her after my stepfather was through.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he repeats as he stands up. “Anything else in the book of bullshit that I should know about?”
“No,” I say, closing the file and holding it out to him. “You can have it, if you want.”
“How nice of you,” he says, snatching it from my hand, clutching so tightly the folder bends, as he leaves, slipping back down off of the roof, into the bedroom, slamming the window closed.
I touched a nerve. A bad one. And I know he’s just going to go back downstairs now, into his library, and I won’t see him again tonight. Ugh, I don’t like it. My stomach is still in knots.
I didn’t think it was possible, but… I might’ve hurt his feelings. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Pushing to my feet, I quickly make my way across the roof. I scurry down the ladder, jogging around, and shove through the front door just as Lorenzo steps back into the library.
Fuck.
“Hey, hold on,” I say, running toward him, skidding to a stop in front of the library just as the door is about to shut. Reaching out, I push it, shoving it back open before it can latch. “Ugh, Lorenzo, wait.”
He turns to me, still clutching the door. He looks like he wants to slam it in my face... or maybe, like, punch me. I don’t know.
“You’ve got ten seconds,” he says.
I take a deep breath, not sure what to say.
“Nine... eight... seven...”
“I didn’t think you did that to that girl,” I blurt out, because fuck it, he’s counting, and I know when he reaches ‘one’ I’ll have missed my chance. “I know that’s not the kind of man you are. I know you wouldn’t have done that to her. I know you’re better than that.”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, right.”
He’s about to slam the door for real this time so I shove my way inside the room. There’s a flash of something in his expression. Anger. Something. I don’t know. I can’t pay it any mind. I’ve already crossed that threshold. No going back now.
“I swear to fuck, Scarlet, if you don’t watch yourself...”
“Yeah, you’ll kill me,” I mutter, grabbing ahold of him, my hands framing his face, trying to force him to look at me but he’s stubborn as shit and goes to pull away instead. “I’m serious, Lorenzo. Stop being so fucking pigheaded and just look at me.”
He looks at me when I say that. Whoa. He actually listens.
I’m caught so much off guard by it that I don’t say anything right away, just staring him in the eyes.
“Times up, Scarlet,” he says quietly.
Before he can try to push me away, make me leave, I reach up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. I kiss him, softly, slowly, my palms gently against his cheeks, holding his face there.
He doesn’t kiss me back. At least, not right away. But I can feel him relaxing more and more each time our lips touch, his anger waning.
He tastes like oranges, sweet and tangy.
My hands shift, grasping the side of his head, as I kiss down along his jawline, brushing against the scruff on his chin. I move to the other side, kissing the corner of his mouth before my lips graze against the scar slicing through his cheek.
The second I do that, he pulls his head back. He shoots me a strange look, I can’t really read it, before he moves away from the door, away from me. He strolls across the room, tossing his case file onto the corner of the table near his puzzle, before sitting down in his chair
He goes back to eating his orange as if none of that even happened. The door stays open, and I’m already halfway in the room, so I take that as invitation to come the rest of the way in.
“Senile,” he says, shaking his head. “I know that’s not what your Scarlet Letter stands for, but it sure as fuck ought to.”
I approach him. “I’m not old enough to be senile. Besides, you know, I think I’m pretty clear-headed.”
“You’re softhearted, Scarlet. Soft in the fucking head, too. It’s dangerous. You’re dangerous.”
I laugh at that, pausing in front of him, pushing his hands out of the way and shoving him further back into the chair as I climb onto his lap, straddling him. He lets out an exasperated sigh, like I’m bothering him, but I wouldn’t really call him angry anymore, so I’m chalking that up to a win.
Nuzzling into his neck, I kiss and nip at the skin, trailing my tongue along his throat, feeling it as he swallows thickly.
He tries like hell to ignore me, cocking his head away, finishing his orange in silence. As soon as he’s done, though, I pull back, grabbing his hand, wrapping my lips around two of his fingers, lapping the remnants of juice from his fingertips with my tongue. I suck on them slowly as he watches me, cocking an eyebrow, not saying a word, but I can feel him as he grows hard.
I pull his fingers from my mouth and start to say something, to tease him, but I don’t get the chance to say a word. He grabs me by the back of the head, pulling me to him, kissing me roughly.
I eagerly kiss him back.
Hands shove at clothes, pushing and tugging, doing just enough to free him as my pants are pulled down to my thighs. He strokes himself a few times before I sink down onto him, groaning into his mouth as he fills me.
He grasps me by the ass, squeezing, but his hands just rest there, not trying to take control, letting me lead. I ride him slowly, not breaking the kiss, goose bumps coating every inch of my skin.
Jesus Christ, he feels so good.
His hands start roaming, squeezing and scratching, his fingers raking along the small of my back.
“Fuck,” he growls, pulling from my mouth, but it’s only long enough to shed me of some clothes. He yanks off my hoodie, taking off my shirt, and I unhook my bra, letting it drop to the floor.
He kisses me again, a few small pecks, before his mouth moves, leaving a trail down to my collarbones. I wrap my arms around him, lacing my hands through his hair as he buries his face into my chest, his tongue exploring.
I hiss at a jolt of pain as he bites down on a nipple, closing my eyes, my toes curling. Tingles consume me, from head to toe, and I increase my pace, fucking him faster, coming down on him harder, feeling an orgasm stirring. He alternates between bites and licks, kissing and sucking at my breasts. I know he’s leaving marks. I can feel them. They sting. My skin is raw, but I pull him to me tighter, wanting it rougher, wanting to feel every part of him inside every part of me.
“Fuck me,” I whisper breathlessly, scratching at his scalp as I tilt my head back. “Fuck me until I forget everything.”
He pulls back, and I loosen my grip, realizing right away that might’ve been the wrong thing to say. There’s a sinister twist to his lips that sends a chill down my spine. Before I can say another word, he shoves up out of the chair, pulling out as he drops me onto my feet. Yanking me over to the table, he turns me around, shoving me flat down against it, right on top of his puzzle. My pants are forced the rest of the way down, shackling my ankles, as he kicks my legs apart as far as they’ll go.
“Be very still,” he says, a slight edge to his voice. “Try not to fuck up my puzzle.”
“No promises,” I whisper.
He braces himself, his hand gripping my shoulder, and thrusts inside of me. I let out a deep groan as my eyelids flutter. Fuck. He wastes no time, doing exactly what I asked.
He fucks me. It’s powerful. Brutal. Hips slam into me from behind as he fills me deeply, over and over. Skin slapping noises echo through the room as he drives me into the table so hard it starts to move. I grip onto the edge of it, trying to hold on, trying to stay still, but he makes it impossible. Pain and pleasure merge inside of me, consuming me, and it doesn’t take long before I start to grow numb. Tingles encompass me. My mind blanks out. Nothing exists except his cock inside of me, him on top of me, slamming into me from behind. I cry out with every deep thrust, incoherent noises, like everything inside of me is being purged.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Orgasm rips through me more than once. I lose track of time. I lose track of everything but him. An hour, or a minute, who knows?
He bites down on my shoulder when he finally comes. It brings me back around, my eyes opening, and I blink slowly, feeling him spilling deep inside of me. He doesn’t pull out. Warmth flows through me, my muscles twitching, my pussy throbbing.
I don’t know that I could ever get enough of this.
He pulls out, but I stay there, lying against the table, watching him. He pulls his pants up, buttoning and zipping them, before plopping back down in his chair. Exhaling loudly, he scrubs his hands down his face before pulling out his Altoids tin, retrieving a joint and lighting it.
“If you’re hoping for another round, you’ll be waiting awhile,” he says. “My head is fucking killing me today.”
I smile softly. “I’m good, thanks.”
He smokes in silence for a moment, his gaze scanning me before he asks, “Were you serious about what you said?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Do you even know what I’m talking about?”
“No, but if I said it, I meant it.”
He starts to say something when ringing cuts through the room. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he glances at it, brow furrowing.
His eyes flicker back to me as he presses a button, bringing it to his ear. “Gambini.”
There’s a brief moment where Lorenzo doesn’t speak.
“Ah, Aristotle,” he says, sounding amused. “I see you finally grew a sack and unblocked your number. Good for you. I’m proud.”
My smile falls. Kassian.
I can’t see the man. I can’t even hear his voice. Miles separate us, as do thousands of people, but knowing he’s just a breath away on the phone makes it feel like he’s right in front of me again.
My insides coil.
My knees, they go weak. I desperately wish they wouldn’t. But Kassian is like poison. Just a tiny taste on my tongue is enough to take me down. I hate it, reacting to him, but I can’t help it. It ignites a spark, flooding me with memories, a flip-book of all the cruel things he’s done, the ways he’s single-handedly broken my reality.
Lorenzo’s eyes stay fixed on me as he sits there, listening to Kassian. I wish I knew what he was saying, but at the same time, I’m terrified to hear what might come from his mouth.
“That doesn’t work for me,” Lorenzo responds. “Why don’t I come to you instead?”
My stomach sinks.
“Got it,” Lorenzo says.
He hangs up, slipping the phone back into his pocket, before standing up from his chair.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “What does he want?”
Pausing behind me, Lorenzo’s hand brushes against my ass, before sliding further down, between my thighs, caressing me. My question goes unanswered, unsurprisingly. He slips a single finger inside, carefully sliding it in and out, as he leans down, trailing kisses along my shoulder blade. I’m sore, but he’s so gentle.
I moan.
“You’re insatiable,” he says, his mouth trailing along my spine.
“You’re just addictive,” I whisper, “and I’m turning into a junkie.”
He slides another in.
I close my eyes as he finger-fucks me.
I whimper, groaning his name. “Lorenzo.”
Everything else is incoherent as an orgasm stirs. My body locks up, my muscles contracting at the swell of pleasure that fades away all too fast again.
Pulling his hand away, he reaches for me, and I open my eyes in just enough time to see it as his fingers brush against my mouth. My lips part, and he pushes his fingers in, the taste of both of us on my tongue.
He watches me, smiling.
“He wants to have a conversation,” Lorenzo says, pulling his fingers from my mouth as he starts to walk away. “So I’m going to humor him, you know, for the moment, just to hear what he has to say.”
I shove away from the table when he says that, moving so fast it tears apart a section of his puzzle, pieces sticking to the sweaty skin of my stomach. Ugh. I rip them off, tossing them onto the table, as I yank my pants up.
“You can’t,” I say. “You can’t just go to him.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t work that way.”
He stalls in the doorway. “And what way does it work, Scarlet?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “but not like this. Not on his terms. He’s not someone you can just talk to. He’s not someone you can rationalize with. I know. Don’t you think I’ve tried? He manipulates people, and he twists things, and he uses it to his advantage, and he doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever. When he makes up his mind, that’s it. You can’t appeal to his humanity because there is none.”
“Well it’s a good thing that’s not what I’m doing.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
Those words knock the breath from my lungs.
I gasp.
“Wait, you can’t!” I shout as he walks out, running after him. “Please, Lorenzo. You can’t just kill him!”
He’s got his phone to his ear, calling somebody, as he reaches the front door of the house, looking back at me. That wounded look flashes in his face, like I again offended him, as he grinds out, “Don’t tell me you care what happens to the bastard.”
“No, but—”
“But,” he says, cutting me off. “There’s always a but, isn’t there?”
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t. The guy terrifies you, and for the love of fuck, I don’t know why. What’s he got on you, huh? What is it about him that has you wound so tight that you’re standing in my hallway, half naked, shaking, not wanting me to go blow his brains out so you’ll stop? I mean, do you like this? Is that it? Are you having the time of your life pissing your pants over this asshole? Because if that’s the case, carry on, baby. Don’t let me stop this game you’re playing.”
I can feel tears welling in my eyes, my voice cracking as I say, “It’s not like that.”
He senses it, I think, because his expression hardens, that anger rushing back into him. “So you’re just a pussy, huh? Maybe that’s what your Scarlet Letter stands for. Just a fucking scaredy-cat. But I’m not putting up with that shit. It makes no sense.”
Lorenzo walks out, slamming the front door behind him, and I close my eyes, trying to keep tears from falling.
Face your fears and wipe your tears.
“Sasha,” I whisper, even though he’s gone, wrapping a hand around my wrist tightly, my palm covering the tattoo. “It’s all for Sasha.”