And I like it.
Shyly, I put my hand on top of his. He shoots me a smile. But his gaze is heavy. I worry that he’s bothered by what we did last night, how intense our connection was. I push the thought from my mind. I’m sure it’s just a long day. Three missions total, I think he mentioned.
I smile back, the pad of my thumb stroking the back of his hand.
I’ve softened a good bit over the last few weeks. And now that we’ve once again crossed the bridge of sleeping together, things feel... different between us. But a good different. A warm, melty feeling. I’m so attached to him now, I’ve no idea what I’ll do when he goes back. I decide not to think about it and enjoy the ride.
There’s something so intimate about riding together in such a sexy car. It reminds me of our bodies twisted around one another the evening before. Two becoming one. My glow deepens. We pull up to the diner. He parks. Gets out. Always the gentleman, he opens my door, taking my hand. Our fingers interlock and a surge of electricity dances up my arms.
He leads me into the restaurant, and surprisingly, we are seated at the same booth as before. I slide in the red leather seat and say, “Funny. Same seat.”
His eyes lock on mine and he says, “I called ahead and requested it.”
“How romantic—” The words are out before I can stop them. Wanting to lighten my statement, I say, “I mean, not romantic... just thoughtful of you and—”
He interrupts my stuttering by placing his hands over mine on top of the table. “Tess. I’ve got to tell you something.”
His hazel eyes lock on mine.
And I know.
I can read in his gaze what he will say. Though I’ve known this time would come, the words still send a punch straight to my gut all the same. I’ve lost my breath. My heartbeat pauses in my chest as he says, “The time has come for me to go back to the Parish.”
Stupid, foolish tears prick my eyes. I pull my hands from him and he lets them go. A white-hot heat covers my face as I try to respond, my tongue thick in my mouth. “I... I thought we had more time.”
His hand goes to his forehead. He rubs it as he looks down at the table. There’s a pregnant pause between us as we both stare at the Formica tabletop. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick. Low. It sounds as if he’s on the brink of crying. I’ve never seen him cry.
And the sound makes the trapped tears escape my eyes and slide down my cheeks. He says, “Tess... I—I want you to know that these past few weeks. They’ve been—”
I hold my hand up to stop him. I can’t hear it. I can’t hear that he feels the same way as I do. Not if he’s leaving. I say, “Why did you bring me here to tell me? Why not tell me at the house?” Where I wouldn’t be humiliated, crying like a fool.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t trust myself. Not to touch you. If we were alone. I would have ended up making love to you.”
“Why... not?”
His soulful eyes find mine and they’re glistening with unshed tears. “Because it would make this goodbye even more painful than it already is. And the very last thing I want to do is cause you pain, Tessie.”
A knife is tearing through my heart. Sharp pains stab at my gut. I want to double over in the booth. But I can’t. I won’t. I’ll be strong. I’ll say goodbye. And I’ll live my life. Which is why he came. To help me get back on my feet. To bring me back to my people. He’s done that and now he’s got to move on.
It’s how it was always supposed to be.
I brush away the tears. Swallow hard. Tear my gaze from him—it hurts too much to look at him. I don’t trust myself to meet his eye. So, I tell the table, “Thank you. For everything. You were here for me when I needed you.”
“I’d do anything for you, Tess.”
“What now?” I ask.
“My driver is waiting outside for me.” My head snaps over my shoulder and sure enough the sleek black car is waiting outside. The wait staff are busy, bustling about. As if the world hasn’t just ended. He must have told them to leave us alone when he called ahead.
“And the Mercedes?” I ask.
“It’s yours. I know how much you like it. And I thought... after this... you might need a drive to clear your head.”
He’s giving me his car. But all I want is him. I manage to mutter, “Thank you.”
He’s tugging at my hand. Trying to get me to look at him. “Tess. I’ve left you a note. In the glovebox. Promise me you’ll read it.”
The tears are threatening to come again. I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want him to know how hard this is for me. I don’t want him to see me cry. I hold my hands out for the keys. I say, “I’ve got to go.”
He takes them from his pocket. He places them in my opened palm, closing both of his hands around mine. He gives them a gentle squeeze, saying, “Take care, Tess.”
I can’t look at him. I can’t hug him. I can’t do anything but leave as quickly as possible. I scoot from the booth, my hand so tight around the key fob it’s cutting into my skin. I breathe the words, “Goodbye, Rockland.” I rush to the door.
Behind me a waitress huffs, “Don’t they ever eat?”
A manic laugh rises in my chest at her annoyance. Tears blind my vision. I shove the heavy glass door open. Fly to the car. I click the unlock button. Throw myself into the Mercedes. Roar the engine to life and pull from the curb, barely looking for oncoming traffic. A few tears fall but I hold in the sobs I know will soon come. I weave in and out of traffic, yanking on the clutch and pressing my foot into the gas pedal.
I go straight to the back of the Village. Through the gates and wind around to the meadow. I put the car in park. I take a deep breath as I open the glovebox. Inside is a smooth white envelope. My name is scrawled on the front in his handwriting.
Tess
His goodbye letter.
His penned-out farewell.
Bidding me adieu.
Ending whatever this magical thing is that has happened between us.
I toss it back in the glove compartment. Slam the door. Fold my arms over the steering wheel. Rest my head on them.
And cry harder than I’ve ever cried in my life.
* * *
One week later
All I do is think of him.
I’m functioning. I’m healthy. I don’t drink. I’m even jogging every morning. The runs are getting longer. I’m faster. Channeling all my pent-up frustration into the workout. I go to the office every day. I accept almost all social invitations I’m given.
I talk to people. I laugh politely at their jokes. Answer their questions with vigor. I’m doing great! Thanks for asking.
But inside, I’m empty.
Void of emotion.
I’m just going through the motions. Keeping it together. Because if I were to let myself feel, I’d collapse into myself like a dying star.
To say I miss him would be an understatement.
At night, I lie in bed and remember. Things we did together.
Things he did to me.
Remember how it was when he first arrived. How, at first, I fought him.
His discipline made me furious. His desire to control me set my temper aflame.
All the while my hatred growing.
The sting of his belt bit into my flesh as his chastising words burned into my mind.
Humiliating me.
I was never willing to admit how my body was responding to his harsh correction.
My voice crying, no. My mind crying, yes.
He did things I thought existed only in fantasy.
Owned places within me. Marking them as his. Places no one else had ever touched.
He milked every drop of ecstasy from me. Brought me back to life.
Through the pain, the pleasure he made me feel again.
Healing the wounds within me.
And in his dominance, he made me obey. Over time, drawing from me the gift of my submission.
Entwini
ng my very soul to his.
Then he left.
Chapter Seven
Tess
I can do this.
I can do this.
Maybe if I repeat this mantra enough times, I’ll finally believe it.
I, Tess Bachman, can and will brave the wilderness to find the man that I love. Is it love? I think so. But maybe I’m a fool to think it’s love. That light heady sensation I get whenever I think about him... it could be lust... infatuation... a schoolgirl crush.
All I know for sure is that ever since he left, all I’ve done is miss him.
I miss the way he smells. The way his voice sounds, how it carries through my home. The way he slinks around, never ever wearing a shirt over that tattooed muscled chest of his. The way his jeans hang around his hips. The way he has a clever retort to match every insult I swing his way. That half-cocked smile spreading across his smug face.
The way I feel when he says good girl.
The cooking, the cuddling, the forehead kisses.
The way he rocks my body, making me lose my mind, turning me into nothing but the very sensation of pleasure.
Just the way he is.
I miss him.
Terribly.
And so, I must go to him. What I will say, what I will do, I have no idea.
First, I have to pack.
A deep sigh shudders from my chest as I look over the shopping bags that cover my bed.
I’ve bought everything I could possibly need out there. Mosquito netting (West Nile virus, anyone?), bug spray (the good kind with the poisonous chemicals in it), sunscreen (SPF 70 for us fair-skinned redheads, no golden brown tan for me), moisturizer, deep moisturizer, hair conditioner, hair protectant (in case I should brave those shark-infested waters), hiking boots (snakes, scorpions, and who knows what else!), hats, sunglasses, cargo shorts (hideous but necessary), khaki upon khaki upon khaki (the guy at the store assured me that the clothing, albeit ugly, was weatherproof, waterproof, and wrinkle resistant). And if all else fails, I’ve got plenty of the good stuff—my savior in any pinch—cold hard cash to exchange for shells or whatever form of money they use out there.
So I may not be looking fabulous on my trek, but at least I’m doing my best to ensure I survive the wilds.
I can do this.
My plane leaves in two hours. I’m trying to bypass the family gossip game of telephone, so I won’t be able to take the private jet. I’ll be flying commercial.
And I’ll be doing this all on my own. No help from anyone. I’ve made my travel arrangements and I’ll be my own travel guide for this trip. It has to be from me or my arrival, my efforts, my showing up there means nothing.
He has to see that I did this all on my own. For him.
I scurry to the bathroom to take what is sure to be my last shower for a very, very long time. Scrub my hair with my strawberry shampoo. Lather every inch of my skin with my lavender goat’s milk soap. Shave every single trace of hair from my body.
I emerge a hairless, squeaky clean, heavenly scented being. But I’m running out of time. I twist my hair into a braid. Run to the room to put on the cotton bra and panties I’ve deemed durable. Pull on the khaki shorts—gah! Not only do they do nothing for my fair complexion, the hem of them ends at my kneecaps! I pull on the safari style shirt I’ve purchased, buttoning it up to my neck and flattening the collar.
I take one glance in the mirror and burst out into laughter. I look like a ten-year-old playing dress up. One who thinks she’s going to make it big hosting her own real-life crocodile wrestling show.
I look ridiculous.
But it doesn’t even matter. Right now, I’d do just about anything for love... or lust... or like whatever state of being I’ve been in since the day Rockland picked me up in that damn monster truck.
I stuff the rest of my belongings into my waiting, opened suitcase. Throw my passport, the cash, and a map of where I think the Parish might be into my purse. Lug everything down three flights of stairs, by myself. Step out on to my stoop and close the door behind me.
I’m out of breath. Damp in the armpits from my exertion. But a feeling akin to pride wells in my chest.
Since joining the Village, I’ve never been outside of the city by myself.
Leaving my suitcase on the stoop for the driver to retrieve, I smile wide and head toward the car. I stop in my tracks as soon as I realize who’s in the driver’s seat.
It’s not my driver Frank, it’s John Bachman. His sleek black car is so similar to mine, I didn’t even notice it wasn’t mine. John gives me a smile and a friendly wave from behind the dark glass before stepping out to greet me.
I groan.
Damn this Village. Can’t anyone do anything without everyone knowing everything?
“Hey, John, what’s up?” I ask.
He shuts his door, leaning against the car. A handsome smirk grows across his face, getting broader by the second. “What have we got here? Dora the Explorer? Little orphan Annie off to find her real parents? Pippi Longstocking off on a traveling adventure—”
“Cut the crap, John. Why are you here?”
He raises a brow at my tone. I do not stand down. Instead, I cock my hip and throw my hand on my waist. He says, “I’m here to escort you, of course.”
I want to roll my eyes but don’t push my luck. “But I’m just off to the... ah... zoo. I thought this outfit would be cute to see the bears and tigers and such.” I do a little twirl. “Don’t you think?”
“Which zoo is that, exactly?”
“Ah... the big one?”
“Would that be the Bronx Zoo? Catskills Game Farm? Central Park Zoo? Seneca Park Zoo? Prospect Park Zoo? Buffalo Zoo? Stop me if I name it.”
“The third one you said. That one.”
“And the suitcase?”
“I was going to get a hotel. In case I needed two days to see everything. I’m quite the animal enthusiast, you know.”
“The only connection you have to animals is when you’re wearing their prints on your blouses or your five-hundred-dollar shoes. Get in the car. I’ll get your bag.”
“Seriously? Can I not go on a trip without a male escort? This is ridiculous.”
“Get in the car or you’ll not be leaving the Village. Your choice.”
Our gazes lock—a staring contest of wills. I, of course, lose and head to the passenger side of the car. Huffing and puffing my indignance all the way.
I slam the door, cross my arms over my chest, and wait for my escort.
When he gets in the car he gives me a long look. “What the hell was in that bag? You thought you were going to be able to check that thing? It must have weighed seventy pounds.”
“I need a lot of... equipment... for where I’m going.”
“And where it that, exactly?”
“Don’t you know? You’ve shown up at my doorstep at the exact time my driver was supposed to arrive. Where is Frank, anyway?”
“Gave the old fellow the day off. Thought he might need it after dealing with the likes of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You’ve been a little—touchy? Out of sorts? Since, well... you know.”
“Since when?”
“Maybe for about a month now. I don’t know... since Rockland left?”
Silence settles over the car. I stare out the windshield. He’s turning onto Fifth Street. Headed for the tarmac where the jet will no doubt be waiting for us.
When John speaks again, his normal condescending tone has cooled. Almost tenderly, he says, “I’m happy to take you there, Tess. I know how much he means to you.”
I look down at my hands, picking at my cuticles. I haven’t bothered to do my nails since he went away. “You don’t have to do this, you know, John. I’d be fine on my own.”
“I know you would, honey. You’re as tough as a tiger. But this will be more pleasant. I can’t really picture Miss Tess Bachman flying commercial, squeezed between two
overweight, sweaty men.”
“I was going to fly first class, at least.”
“I know, but even that probably wouldn’t be up to your standards. There’s a lot of people at the airport. And you’d have to go through security. They would go through your bags. Make you take off your shoes, walk you through a full body metal detector, maybe even have to pat you down—”
Anxiety rises in my chest, tightening my throat. “Stop—you’re right. This is much better.”
I give John a glance. He’s a sweet man. Kind to do this for me. I say, “Thanks, John.”
“You’re welcome, Tess. And just so you know, next time you’re trying to go AWOL, maybe don’t buy plane tickets on your credit card. The Brotherhood has those things flagged.”
“What else do you guys flag?” I should have known.
“I can’t tell you our secrets. Besides, after this trip, I don’t think you’ll be on your own too much time.”
His words light a fire of hope in my heart. Has Rockland mentioned something to John? Maybe that he misses me? I can’t ask so instead I manage the words, “Does he know I’m coming?”
“No. I left that part a surprise. I assumed by the travel arrangements you made, you wanted to surprise him, and so though I couldn’t let you fulfill all your wishes to go on this mission by yourself, I wanted you to at least have that. To do it your way and show up unannounced.” He shoots me a smile.
I smile back and say, “Thanks. I sure hoped I packed all the right things.” We arrive at our tiny airport and the jet comes into view. Nerves dance in my stomach, threatening to make me ill.
“I’m sure the Parish will have everything you need.” John pulls the car into a parking spot. We get out. I hear the rumble of engines. Watch as he pulls my enormous suitcase out of the trunk. An attendant hurries over to take it from him. John grabs his own bag—a small duffle—and closes the trunk.
I look curiously at his carryon. “Is that all you’re bringing? Don’t we need... supplies?”
He looks at me curiously, “What exactly has Rockland told you about the Parish?”
“Not much. I guess he wasn’t supposed to. I’ve just assumed that since it’s so remote and they live such a simple life, we’d need the kind of stuff I’ve packed.”
Rockland: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 12
