by Bethany-Kris
“Are we done?” Cross asked dryly.
Yes, they absolutely were.
Should he stay in that office for five more minutes, he was not sure what he might do to Cross Donati.
Nothing good.
“You better hope we never have to revisit this conversation, Cross, or one even marginally like it,” Dante said, and dropped the gun in Cross’s lap. “If you ever put my daughter in a positon like that again, this will end far differently for you. Frankly, we shouldn’t have to worry about this again anyway because you’re going to keep your distance from Catherine from here on out.”
“All right,” Cross said.
One more slight to add to a growing pile, Dante knew.
“All right, what?” Dante asked sharply.
Cross stood from the chair, looked Dante in the eye, and smirked.
He smirked.
Dante had all he could not to hit the kid. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.
“All right, nothing,” Cross replied, still smirking.
Then, the young man was out of the office. Lucian blew out a heavy breath when the door slammed shut, and even Calisto made a harsh sound in the corner.
“That kid is going to get himself killed,” Dante warned Calisto.
The Donati boss nodded. “You know, that’s very likely.”
“And yet, here we are, Calisto.”
“Seems so.”
Dante pointed at the door. “Make sure that never happens again.”
The Talk
Catherine POV
Catherine placed her hands to her knees, and pushed down in an effort to make them stop bouncing. It didn’t work. Instead of just her legs trembling with her nerves, now, her arms shook, too.
Across the living room, her mother’s sharp gaze watched her from over the magazine. Catherine avoided meeting her mother’s stare at all costs. It was just easier this way—it made it seem like she wasn’t open for conversation.
Apparently, Catrina didn’t care much about that.
“You know,” her mother said, “I assumed you were either having sex, or you were … doing other things, but I wasn’t sure until today. Why didn’t you talk to me?”
Catherine shrugged. “I didn’t have anything to say, Ma.”
Catrina lifted one perfectly manicured brow high. “Nothing?”
“No.”
“For how long?”
Catherine made a face, and continued avoiding her mother’s gaze. “A couple of months.”
“Around your birthday?”
“Do we have to talk about this?”
Catrina laughed dryly. “Catherine, do you think you’re ready to be having sex if you’re not capable of having a mature conversation about everything?”
Catherine’s molars ached when she grinded her teeth. Her mother had a good point, but that didn’t exactly mean she wanted to admit it.
“We’ve talked about sex before,” Catherine said quietly.
“We’ve talked about logistics, safety, and things, sure. We’ve never talked about intimate things, or whatever else.”
“Shouldn’t those things be private?”
“Should they?” Catrina asked back. “You’re sixteen. I think it would be inconsiderate of me not to be concerned about things, Catherine.”
“Well, what kind of things, Ma?”
“Well, for one, do you enjoy intimacy?”
Catherine’s face reddened. “Ma.”
“It’s a simple question. If sex or any kind of intimacy is traumatic in some way—be that it hurts, or is scary, or even uncomfortable—that’s something to consider. My question remains the same, dolcezza.”
“It’s …”
“Hmm?”
“Good,” she finally settled on saying.
It didn’t necessarily describe how wonderful and amazing it felt, or how Cross treated her with careful hands and more, but it was enough. She was not going into more detail where that was concerned.
Some things should be private.
“Good,” Catrina deadpanned.
Catherine peered over at her mother, and smiled a little. “It’s really good, Ma. He’s … considerate? Yeah, that’s a good way to say it.”
Catrina pursed her lips. “Okay.”
“What else?”
“Did you feel pressured—before, now … anytime?”
“No,” Catherine rushed to say. “Never.”
“How often do you feel a need to be intimate in a place like school?”
Yep …
There it was.
Catherine knew it was coming.
All over again, her face reddened.
“That was the first time,” she admitted.
“I take it you understand—”
“How stupid it was? Yeah, I got that, Ma.”
“I bet.” Catrina sighed, adding, “but I was going to say, I take it you understand how irresponsible it was.”
“That, too.”
Catrina tossed the magazine aside. “See, sex can be wonderful, Catherine. And no one should ever make you feel ashamed or put down because you enjoy sex. Whether some of us in this house like to admit it or not, you’re just like every other human coming into adulthood. You feel the same things—need and want the same things. Some of those things are intimate and physical in nature. You may not be at an age where it’s easier to accept what you do, but pretending that you don’t do them certainly won’t help.”
“Daddy’s very angry at me.”
“Yes, he is.” Catrina shrugged, and said, “Truth be told, at first it was probably the shock of realizing his daughter isn’t the same little girl who used to refuse to wear anything but a tutu. After that shock wore off, his anger changed direction, and now it’s what you did, and where you did it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He’s due his anger, Catherine. You have to understand why he has it.”
Catherine chewed on her inner cheek before asking, “And what about you, Ma?”
“Hmm?”
“The anger he has with you for not telling him that you thought I was having sex, or for putting me on birth control without talking to him about it. Do you understand why he’s angry?”
Catrina smiled. “I understand—I don’t agree. Therein lies the difference between our circumstances with your father at the moment. You were in the wrong. He only thinks I was in the wrong.”
“Don’t you think he might not have been so angry or shocked had you talked to him about … me and sex?”
“Probably.”
“But you still think—”
“That he needs to climb down from his high horse, or I will knock him down from it, yes.”
Perfect.
Catherine could already tell it was going to be difficult to live in her house for the unforeseeable future. Definitely not fun, all things considered. Her parents were two of the most stubborn people she knew, and neither one of them backed down from a fight.
She didn’t want to be the reason they were fighting.
Yet, here she was.
Being exactly that.
Yeah.
Perfect.
Not five minutes later, Catherine heard the roar of a familiar engine. Her father’s car. All over again, humiliation filled her to the brim, and her heart felt heavy.
It was only made worse when her father came into the house, found her in the living room, and said nothing.
No, he only stared at her.
Disappointment looked back.
“Catherine,” her father said.
She looked up at him. “Yes, Daddy?”
“There’s only two things I want to know at the moment.”
“Okay.”
“Are you being safe?” he asked.
Catherine’s gaze darted to her mother, and then back to Dante. “Yes.”
“Have you ever felt like you had to do something that you did not want to do?”
“No,” Catherine said quickly.
She barely made it out of the living room before the yelling started between her parents. She didn’t come out of her room until morning.
The Run
Cross POV
Whiskey burned all the fucking way down. Cross tipped that bottle up and took another long swig. The noise of the house party got louder and louder until it was nothing more than an irritation in his ear.
Drunk, and with his vision swimming, Cross weaved through the people. A couple called his name, but he ignored them altogether.
Right then, he just needed to get away.
That’s why he’d left his fucking house in the first place. Why had Zeke invited so many damn people?
The heat crawled beneath his leather jacket in an almost smothering way. He could feel the thumping in his throat—signaling something bad was coming. He moved a little bit faster, if only because he didn’t want his friend to have to clean a mess.
Cross barely made it through the backdoor before he lost his lunch all over the stone tiles. Whiskey burned coming up the same way it did going down, but it didn’t taste half as fucking good this time around.
“Oh, shit!”
Someone else laughed.
“You okay, man?”
Cross blinked, and put his hands to his knees. He couldn’t remember how old he was the last time he had drank enough liquor to make him sick. Maybe fourteen, or thirteen.
“Fuck,” he hissed, spitting to the ground.
The laughter of the people gathered outside only grated on his nerves even more. He didn’t like to make a spectacle of himself. It just wasn’t what he did.
Yet, there he was.
Being laughed at.
Being watched.
Fuck.
All he wanted right then was not to feel. To be numb inside and out. To breathe, but not feel like it took effort with every single breath.
He didn’t want to hurt.
Not in his heart, or his soul.
He only needed to be numb.
“Here, man,” somebody said.
Cross looked up to find one of Zeke’s older friends standing next to him. The guy with the gray-blue eyes held out a smoldering joint. The heady scent of weed made his stomach feel even heavier all at once.
The guy chuckled like he could see Cross’s disgust.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “This strain has a strong smell, but it does wonders for making nausea go away, or just making you feel better. It’s yours if you want it.”
Cross smacked his mouth.
Vomit still lingered there.
He eyed the joint, and swallowed hard.
Drugs weren’t usually his thing. Sometimes he’d take a couple of hits off a joint when he was at a party, and Zeke was looking out for him. That was really it, though.
He didn’t make it a regular thing.
“I don’t want to think or feel anything at all,” Cross said.
The guy nodded. “Yeah, it’s good for that, too.”
That was all Cross needed to hear. He snagged the joint, and took the first drag. He didn’t cough or choke, and instead, chased the smoke back with another drink of burning whiskey.
Numbness was the goal.
He needed it.
Something shifted beside Cross, and his drug and drink induced brain was slow to react. He should have been down for the count—a foggy memory of Zeke pulling him off the couch and guiding him to the bedroom lingered in the back of his mind.
Wasn’t he in bed?
Soft.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Yeah, he was definitely in bed.
Another shift beside him, and Cross finally opened his eyes. He glanced over; his vision still swam with a high and drunk that had not quite let him go, yet. He couldn’t have been in bed for very long. He could still hear the party going on outside the bedroom.
Music.
People laughing.
Someone shouting.
All those thoughts registered to Cross first, and the woman staring at him registered second. He stared at her for a long while wondering what in the hell she was doing in the bedroom with him. He felt her hands first—gliding over his bare chest, and then beneath his boxer-briefs.
Zeke had made him get undressed.
Puke on your clothes, man.
“What the—”
“Hey,” the girl said.
Then, she was on him.
Cross barely even got a word in, or understood what happened, and the chick was in his lap, and looking down at him. Her hands stroked his dick, and because he couldn’t control the reaction of his body when somebody just rubbed on him enough, he hardened.
“Like that, do you?”
No.
She was pretty enough, sure.
Blonde.
Brown-eyed.
Not Catherine.
All things that worked in her favor.
Cross was still fucked up—way too messed up to be doing this. And who the hell just came into a bedroom and climbed on somebody that was sleeping?
“Get off,” Cross said.
“Don’t be like that.”
Her fingers tightened.
“Besides,” she added, “I think you like it.”
“Get off.”
Somewhere in his hazy mind, shit became clear.
This was how easy it could be for somebody to do shit like this. To take advantage. To hurt, and think it was okay.
It pissed him off, and made him sick at the same time.
“Get the fuck off,” Cross snarled.
His words were still slurred.
His strength was not up to par.
He still shoved the girl away from him. So hard, in fact, that she fell off the side of the bed. The thump cleared his foggy brain in an instant. The haze wasn’t gone, but he didn’t feel entirely high or drunk anymore.
The hangover tomorrow was going to be a bitch.
“Asshole,” the girl said.
“Get out.”
Cross rolled over in the bed, and yanked the blankets up over his head.
“And lock the fucking door,” he added in a mumble.
“Cross, your phone is ringing again.”
“Leave it,” Cross said.
Zeke still picked up the device and checked the home page. “It’s your father.”
“Fuck, man, I said to leave it.”
“Shit, all right. Relax.”
Cross went back to cleaning the nine-millimeter. Zeke never took proper care of his guns, and it drove Cross crazy.
“Dad called me a couple times today,” Zeke said.
“Yeah.”
“Asked about you.”
“Yeah,” Cross repeated dryly.
“Wanted to know when you were going to head home.”
“Yeah.”
“Cross,” Zeke said quietly.
Cross looked up from the gun, and found his friend was staring him down. “What?”
“You’ve been here a week.”
“And I might be here for another week.” Cross shrugged. “Unless you’ve got something to say about that, I mean.”
“You know you’re welcome to stay here any fucking time you want, man.”
“All right.”
“Except my father said your mother is worried, and Calisto is two seconds away from sending somebody after your ass to take you home. He knows where you are—that’s probably the only reason he hasn’t done anything yet.”
“Probably,” Cross agreed.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
No.
Yes.
Really, Cross didn’t know.
He didn’t know anything.
At the moment, his entire life felt like one big fucking mess. A shit show. Catherine was … gone. That’s what he knew. And with her went a piece of him. A giant chunk of his heart that was supposed to be hers because he was fucking stupid.
Like an idiot, he had handed over another piece of himself without even thinking about what that might mean.
He didn’t consider she might hurt him again.
Because love.
Love was bullshit.
Not a lie, no.
It couldn’t be a lie when he felt it. He knew it was real. Every single part of him loved Catherine Marcello. That didn’t mean he had to like it a whole lot right now. It certainly didn’t feel very damn good.
So yeah.
Love was garbage.
“You know,” Zeke said, “you didn’t really tell me what happened. You just showed up, got drunk for three days, smoked up in between, and slept a lot. I mean, today’s the first day you actually got up and did something. And all you did was bitch about my gun and clean it, man. You don’t … talk.”
“Is that what you want, or something?”
“What?”
“To talk about my feelings? Menstruate once a month? Grow vaginas? The way I feel isn’t up for conversation, Zeke.”
His friend just shook his head. “Christ, you are such an asshole sometimes. You know I just want to help, right? That’s it.”
Helping him would be to leave him alone. Or, to be quiet. Helping wouldn’t be asking questions, or making Cross feel like shit all over again. Helping was a lot of things, but it wasn’t anything Zeke was offering at the moment.
Cross didn’t tell his friend any of those things.
Instead, he said, “Catherine broke up with me. I don’t want to talk about it—there’s nothing to say, but I don’t want to be at home right now. I needed to be somewhere else. Here I am.”
Or rather, he couldn’t be home.
Cross needed some time. He didn’t know what for, really. Maybe to recharge, or to get shit straight in his head. Something … He just needed time away from being the principe. Time away from being his mother and step-father’s son, and his sister’s big brother. Time away from a place that constantly reminded him of Catherine for a million and one different reasons.
Maybe then when he went back, shit would be okay.
Except it probably wouldn’t be.
So was his fucking life.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Zeke said.
Cross grumbled under his breath, and then asked, “What now?”
