Other than that, there was no reason for anyone else to reach me.
I’d texted all of them during the day to let them know I was settled into the villa and planning on staying off the grid and reading and lying in the sun until the festival started the next week.
I was surprised at dusk when my phone rang.
It was Ryder.
“I’m out front.”
“Okay…”
“I forgot to show you how to program the alarm. You have to set your own code.”
“Oh, right,” I said.
“May I come in?”
“Yeah.”
I met him at the door with a robe on. It was the least I could do since he’d driven all the way back here to help me set the alarm code.
After he showed me how to personalize the code, he discreetly walked out to his car while I programmed my own personal pin. Then he came back and stood at the foot of the steps.
“I thought I’d take you to dinner. Reservations for C’est Bon usually need to be made weeks in advance, but I was able to get us in…the seafood paella is exquisite…”
For some reason the arrogance of his assumption that I would drop everything and go out to eat with him incensed me. I was positive Dante was behind this. Paying him to keep an eye on me. Or worse, paying someone to keep me company.
“Hey, no offense, but I came here for some solitude. Enjoy your dinner.”
I closed the door without waiting for his response. At the last second, I set the alarm. Then I stomped around the first floor of the villa, keeping to the back of the house so I didn’t have to see his car leaving.
After a few minutes, I peeked out a window to see if his car was gone. I couldn’t see, so I went to the front door and cracked it. An earsplitting, God-awful screech erupted, complete with strobe lights and blaring sirens. I slammed the door shut and punched in my code. The noise stopped, and I stood with my back against the door, heart pounding.
Jesus H. Christ.
Then I set the alarm again, reminding myself not to open the door again no matter what and headed back to the kitchen. There, I opened up another bottle of wine. Upstairs, I unearthed a silver cigarette case from my suitcase. It contained several neatly rolled joints.
Fortified with weed and wine, I went out back.
The entire area was lit up turquoise blue with hidden lights in the pool and in the thick tropical plants and trees. This time, I played Mexican music—narcocorridos. The songs were basically drug ballads written by famous singers and dedicated to—and about—drug lords. It was music that Nico had always loved. One artist had even written a narcocorrido about Nico.
I found that one on my phone and played it, tears streaming down my face.
It always made me cry when I listened to it, and that’s what I was going for. I was in a melancholy mood.
I drank wine, smoked weed, and sang along loudly to the narcocorridos as tears dripped down my face. Somewhere along the line I lay my head back on the chair and closed my eyes.
I woke later, shivering.
I’d fallen asleep in the thickly padded lounge chair. The music was still playing and the shimmering blue light from the pool was disorienting.
I trudged upstairs to my room and fell into the big plush bed, barely managing to pull the covers over me before I was asleep again.
The next morning, I woke up blinking at the bright sunlight pouring through the windows onto my bed. My head throbbed and my mouth was parched. When I rolled over, a wave of nausea overcame me. I froze, willing myself not to puke.
With my face buried in the pillow, I reached over to the nightstand, feeling for the bottle of water I’d seen there the night before. I had to sit up to drink it.
Once that feat was managed without barfing, I chugged about half of the bottle before realizing the only thing that was going to work was some hair of the dog.
I pulled on a leopard print bikini—swimming naked had quickly lost its novelty—and headed downstairs, grabbing an extra-large pair of dark sunglasses before I went. In the kitchen, I dug through every cupboard until I found what I was looking for—the real booze.
I grabbed a bottle of tequila and headed for the pool.
The Mexican narcocorridos were still playing through the speakers, somehow still connected to my phone and playing on repeat. But I was no longer in the mood.
I dialed up some Marvin Gaye, uncapped the tequila and took a big swig and then another. I suddenly felt a little better. I lay back down on the lounge chair and slept for an hour, dreaming of the 1970s and wishing I’d been alive during that time.
I woke sweating and thirsty. I grabbed a bottle of tequila and another glass filled with ice water and headed for the pool. I sank into the refreshing turquoise water, tipped the bottle back, and let the cool liquid slosh into my mouth and over my face, finishing it in a few desperate gulps.
The rest of the day was a lot like the day before. I drank and nibbled on cheeses and salamis and grapes and let the Mediterranean sun beat down on me as I listened to music and read. I picked up Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London and spent most of the day re-reading the book that I’d once loved and still found enjoyable.
The sun beat down on me and warmed my bones, but I wasn’t sure it could reach my heart.
I felt nothing.
I’d expected to spend at least part of this time in solitude grieving. I thought I would mourn Nico. Or at least mourn the life I’d led with him and Rose.
But I felt cold inside. Or maybe not cold. Just numb.
At dusk, I decided to switch up my alcohol choices and went for a bottle of red wine. I decided that I needed some Edith Pilaf to match the vibe of the wine and the Orwell book.
It was a good choice. Lying on the lounge chair wrapped in a soft blanket, the wine warmed me as I sang softly along to the strains of Pilaf’s voice.
Soon, I stumbled up to bed.
On the third day, spent the same as the first two, I was nearly sober when the sun set. I’d cut back a little on the booze and drank more water and ate some fruit and vegetables I’d found in a basket on the kitchen counter.
I sat in the lounge chair drinking sparkling water as the sky turned from tangerine to purple to velvet navy. It was beautiful and I’d spent three days doing exactly what I’d planned to do, so what was the antsy feeling I had?
I realized I was restless. Bored as fuck, actually.
And lonely.
I stood, letting the blanket fall onto the patio, and headed upstairs.
It was strange. I didn’t know myself anymore. I’d spent the last four years caring for Nico. I’d lost sight of who I was when I wasn’t a caretaker.
Even though it had made me feel guilty as hell at the time, I’d daydreamed of days like this, when the only thing I had to worry about was me. When I could spend long, lazy hours lying by the pool reading books, sipping wine, letting the sun soak into my bones, and not having a care in the world.
And now that I had it? Snorefest.
I would give anything to be back in Nico’s tiny bedroom, snuggled up beside him on his bed with his arm wrapped around me while he still knew who I was. Even if it meant helping him get up to go to the bathroom. God, I missed that man so much.
And before that, our life in Mexico and San Diego and Barcelona… It all seemed like a dream now. Or rather, a book I’d read a long time ago.
But I refused to cry about it. Instead, I would hold those memories tight and cherish them.
Why should I mourn a life that most people only dream of having? I was damn lucky, and I would never let myself forget that. Never.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t dying for company.
And sex.
Oh, God—to feel a man inside me. I was practically ravenous for a man’s touch. I was like a horny teenager again. I hadn’t had sex for years. It was insane.
I mean, Jesus, look at my reaction to Dante’s bodyguard. I mean, if I really was honest with myself, I’d wanted to
jump his bones. Looking at his tattooed forearms and tight ass in those jeans had stirred something up I hadn’t felt in a long time—pure, unbridled lust.
And he wasn’t even my type.
Hell, did I even have a type anymore?
I guess I’d find out tonight. Because I was going out. I had cabin fever in a villa in the South of France. I’d go out, find a hot guy and blot all my thoughts out with mind-blowing sex. I deserved it. I was done being celibate.
Smiling, I downed a glass of tequila and headed for the bathroom.
After a shower, I dressed in a sleeveless leather dress with a square neckline that fell to mid-thigh and hugged my curves but was loose enough for me to move because I was going to find a club and dance until I dropped. And then I was going to find a hot fuckboy and go back to his hotel and rock his world. Yup. That was the plan.
I grabbed my phone and cigarette case and headed downstairs.
I found what I was looking for on the counter next to a binder with information about the villa—keys to the vehicles that came with the villa. Cars. Bingo.
Inside the garage, I spotted it—a white Jeep—nestled among a few other obnoxious vehicles, including a Rolls Royce Dawn convertible.
I keyed the ignition of the Jeep and revved the engine. Perfection.
Out on the open road, I stepped on the accelerator and hugged every dangerous curve down to the strip, loving the wind whipping my still damp hair, cranking my dance music, and singing along.
Once I was down on flat ground, it didn’t take me long to find the happening clubs. There was a strip that had sidewalks filled with people lined up to get into one club after the other. I cruised slowly, eyeing the crowds out front before I chose one.
It was a white brick building with a neon purple sign that said “Depravity.” Yup. That said it all. I stopped the Jeep near the door. The crowd looked a little young, but the music was what I was going for. I wanted to dance.
The door opened and I heard pounding music and loud laughter.
I yanked the steering wheel and headed toward the valet stand.
6
The valet escorted me to the front of the line, past the long lines of hopefuls on the other side of the red velvet rope waiting to get into the club. The doorman was about to let a group in but as soon as he saw us approaching he held up a big meaty palm.
One of the girls in the front of the line who had to wait scowled and turned to see what the problem was.
Her eyes landed on me and narrowed.
“Who the fuck is that?” she hissed.
She had thick, shoulder-length blonde hair, huge sky-blue eyes in a round face, and cantaloupe-sized tits squeezed into a white scoop neck dress. She was American Pie gorgeous. Except for the nasty look on her face.
“Amanda!” her friend said.
I sized her up in an instant. While she was actually even prettier than her blonde friend—with silky reddish-brown hair, piercing green eyes with doll lashes, and a light sprinkling of freckles across a perfect nose—she was hunched over as if trying not to draw attention to herself.
I wondered why. The insecure posture deflected attention. Was it because she thought she was heavy? She might have been a little chubby, but it was hard to tell since she seemed to be trying to hide her curves by wearing a silky, unstructured lime-green dress that hung mid-calf.
All of this was taken in within seconds as I breezed past.
The blonde sputtered her outrage even more.
The brunette spoke out again. “We’re next anyway.”
I could tell the comment cost her. She sort of winced after she said it, as if she wasn’t used to standing up to her friend. It pissed me off. And then I got even angrier as the blonde glared at her.
Let it go, I told myself.
As I passed, I met the brunette’s eyes and winked at her. The girl blushed.
Once I was inside the club, I ordered three shots of tequila at the bar. I downed them quickly and then headed to the dance floor, weaving in between the hot, sweaty bodies, swiveling my hips with my hands in the air above me and feeling the music seep into my body, touching my core.
I immediately infiltrated a group of young men with all the moves and big smiles. They were seriously good dancers. Soon, I lost myself in the music, closing my eyes and feeling bodies move with and against me and wishing the moment would never stop. It was shocking how good it felt to have another body touch me.
A year ago, Nico had gotten finicky and violent, so they’d moved him into the supervised section of the memory care home. That mean we slept in separate beds. Most of the time he didn’t know me, so hugging and kissing was out of the question. Back then, most of the time, he’d been pissed off at the world. Over time, he grew physically weaker, but we’d never again share the intimacy of our bodies touching. I had no idea how much I missed being touched until I wasn’t.
But on the crowded dance floor, we all rubbed against one another without judgement or offense.
A black man with an infectious smile and hard body soon became my only dance partner, matching my every move. Oh, he would do just fine. If he moved like that on the dance floor, I could just imagine him in bed. Holy fuck. We danced together until I thought I would faint. Finally, he leaned over and said in a soft, French-accented voice, “May I get you a water? I’m parched.”
“Yes, please,” I said and followed him off the dance floor. I was relieved. I was dehydrated and exhausted but wasn’t going to leave the dance floor for anything. Until he said something.
“Jean Pierre,” he said as we got to the bar.
“Gia,” I said and grinned. “You are an impressive dancer.”
I took him in now under the brighter lights of the bar. He was hot.
He saw my appraising glance and gave me a wry grin, and I knew he’d picked up on everything I’d been thinking.
“My boyfriend is a professional dancer so it’s nice to hear that.”
I was dismayed at the disappointment that coursed through me.
I laughed out loud. “He’s a lucky guy,” I said.
Jean Pierre gave a bashful smile and shrug.
We stood sipping sparkling water and watching his friends dominate the dance floor. They were all incredible dancers.
“You all gay?” I finally said.
“Yes.”
I laughed again. Now I knew for sure—my gaydar was broken.
This time he joined me. “You looking for company?”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “But yeah, I guess I am.”
He nodded and smiled. “Honey, I’m sure you won’t have any problems finding someone. Easy as can be, doll.”
I clinked my glass against his and said, “But it won’t be easy to find someone like you, Jean Pierre.”
“That is very true.”
I ordered another tequila, which Jean Pierre insisted on paying for, and was just finishing it when he looked at his phone and then at the dance floor. His friends were over at a table.
“We are leaving now. We have another club calling our name apparently. Would you like our table? They are hard to come by this time of night.”
I looked around. It would be nice to sit and watch people for a while before I hit the dance floor again. I needed a few more drinks.
“You bet,” I said.
I’d just settled into my table when I saw the two girls from the line walk by. They were carrying drinks. They were with four other people. It looked like they were searching for an empty table. The blonde was scowling, which I was starting to think was her regular expression.
The table I was at was massive. It could easily fit all of them and me, too, with room to spare. I wanted to make up for any bad feelings that little blonde felt about me. I was so over bitchiness between women. My goal, especially after raising Rose, was to encourage female solidarity wherever and whenever I could.
The brunette spotted me and quickly looked away. I felt bad. Did she feel like a traitor if she smiled a
t me? I was so glad to be past all that weird female bitchiness.
The first step was to share my table.
Even though the blonde wouldn’t look at me, one of the young men she was with did meet my eye as they passed. I lifted my finger and crooked it toward him. He looked behind him to make sure I meant him, and then he came over, tossing his long bangs nervously.
“Hey,” I said and gave him a smile. He might be the fuck boy I was looking for after all.
“Hi,” he said back.
“You guys looking for a place to sit?”
The music was loud so he leaned down, putting his ear close to my head. I brought my lips close to his ear and repeated it. He drew back and stared at me for a second as if he didn’t understand what I was saying.
I tilted my head toward the rest of the empty booth.
He gave me a slow smile and then took off toward the direction where his friends had gone.
A few seconds later, they all trudged back, with the blonde bringing up the rear.
I smiled at her and her alone.
“Hi,” I said to her.
She stared at me for a few seconds before she said it back.
I stood and let them in and then flagged down the waiter. I handed him my credit card. “Whatever they want tonight is on me.”
I left my bag on the seat and went out on the dance floor, losing myself in the throb of the music and hot bodies around me until I had to come up for air again and go back to the table for water and more tequila.
They were all talking and laughing when I showed up but fell silent when I sat down.
I pushed the damp hair back from my face and smiled.
I took them all in. There were seven total.
From what I could tell, the guy with the floppy bangs was solo. Perfect.
His name was Conner.
He made the introductions by pointing each person out to me.
The pouty blonde was Amanda. The guy kissing her was Owen. He looked like a football player, stocky with short hair, broad shoulders, and big muscles.
The brunette was Hannah. Between Amanda and Hannah was Lucas, a tanned guy with sun-bleached hair. A tall, thin girl with sleek black hair pulled back tightly from her face was Sabine. She was hanging on an equally emaciated boy with short black hair sticking up everywhere and thick black glasses named Clint.
Dark Shadows (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers Book 11) Page 3
