by Howes, Ann
It’s still dark out and the clock on the DVR underneath the TV says it’s not even six a.m. yet.
“Off, you big lug.” I bounce my hips and he responds with a whine and long, put-put fart.
Gak.
I knew those damn sausages where going to come back and assault me.
“That’s very unattractive,” I croak at him from underneath the comforter. “How are you ever going to find a Mrs. Truman if you keep farting like that?” He snorts and burrows deeper between my legs.
At last, I get a leg under him and he shifts enough for me to roll off the couch. Then the little bastard decides to move and nose-dives off the couch. I let him out onto the large balcony as it’s too early for me to take him for a walk. While he sniffs and lifts his leg, marking every corner and Billy’s flowerpots, I check the cabinets again, hoping some food-fairy filled them up overnight with anything edible for Truman.
Still nothing.
I have no money and I can’t give him doughnuts.
Crap.
I’m going to have to take him back to the house. Maybe if I leave soon I can pack my things and disappear before anyone wakes up.
After a quick shower, I release my hair from the bun on top of my head, then rumble through Billy’s drawers with a towel the size of a blanket wrapped around me, looking for something to wear.
“Which do you think, Tru? The Sharks hoodie or the Giants sweatshirt?”
Truman sneezes, circles the floor three times and lies down, head between his paws.
“You’re no help,” I say and choose the hoodie. Who’d have thunk Billy was a hockey fan. Note to self to hit him up for a game next time the Kings are in town.
Half an hour later, the light is just beginning to turn pink and I yawn as I punch in the code on the keypad outside the gate at the Sea Cliff house.
I crawl up the driveway in my Mini in order to keep the engine noise to a minimum, then park at the side of the house and let Truman out. We walk around through the terraced vegetable garden loaded with lettuce and potatoes to the kitchen door, where Dean’s goon, Boris, caught me off guard.
My heart lurches and I let out a puff of air as I remember. The dog bowls are empty, so either they’ve already eaten or are about to. It’s now or I run away like a frightened little girl and come back later.
Well…since I’m here.
I take a deep breath and try the door knob. To both my surprise and relief, it’s unlocked. I didn’t want to use the front door key Gianni had given me because that would set the dogs off and since I know the house is wired, probably some silent alarm too.
I stick my head in, but see no one in the kitchen. The other three dogs stare at the pantry and besides a quick, cursory glance and a whine from the Doberman, pay no attention to us. Truman lumbers over and takes his place with them. Poor thing must be starving. I catch a glimpse of Connie’s dark head and breathe a sigh.
Thank God it’s not Gianni.
I sneak through and make it up the stairs and into my room without anyone seeing me. When I step inside, that vice around my chest tightens a notch.
The curtains are still open and it’s light enough I can see the ocean and marine birds circling in the distance, searching for their morning meals.
My suitcases are in the walk-in closet and I pluck my clothes off the hangers and toss them in without folding. I’m halfway done when my bedroom door opens and every cell in my body ceases and locks. Maybe if I’m really quiet, he won’t know I’m here and go away.
A shuddery sigh escapes me as I feel his energy before I see him and wonder if he senses the change in air pressure too.
Determining it’s a lost cause, I carry on and drop my shoes on top of my clothes, pretending I couldn’t give a crap.
“Morning,” he says.
The pulse in my neck pounds like a tiny trapped animal trying to force its way through my skin.
“Morning,” I respond, keeping my back to him. Somehow, I manage to project indifference in my tone, even though what I’m feeling is far from.
“Turn around, please?” When those words come at me, they’re loaded with gravel and less than friendly.
I make a show of pulling in a deep breath and letting it out before I turn.
He leans against the closet door, arms folded across that broad naked chest. Despite the lack of caffeine in my system and my funky mood, those ridges and valleys of his six-pack, and the way those sweats hang low on his hips make desire curl in my belly. But it’s his eyes, bloodshot and bluer due to the dark circles beneath them, that capture me.
I swallow. “How did you know I was here?”
“Heard your car,” he says rubbing his stubble. “Where were you last night?”
When I don’t reply, he straightens and tips his head sideways, examining me. That harsh gaze burning over my body like a wildfire. The quarter-sized scar on his shoulder moves as his muscles tense. It’s so close to his heart. Just a few inches and he’d be dead. My chest squeezes and my voice gets stuck in my throat. Nothing comes out, except a little croak.
“Answer me, Shelley. Who were you with?” He takes a couple steps forward and I take one back, heels bumping up against my suitcase.
That hard jaw, set in an even harder line, clenches and the air between us electrifies and arcs inside the closet. Despite my instincts kicking in making me want to run, my nipples pebble and rub against the soft fabric of Billy’s hoodie.
“Stop crowding me,” I snap, because really, if I don’t fight I’ll be lost. “I’m not your property, Gianni.”
“Didn’t fucking sleep, woman, because I was worried about you.”
“I told you I was fine. You have no right to be worried.”
“You didn’t go home.”
“Yeah because my apartment is wired, asshole, remember? You think I’m going to give you a show?”
“Who were you with?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Just answer the damn question.”
Fine. I figure there’s no point in laboring the point, since I mostly want to just pack and run. “No one,” I finally concede. “Except Truman.” I continue gathering my clothes, dropping them into my case, but it seems he’s not done.
“That sweatshirt doesn’t belong to you. Where did you get it?”
He’s joking, right?
“Are you accusing me of lying?” I stop what I’m doing and turn back to face him. “Holy cow, Gianni. Not that it’s any of your damn business but I commandeered it from Billy.”
Something flickers across his face, but it disappears before I can figure it out. “What you need to get, De Luca, is you are my business.” He takes another step closer towering over me, eyes hard and glittery.
This time, I don’t budge. “You don’t intimidate me and you have no right to question me. You lied to me. My whole world’s been rocked. You saved my life, and I’ll always be grateful, but you lied about something really fucking big.”
He stares at me for a long time, his jaw muscles rippling. “You’re not the only one whose world’s been rocked,” he says softly.
I glance at his scar, the ever-present reminder of what happened, and swallow. What must it be like for him to see that scar every day? I want so much to touch it, run my palms down his stomach to his happy trail and ease some of the pain and guilt I know he has to have suffered. But I can’t allow myself to.
“You’ve had ten years to deal with it. I’ve had one day. Let me finish here so I can get out of your hair,” I whisper past the lump in my throat. “You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
“That’s not what I mean, Shelley.” His hand encircles my upper arm. I freeze as he dips his face so it’s inches from mine.
“Honestly, I don’t want to know what you mean. But I don’t trust you anymore and probably never will again so it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
He flinches like I gut
-punched him. “Give me a chance to explain.”
“What’s to explain?” I throw a hand in the air. “You knew Joey killed my dad and didn’t come clean when you could’ve. Looked me right in the eye when I asked you if there was something else I needed to know and you lied. You lied and then you fucked me. End. Of. Story.”
“It’s not end of story. Not for me.”
Oh God. How much more does he expect me to take?
“But it is for me.”
“No…don’t say that.”
“Please…Gianni.” I blink back the tears. “I can’t do this now. It’s too much.”
I will not cry.
“Shelley…”
“I need space to sort this out in my head.”
He lets out a long breath and shuts his eyes. When they reopen, his expression is full of something I’ve never seen in him before. Anguish.
“I’ll give you a little space only because you’re asking for it. When you’re ready to hear me out, call me. But first, you need to understand something.”
Before I can take a breath or process what he’s said, he pushes me against the shelves lining the wall of the closet. Boxing me in with those solid hips pressed to mine. Then my hands are caught high above my head in one of his. The other twists in my hair, tilting my head back and to the side. When his mouth comes down, it’s hard and fast and greedy, sucking on my lip. There’s no coaxing my mouth open, only demanding. At first, I try to fight. I try to push him away but with each passing moment I weaken and then I respond. Because I can’t resist him. Our tongues do battle as he invades and plunders my mouth while my heart thunders in my chest.
Though it’s wet and deep and hot, it’s punishing and layered with anger and something else. Sensations only he is able to invoke flood through my body, through my veins, pooling between my legs. He takes from me, and then he takes even more and like the fool I know I am, I allow it because this is my last kiss.
At some point, he releases my arms and slides his behind me, pulling me closer, grinding himself against me. My hands slide up his chest, along the planes of his pecs, memorizing his skin and the fine dusting of hair, making him groan deep in his throat.
He’s hard. So hard it almost hurts as the pressure digs into my belly, but my body remembers him. I whimper, wanting him. Needing him.
Then it all goes to hell.
Gianni rips his mouth from mine, stares down into my eyes and holds me like that for a long time. His are clouded with longing and hunger, but also with pain before he grits out in a voice that’s a little thick and a lot husky. “That’s no fucking lie. Trust in that when you have your space.”
He releases his grip on my hair and backs out of the closet. As he turns and leaves my room, the last glimpse I have is him scraping his palms over his eyes.
I wait until I hear the door click before I slide down the wall. The empty space he leaves behind is just that, vast and empty.
Like me.
I can’t say how long I sit like that as the tears free fall silently down my cheeks before I find the strength to get up and finish packing. But it’s a while.
My mind is in a daze when I write a short note to my mother and slip it under her bedroom door. In time, I’ll get past my anger, but for now this is all I can manage.
Connie is brewing coffee with Rambo peeking over the pocket of her apron when I drag the first of my suitcases down the stairs.
“Miss Shelley, you want I make you something to eat?”
“No, thank you, Connie. I don’t think I can eat.”
“I make you toast. You want jam?”
“I’m good, seriously.”
“Bagel? I put cream cheese and strawberries on it?”
“Okay,” I relent with a sigh. This is an argument I’m not going to win, but I don’t have to eat it here. Or eat it at all. “Thank you. To go, if you wouldn’t mind.”
It’s ready, with a napkin on a white paper plate by the time I’m done loading. Along with a coffee in a tall San Francisco Giants travel cup. I wonder if it’s Gianni’s. If he’ll miss it. Or if he’ll miss me. After adding milk and sugar, I tighten the lid, then sip, hardly tasting it.
“Is he still around?”
One last glimpse.
She shakes her head and eyes me. “He went for his run with Tinkerbell. He no look so happy.”
Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around lately.
“Thank you, Connie, for everything. You’ve been very kind. Can you tell him I say goodbye?”
“Si.” She takes my face in her palms and examines my face. “But you should tell him yourself. You no look so happy either. Ai!” She looks at the ceiling. “Young people…so stubborn.”
I give Rambo a kiss on the head and her a quick hug, because anything more will snap the fragile hold I have on my emotions. Then step outside, hating what I have to do next.
Truman and the Doberman are playing tug-of-war with a mangled, soggy piece of rope. Seeing me, he abandons the game and runs over, pink tongue swinging out the side of his mouth. I massage his wrinkles and rub his ears for a minute before I kiss him goodbye, but when I walk back to my car, he follows. I open the door and he jumps in.
Oh jeez.
“No, buddy, not this time.” The confusion in his eyes is too much. I pick him up and remove him from the seat. Then plant my butt on the driveway, pulling him into my lap, cradling him while my heart shreds a little more.
“My apartment’s too small for you,” I sob. “It wouldn’t be fair.” At this rate, I’ll have no tears left. They soak into his coat while I hold him close. “Anyway, I don’t think Marshall allows dogs.”
Truman nudges me and whines. I kiss him on the flat part of his head and scratch his back.
“I love you, you smelly little butthead,” I say when I finally let him go and climb into my car. “I’ll come back and see you. I promise.”
When I know Gianni’s not here.
This time as I drive away, I dare not look in the rear-view mirror. I can’t stand to see his mopey little face, and the further I get, the bigger the empty ache in my chest grows.
16
We can bring the dog
* * *
Two days later
Gianni: Are you ready to talk?
Me: No.
Four days later
Gianni: De Luca, this is ridiculous.
Me: Stop texting me.
Five days later
Gianni: Someone’s missing you.
The bastard sends a photo of Truman. And fucking hell, he does look like he’s missing me. His droopy eyes are droopier and those lovable jowls, longer. He even looks thinner. Fuck.
Me: That’s emotional blackmail…and cruel. Like you. Don’t do that it’s not fair.
Gianni: I’m the one being cruel? Perhaps we should let the dog decide.
Me: His name’s Truman, asshole.
Gianni: Like I said, Truman’s missing you.
I turn my phone off, reach for the box of Kleenex next to my bed and burrow my head into my pillow.
Seven Days later
Gianni: De Luca???
Gianni: Right. I’m done with this shit.
And that’s when the knife in my heart twists. Although it’s what I want—him leaving me alone—having it in my face, knowing he’s finally done, is disappointing.
Strike that. It’s crushing.
I miss him, my body misses him, even my mind misses him but a clean break is the only way I know how to deal. That and a couple pounds of See’s butterscotch squares and copious amounts of wine. I’ll get over him eventually, just not yet, but hopefully before I gain two hundred pounds. Probably wouldn’t matter as I’m swearing off all men forever but I would like to still fit in my Mini.
Eight days later
“Why am I doing this again?” I ask Cass, running my hands over my waist, smoothing the silk chiffon dress she chose.
“Because you’re my best friend,” Cass answers and tweaks the last bit of
hem, letting it out a little. She takes a step back and tilts her head, admiring her work. “And you’re doing me and Marco a favor by going in my place so we can have this date.”
“Well, I definitely owe Marco. I suppose filling in for you at a charity ball is the least I can do.”
“Selfish, I know, but I need you out of this funk. I hate seeing you like this.”
I need me out of this funk. And if tonight’s charity thing doesn’t do it, perhaps my shoes will. All four inches of impending strappy, stiletto hell.
“Hair up,” Cass commands and points with her rat-tail comb for me to sit.
“I’m not so sure about this dress.” I twist in my seat in front of her mirror to check the plunging back that ends just above the dip in my lower spine, flaring slightly below my hips.
“Shush. The color’s fabulous, matches your eyes perfectly.”
“Good thing my boobs are small ’cause there is no way I could wear a bra. That makes it about an inch away from indecent exposure.”
“Shut up and be still,” she says, twisting segments of my hair into what will be a bohemian up-do. “You look hot.”
Honestly, I couldn’t care less if I wore a burka. Balls are so not my thing but embarrassing Cass isn’t an option. Without her and Mrs. See’s sugar-inducing comas this past week, I may have considered jumping from the bridge or perhaps using Ziggy on myself.
“Necklace, yes or no?” I ask, fingering the amber heart, digging deep down inside me to find some long-lost enthusiasm. Because it’s time to move the fuck on.
“Yes,” she answers, “and seriously it’s a family tradition. My parents can’t go this year and I can’t let my brother misbehave alone.”
“I heard that.” Rory, my other boss, says as he enters her bedroom. “Car is here, so whenever you’re ready.” He’s tall and elegant in his tux, with longish, blonde hair, kind of like Keith Urban’s. And the polar opposite to Gianni’s sexy dark waves.
Cut it the fuck out. I’m not thinking about him tonight.
Noop.
“Wow.” Rory touches his finger to his tongue making a hissing noise.
