by Madison, Mia
She looks back and forth between Gabriel and Daniel. “Fraternal,” she decides after a moment. “Not identical.”
“How do you know?” Daniel says, as he starts dishing out the pasta from one of several bowls of it on the table. There are also huge bowls of salad and baskets of rolls.
“You have hints of red in your hair and your beard. Gabriel’s hair is darker.” She takes the salad bowl my father passes her and puts a generous portion on her plate.
“Maybe I dye it.” He’s grinning at her.
“And your eyes are a lighter shade of brown.”
“Could be contacts,” Daniel persists.
“But it’s not.” Her eyes twinkle; she’s enjoying the game.
“Do you have brothers, Juliet?” my mother asks.
“I have a younger brother and sister.”
“Oho, she’s a firstborn.” Enzo winks at me. “She’ll whip you into shape, Nico.”
I smile. Juliet blushes faintly and eats another bite of salad. There’s a question in her eyes: why aren’t I telling them the truth about her?
It’s a good question. I don’t lie to my family. But I’ve already obliterated the professional distance I should have kept between me and Juliet, so passing her off as just a client would be even less honest than letting them think she’s my girlfriend.
I may not lie to them, but I don’t tell them everything, either. I’m entitled to my privacy just like they are. Rafael knows what’s up, of course, but he’s keeping our secret. For now.
Gabriel finishes a bite of pasta and points at Juliet. “First pop quiz. Coke or Pepsi?”
“Coke.”
“Nico?”
“Neither one,” I say. “My body is my temple.” Juliet hides a smile; she’s been worshipping at my temple all week.
“Game of Thrones, yes or no?” my brother goes on.
She lifts a shoulder. “Not really my thing.”
“I’m a big fan,” I say when Gabriel turns to me.
“Things are looking pretty grim, for you folks watching at home,” he says announcer-style. “Can we find some common ground and rescue this relationship? Juliet. Well-done steak.”
She wrinkles her nose. “What is even the point?”
“Now we’re talking. Doggie style, or—”
“Gabriel.” Both our parents are giving my brother stern looks. Juliet’s staring at her plate, red staining her cheeks.
He holds up his hands. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t apologize to me, young man.”
“Sorry, Juliet.”
“It’s your turn to ask some questions,” our father says to Juliet. “If you want to.”
She clears her throat and looks around the table before asking me, “Who’s the eldest brother in your family?”
“You get three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”
“Well, it’s not you,” she retorts, and everyone laughs. “So it must be Rafael.”
“She’s got your number,” Enzo says with a grin. “Both of your numbers, come to think of it.”
“Hey, no threesomes,” I protest, and Juliet threatens to throw her dinner roll at me. “Why did you say it must be Rafael?”
“Because you acted like I should know the answer, and I met him already. Plus, he’s clearly the responsible one.”
The table erupts in hoots and shouts. Juliet and Rafe both look pleased with themselves. Gabriel says, “Now guess the rest of us.”
She narrows her eyes, examining us each in turn. “Next oldest,” she says finally, gesturing toward Stefano. “You two are clearly middle children—” indicating the twins —“so you’re next. And you’re the youngest,” she says to me, “so Enzo must be next youngest.”
Daniel lets out a low whistle, and everyone applauds. “Very impressive,” my father says. “You’re a perceptive and intelligent young woman.”
From Juliet’s expression, you’d think she just won an award. It makes me wonder how often her own parents praise her. “Why am I the youngest?” I ask.
She gives me an Oh, please look. “You’re a classic youngest child. You use outrageous behavior to get attention.”
Stefano snorts, but doesn’t look up from his plate. I arch an eyebrow at her. “Outrageous?”
Juliet doesn’t back down. “You’re the only man in your family with long hair. You like breaking rules, pushing boundaries. Coloring outside the lines.”
“And you always color inside them.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Not always.”
No, not always. Thank fuck.
* * *
After dinner, while the table’s being cleared and the dishes done, I draw Rafael aside. “Any updates?”
“Family looks clear, so work is the mostly likely angle for motive. The cops are still following up with her car, seeing if they can get any physical evidence there.”
Crossing his arms, he puts on his serious boss face. “She’s a senator’s daughter, Nico. We can’t afford to fuck this up.”
I try not to bristle, but don’t do a very good job. “I’m not going to fuck it up.”
“You already have.” My eldest brother studies me. “Outrageous behavior notwithstanding, you’ve never had a problem keeping it in your pants. Not on a job.”
“I’m still doing the job.”
“Do you realize you never took your eyes off her all evening? Not once.”
I drop my voice. “She’s special, all right?” And she fits in here, with my big, noisy family, like she’s always been a part of it.
“I need you sharp, Nico. Not thinking with your cock.”
Too late, big brother.
* * *
It’s late when the dinner party finally breaks up. Everyone wanted to talk to Juliet, including Sofia, who tore herself away from Rick long enough to do do a quick doctor-patient follow-up interview. As usual at one of my family’s gatherings, there was singing and storytelling and lots of laughter.
“You had a good time,” I say as we drive away.
She smiles, a little wistfully, it seems to me. “I like your family.”
“They liked you too.”
My conversation with Rafael keeps running through my mind. You never took your eyes off her. Why would I, when she’s the most interesting person in the room?
And if that isn’t thinking with my cock, I don’t know what is.
I need to start cooling things down. This will be over soon; one way or another, we’ll nail whoever came after her. It’s not fair to Juliet to behave like we’re a couple, the way I’ve been doing.
It wasn’t deliberate; I’d never want to hurt her. It was just so easy, having her with me all the time, to slip into acting like it was the real thing.
Maybe because she’s easier to be around than any of my real girlfriends have ever been.
And isn’t that a kick in the guts? But it’s only because we’re not an actual couple. We’ve been focusing on the sex — fuck, of course we have, it’s great sex — not on all the little details that bring a relationship down.
If we tried to date for real, we’d probably end up hating each other. Not that that’s an option anyway; Senator North would have my balls, and the backlash would fuck with our business.
Juliet’s as quiet as I am on the drive home. When we get inside the house, I say, “I need to go out for a while, take care of some stuff.” That’s a lie. If I’m here, I won’t be able to keep my hands off her.
“Sure,” she says, not looking at me. It’s like she knows. Maybe she does; it’s the first time I’ve ever lied to her.
“You remember how to rearm the system?” I’ve showed her everything, reviewed it with her, but you can’t be too sure.
“I remember.”
“Keep a panic button with you.”
“Right.” She’s tidying up, aimlessly, still avoiding my gaze. I hate that she won’t look at me but I know it’s for the best.
“Okay. Back soon.” I go out, and then I stand on my front porch and
wait for the tone that signals that she’s rearmed the system. Not until I hear it do I climb in my car and drive away.
I have no destination in mind. No bars; I don’t want anything to take the edge off while she’s still in danger. I could go wake Rafe up, make him keep me company, but then he’d just drag my ass for getting involved with her in the first place.
In the end, I wind up driving a surveillance perimeter around my neighborhood. What if whoever’s after her somehow figures out where she is and uses my absence to break in? I can’t risk it.
After an hour, I go back home. Soft music’s coming from the family room; it stops as I open the door. Drawn to its ghostly echo, I walk in to see Juliet sitting with my guitar.
“I didn’t know you played.”
“Not very well.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The singing tonight made me want to hear more music. I hope you don’t mind.”
She’s being so polite. We both are. “No, it’s fine. It’s nice. You can play some more if you want.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll go to bed.” Rising, she puts the guitar back in its case, closing it carefully. “I thought maybe I’d sleep on the couch.”
It’s like someone jammed several jagged shards of glass into my gut. “You don’t have to do that,” I say after a long silence. “I can—”
“Nico.” The quiet finality in her tone kills me. “It’s your bed. It would be stupid for you not to sleep in it. Besides, I’m smaller; I’ll be more comfortable on the couch.” She hesitates, then adds, “Maybe tomorrow we can put me up in a hotel or something.”
The shards of glass twist themselves, gouging deeper. I’m bleeding; the floor should be covered in it. “We’ll have whoever it is soon. You’d be too vulnerable in a hotel room.”
She nods. “Okay.” This whole time, she hasn’t made eye contact. Picking up the guitar case, she stows it away in the closet where I keep it. “Well. Good night.”
It takes every ounce of self-control in me not to grab her as she goes by. I want to crush her to me and never let go. Instead, I count to thirty, and then go back through the living room to see that she’s busy making the couch up.
Of course she didn’t have to ask where the extra bedding was; she’s been living here all week. She’s done the laundry at least as often as I have. I walk by her without a word and go to my room.
My empty bed’s as cozy as a crypt.
11
The Last Thing I Feel
I can’t sleep. The couch is well-made and comfortable, but I’m miserable. It’s taking everything in me not to rush into Nico’s bedroom and throw myself at him.
His family was wonderful to me, and it made me feel like a hypocrite and a jerk for misleading them. It also made me admit what I’ve been denying all week: in my heart of hearts, I want a real relationship with Nico. It’s never going to happen, but I can’t stop wanting it.
So I decided I had to do the next best thing and quit him cold turkey.
Nico made it easy for me. Or less awful, at least. On the drive back, and afterward, he was not at all his usual self. His obvious discomfort with me was painful, but it was also a big neon sign from the universe that I’d made the right decision.
From the moment we met, we’ve had a connection, and now we’re like strangers. It hurts so much.
Maybe I should have spent the night in his bed one last time, making one last memory. It would have been better than this, lying awake staring at the ceiling. Missing him when he’s just down the hall.
Longing swamps me, and before I can second-guess myself, I’m on my feet, padding through the night-still house. I reach his room and hesitate in the doorway. What right do I have to impose my neediness on him?
Except he’s not sleeping either. He turns his head toward me and holds out a hand in silent invitation, and I practically leap onto the bed. His arms come around me, holding me tight, so tight, for long moments.
Then he tucks me against him, my back to his chest, in our usual sleeping position. And I understand that this is goodbye. My heart aches, but even now, in our final hours together, I’d rather be with him than apart.
His arm is around my waist. I link my fingers with his, close my eyes, and drop into a deep, dreamless slumber.
* * *
When I wake, I’m confused, disoriented, not sure what time it is or what woke me. But something did. Then I hear the pounding at the front door.
Nico’s not in bed with me. I roll out and stumble down the hallway to see him standing at the door, wearing jeans and no shirt, barefoot, his gun tucked into the back of his waistband. He’s talking to whoever’s out there, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
My conscious mind isn’t working very well yet, but my subconscious is making note of his body language. He’s been teaching me things this week, little tricks about how to be aware of my environment and the people around me. I’m not very good at it yet; but I am familiar with Nico’s body, how he stands, how he moves.
There’s tension in his back, his spine, his shoulders. Like he’s arguing with someone, or blocking them from coming in, or both. But they must not be an actual threat, or he wouldn’t be talking at all.
I’m still walking toward him in slow motion, my foggy brain trying to wake up and make sense of all this, when I hear him say, “She’s asleep.”
And then, very distinctly, my mother’s voice says, “I don’t care.”
That can’t be right. Congress is in session; my mother is in D.C. I reach Nico and peer around his shoulder just as he senses my presence.
My mother, who really is here, is staring at me. Nico is also staring at me. That’s when I wake all the way up and realize I’m standing there in nothing but bikini panties and a see-through tank top.
And then all hell breaks loose.
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m huddled in Nico’s bathrobe, sipping a cup of coffee. Both my parents are here, and also a police officer they brought along. Somehow — and I’m still not clear on this part — my mother found out that the “safe house” I was staying in was actually Nico’s home, and her mom instincts went into overdrive.
She’s been quiet-yelling since Nico let them all in, and nobody, not even my dad, has been able to calm her down. Nico made a few attempts to reason with her, but now his strategy seems to be to let her run herself down like a wind-up toy. He’s standing with his arms folded, his expression carefully blank.
When my mother says to the cop, “I want to press charges,” I’ve had enough. I set my coffee cup down.
“Mother.”
My mother turns her head my way long enough to say, “Stay out of this, Juliet,” before she goes back to her low-voiced ranting.
I practically feel something in me snap. Jumping down off the stool by Nico’s kitchen island that I’ve been sitting on, I march over to her and get right in her face. “What did you just say?”
She blinks, taken aback by my manner, my tone, my words, all of it. “Juliet—”
“I am twenty years old.” I know how to do low-voiced yelling too. “I am a legal adult, and I am here of my own free will. No crime has been committed.”
My mother points at Nico. “That man—”
“Is keeping me safe.”
“He took advantage of you.”
“Did you miss the part where I’m all grown up now?”
“All grown up.” She manages to inject the faintest notes of scorn and pity into the words. “And how old is he?”
“Mother—”
“How old, Juliet?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Don’t you see? He’s a sexual predator.”
“Mother!” This time it’s not a quiet yell. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”
There’s a stunned silence before my mother regroups. “I’m not having this conversation here. Get dressed.”
“No.”
“Juliet!”
“Go back to D.C., Mother. Do what you do.
You’re very good at it.”
For a moment, I see real hurt in her eyes, and I’m sorry for it. If she would just stop giving orders and listen, I could explain. But I can’t let her make trouble for Nico.
“Juliet.” Her voice is shaking. “Please.”
And now she’s got me. I can’t say no to an honest plea from my own mother, a woman who normally shows as much vulnerability as a fortress. Retreating to Nico’s bedroom, I get dressed.
He appears in the doorway as I’m finishing. “Sorry,” I say. “When my mother gets on the warpath about something, she’s kind of a badass.”
“So’s her daughter.”
Damn. This man. My heart swells to at least twice its normal size. There are so many things I want to say to him right now, and I can’t.
As I pass him, I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
When I go back out to where my parents are waiting, the cop is gone, which is a small mercy. My mother notes my lack of a suitcase. Her lips tighten, but she doesn’t say anything.
Turning to Nico, I say, “I’ll be back.” I’m deliberately making that promise in front of my parents. Even if there’s nothing left for us to say but Goodbye, have a nice life, I need that closure, to see him one more time.
There’s a storm in his eyes; I can feel the weight of all the words he’s holding back. He holds my gaze for a long moment before he gives me a single slow nod, telling me he understands, that we’re on the same wavelength.
Even now, he’s protecting me. Supporting me. Watching my back.
He’s my strength, and I have to leave him.
I turn away before I break down and go outside. My parents follow me, the silence between us tense and awkward. “Where are Tabby and Ben?” I ask my father.
“Staying with friends in D.C.” He looks shell-shocked. I suppose most dads don’t deal too well with this kind of situation.
We drive to a café and have coffee; none of us has an appetite for food. “I was … concerned about you,” my mother begins.
