by Nicci Harris
When I push the door open and walk inside, I'm stilled by her little body seated on the edge of the bed. Her knees are drawn up to below her chin and her arms make a band around them. She lifts her head, her glossy hazel eyes finding mine in the low light. Springing to her feet, she runs to me. I drop the flowers when she jumps into my arms. Catching her, I envelop her tightly.
And she's fine. I'm not sure what I had expected when I saw her.
Not this.
My anger vanishes.
Her hands thrust up into my hair before clawing down the nape of my neck. The desperate and needy grate of her nails against my skin awakens my cock. Squeezing my waist with her toned thighs, she secures herself to me. She slams her mouth onto mine. I groan as she loses herself in the kiss. Sliding my hands down the length of her spine, I palm her soft, perfectly round arse.
"I love you, Max," she whispers into our kiss.
A shiver rushes through me as those words fuck with my head. I devour her sweet-talking lips, fucking eat her mouth, sucking and tonguing her, wanting to taste every inch of the place those words came from. Claim every inch. It's just a fucking word, but when it sounds like a purr - husky and soft and breaking with sentimentality - it makes a damn fool out of me.
Because I'm starting to believe in it. The more a part of my life and world she becomes, the more I expect her to turn and run, but she never does. She stays by my side. My pillar of goodness. If that isn’t what the word means, then I don't know what.
I didn't choose this last name, this legacy to uphold. An empire to help my family build and protect. To help my brother one day rule. But I have chosen Cassidy. The one thing that I'll keep for myself in amongst all this grit and shit.
I may not be able to give her the fairy-tale.
But she gives me a break from this nightmare.
And I'm a selfish bastard, so I'll fucking take it.
I climb onto the bed with her wrapped around me.
I fuck her slowly all night.
Cassidy
* * *
Seeing that my studio is now a thirty-minute drive from my new home, I don't spend as much time within its mirror-covered walls. But when I finish early at ballet, I steal a few hours to dance in my own space and at my own pace.
Just for the love of it.
Mafioso.
I shake my head as if to physically prevent that word from settling for too long in one place. After having successfully drowned that thought with fatigue all day, I don't intend on stopping now.
Slinging my backpack to the floor, I begin to remove my shirt and shorts until I'm left in my leotard. Carter sits on a stool beside my little kitchen, looking strangely comfortable when any other man might feel awkward. He makes the spot he's sitting in his place. It's true confidence. A wonderful quality.
Mafioso. Was the missing boy confident? Wonderfully so?
"I'm glad you came inside today," I say to Carter, ignoring the slight spike in my pulse.
"I'm grateful to be here, Miss Slater," he states.
Maybe I'll dance something specifically for him. Maybe something with mystery and darkness and an epic battle scene. I put my ballet compilation on shuffle and move over to the barre to warm up. Aram Khachaturian sounds through the speakers, filling my heart with that freedom I feel when I dance. It pulls at me. Each note plucks at the threads that hold me together, unravelling me and revealing my soul. Much like my love for Max Butcher does. He bares me down and I think - I hope - I bare him down too.
The music suddenly consumes me. Smiling as a tear falls down my cheek, I place my hand gently on the barre and begin my exercises. Even though I am already warmed up and pretty exhausted, it is a routine I can't break.
After a thirty-minute barre session, I move into the centre of the room.
"Would you like me to dance something for you?"
"I would, yes. What would you suggest?"
Pondering on that, I peer around my studio for inspiration. My eyes land on an image of the Black Swan. That choreography would be suitable to a life lived hard.
It is haunting.
Much like the voice of that elderly Italian lady.
Mafioso.
My throat thickens with discomfort, causing me to force a swallow.
Force my mind back to the present. To ballet.
Hanging across the length of one wall are photos from my thirteen years of dancing. Cast photos. Accolades. Newspaper articles. In one of the black frames is the newspaper clip celebrating the first time I was cast as Clara - the youngest Clara in the history of my academy. Beside it is a new wooden frame. Curious, I wander over and stop before it. My dad must have had it framed and hung like he always does. More tears slide from my eyes. For some reason, my stomach sinks.
There I am, foot up on the barre, smiling widely. The article heading is: Golden Girl Cassidy Slater Our Sugar Plum Fairy. That feels like a lifetime ago. . .
"Miss Slater, are you okay? Have you eaten enough?"
I wipe my moist eyes and nose with my wrist. "Yes." I pull myself away from the frame. Walking back into the centre of the room, I'm determined to dance my little heart out. My emotions out. Mafioso out. "I'm just hormonal. I'm not sad. I've been so lucky."
"It's not luck. It's hard work. You're a very special young lady," he says with a smile.
All the tears inside me suddenly erupt even though I'm shaking my head in defiance against them. They make no sense. And I don't have time for them. Covering my face with my palms, I sob into them for no reason at all. Carter is in front of me now, wrapping his arms around my head and shoulders. Feeling as though I am being comforted by my dad, I lower my hands and lean into him without reservation.
"I don't know why I'm crying," I admit. "This is so embarrassing."
"You're pregnant and you have been dancing since 8:00 a.m. Go easy on yourself."
Breathing in strength, I break our embrace. "I'm sorry. I'm a silly girl."
He tilts my chin with his finger. "You listen to me. There is nothing silly about crying."
Collecting myself, I take a deep breath. "I love my life. I love Max. I love our blob."
He nods. "I know you do."
"I'm not unhappy."
"You have already said that."
My eyes bounce around my studio. "It just all happened so fast."
"Life does that sometimes. Would you change anything if you could?"
The late nights alone in bed.
The bloodied shirts.
Bruises that can't be explained.
Mafioso.
But then I think about dark-brown hair, conflicted grey-blue eyes, and big warm hands. I think about the way my heart flutters when he's nearby. When I can feel him tracking me around a room. I think about how vulnerable he can be when he allows himself to seek comfort in my arms. Sighing, I admit, "If changing something meant not having Max, then no."
His smile widens. "That's good to hear."
I crane my neck to stare straight at Carter, feeling such comfort even though he's practically a stranger. And I see past his scars. They don't shock me anymore. I stare at them, waves upon waves of craters and valleys. "Tell me something about yourself. We spend nearly every second together and I know nothing about you."
"My story isn't a happy one," he states, clasping his hands in front of him.
"How did you get your scars?" I whisper, the question just tumbling out.
He smiles at me, but it doesn't meet his eyes. "In a fire."
That makes sense; his face does look like it's melted. "What happened?"
When his lips form a thin line, I wish I never asked. Shaking my head, I start to say, 'Forget I asked', but then he begins to talk. . .
"When I was your age, I was a smoke parachuter. Many years ago, before you were even born, there was a huge fire in the District. It cut through half the city. When I made the drop, I miscalculated it and went down into the inferno."
I gasp. "Oh my God. . ." Filled with instant pride, I
smile at him in awe. "You're a real-life hero. . . I always thought-" I clear my throat. "Sorry, I presumed it had something to do with, ya know, working for Max."
He moves over to the kitchen, sitting back down on the stool. "Most of the people in the neighbourhood lost something or someone over those months. As a community, we were on fire. And it was arson that started it."
I can't believe I didn't know about this. "Did they catch him?"
"They did." He nods once. "He got ten years but was out on parole after four."
My ears burn. "Four!"
"Yes," he confirms calmly, but his eyes lose a bit of vibrancy. A strange kind of detachment moves over him. And while this whole time he's been fixed on me, now Carter is suddenly missing from inside his own gaze.
I swallow hard and take a step towards him. "How many people died?"
"One hundred and thirty"
I exhale loudly. "God. . ." Words clog up my throat, making both breathing and speaking hard. I have to force the question out, choking on the fact that I shouldn't ask but doing it anyway. "Anyone you knew?"
For a split second he gazes past me. "My wife and son."
My heart aches.
No.
Smiling at me sadly, Carter appears to be back inside his eyes. Beneath his burnt skin. That strong resilient muscle. "Don't cry for me, Miss Slater. It was a long time ago."
It doesn’t matter how long ago it was; I cry for him. Covering my face, I let more tears fall through the gaps between my fingers. Tears for my friend and the family he lost while protecting others.
After spending every day with him for weeks, I wish he would resign. Wish he would stop protecting people and find love again. Wish he would - could - move on. It is like he's stalling; caught in a gear he can't get out of. Unable to let go of the past. He's so locked in his need to protect and serve. . . Oh my God. . . He helped raise little Xander. My heart crumbles all over again as realisation takes hold of me. A surrogate son, I imagine. A little man he could watch over, watch grow. . .
I fight back more tears.
"Carter." I lower my hands and look at him through pooling irises and wet lashes. "Thank you for looking out for me."
His smile widens. "There is no greater honour."
Feeling Carter's story deep in my bones, in my marrow, in my heart, I decide to offer him an alternative story. It is the ending that I want for him. For Max and me. For the boys.
The fairy-tale.
It isn’t mysterious. Or dark. Carter doesn’t need to see my interpretation of his pain or fury - he's lived it. So instead, my dance is full of hope for his future - for all of ours - for love, contentment, peace, and placemats.
It is full of upbeat swooping movements that culminate in a happy ending.
The dance we all deserve.
Cassidy
* * *
I make my way upstairs to my dad's office, leaving Carter to make a few phone calls - which I think means he needs to check in with Max. I hope my dad isn't swamped with work and he's in a talkative kind of mood.
As I move through the second storey corridor, I have to admit to myself that I somewhat miss my family home. It's still a huge house just like Max's, but it was built in the 19th-Century, and while it's been renovated a few times, it still holds its old-world charm.
When I walk past Konnor's room, something catches the corner of my eye. Taking a step backwards so that I am in the open-door jam, my face lights up at the sight of my beautiful big brother on the bed. With his deep emerald eyes downcast and focused on something in his hand, he hasn't noticed me. As I study him, a smile plays with my lips. With those eyes, the double dimples he often throws my way, and the strong lean physique of an athletic, he's just such a beautiful man.
Troubled at times, though. Despite being on the path to recovery from alcoholism, Konnor still seems to be suffering from a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, although never clinically diagnosed.
"I never received a congratulations from you," I say with a knowing smirk because it's no secret that my brother does not like The Butcher Boys and most definitely doesn't approve of Max Butcher sweeping his little sister away.
His head shoots up. "Pipsqueak. I wasn't expecting to see you." He holds a hand up. "I'm happy to see you though."
I grin. "You're the one who lives hours away, not me. You should have told me you were in town; I would have come to see you." I glance around, squinting at him as he lowers his gaze to the small photo in his hand. "Where is Blesk?" I ask.
"She's shopping with Elise." His gaze rises to mine. "You remember Blesk's best friend Elise?"
Chuckling at that, I say, "Who could forget Elise? She's like my spirit animal."
"Yeah," he mutters, moving his attention back to the photo, an action that might be rude coming from anyone else, but Konnor gets lost in his thoughts more than anyone I've ever met.
"What is it?" I make my way towards him and sit on the edge of his bed. Leaning closer, I stare down at an old photo of some people about my age. "Who are they?" I ask just as my eyes snag on the handsome face of our father. "Oh my God! Look at him. He's so cute."
"I'll take your word for it."
"What are you doing with this?"
He points to a pretty girl with light-brown hair. Offering me his attention, I stare into perfect green irises that hint at trouble and pain beneath their sheer layers. "She's my biological mother."
"Oh." I swallow hard before focusing on the woman who raised my brother until he was four. Until he was taken from her. Only for her to die a few years after. . .
Perhaps she died of a broken heart.
I shield my lower belly with my palm, heat hitting the back of my eyes. He looks so much like her. As I study the image, I remember the night my father told us that he was friends with her in high school. Told us that he loved her. Told us some of the District's secrets. About the Mafia. About Jimmy. Max. The conversation still sits heavily in my stomach.
"She's pretty," I say.
Despite needing to visit my father before Carter takes me home, the pull of my brother's discomfort keeps me rooted to the edge of his bed. I put my hand on his tanned one. "What's going on, Konnor?"
He twists to face me, dropping his gaze to where my hand spans my stomach. "You're going to be a mother."
I blink at him and take a deep breath in before folding my hands in my lap. "Yeah."
Locking his jaw, he speaks through a slow shake of his head. "I was fucking furious when I found out he'd knocked you up, Cass. I'm not gonna lie. I was on the verge of driving all the way here and choking him with my bare hands.
"Blesk stopped me, of course. She wouldn't let me call you either. I had the phone in my fist and was ready to, but. . . She settled me down. And then, a few days after that, I got thinking about my mother. And how I'll never know her. And. . ." He sighs, eyes deep with emotion. "I don't know. Now I'm a little jealous. I just wish I had someone in my life, anyone, who shares my blood with me. Someone I can spot similarities in. Sorry." He nods as a genuine but sad smile touches his mouth. "You're going to be an amazing mother."
The backs of my eyes begin to prickle. "You don't need to share my blood. You know this. You're my brother, and you're his uncle."
His blond-brown eyebrows rise. "His?"
"Well, according to Max's dad, there hasn't been a female-born Butcher in over three generations, so I just call him a boy. He probably will be."
Konnor groans as he all but spits out the word, "Butcher". He curls his nose up. Thrusting his hands through his hair, he then pulls them back down his face. "Can't he be a Slater?"
I glance around dubiously before fixing him with an apologetic smile. "No, Konnor. He can't."
Before he can reply, my phone vibrates. Konnor nods at me to take it, so I pull it out of my pocket.
Carter: I have to get you home soon.
Frowning at the screen, I text back a reply.
Cassidy: Why?
Carter: Max.
Cassidy: Ten minutes.
"Fuck, he's a controlling prick. Tell him you're with your family," Konnor snaps, glowering down at my phone.
I bite my lip and blacken the screen. "He worries, that's all. Sorry, big brother, I have to go. I love you." I cuddle him quickly and then wander from his room.
At the end of the corridor, I tap my knuckles softly on Dad's office door.
Before I can announce myself, I hear his gentlemanly voice say, "Come in."
Pushing open the door, I step inside, my arms opening wide. "Guess who?"
He jumps to his feet and rounds his desk, moving quickly to scoop me up into a tight embrace. "I've missed you." He pushes me out in front of him as he eyes me thoroughly. "How do you feel? I've wanted to be nosy and visit, but I was trying to pretend that I understand you're a grown woman and that I don't need my little girl anymore."
"Don't you mean, that I'm a grown woman who doesn't need her dad anymore?"
"No. I meant what I said."
I giggle a little at that. "I will always need my dad."
"Good," he states, gesturing to a seat. "Sit. To what do I owe the pleasure of my favourite person?"
Walking over to the spot opposite his desk while he moves back to his chair, I mull over how to delicately have this conversation. Resting my hands in my lap, I smile at him and inhale a breath of courage.
Mafioso.
When that word taunts me again, I decide to just get it all out. All my questions. Show all my cards.
"I want to ask you what you know about Max's family. About the Mafia. About Jimmy Storm. I want to know how to ignore what you know. . . about them. Because I've seen things. And I'm wresting to keep my concerns suppressed. I'll never let go of Max. No matter what you say or what I see." I pause for a moment, always having known those words to be true but never having said them aloud before. Clearing my throat, I continue, "I just. . . want to know how you handle it."
