No Love for the Wicked

by Tiana Laveen

  “Luciano is dead,” he blurted out.

  She paused and stroked his jaw as he looked up into her eyes.

  “He’s my cousin. My mother’s sister’s kid. My Aunt Joyce’s son. Luc is her eldest son. You met him at—”

  “I remember him, honey. Studio 54. You two favor each other in the face a little. Same nose, hair and eye color. What happened?”

  “He was trying to help my friend, Fred. Some guys tried to shake ’em down and Luciano did what Luciano did best. Protect.” He lowered his gaze to the floor. Her fingers ran soothingly through his hair, then she kissed his cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Angelo.”

  “How’d you know someone died and I was hurt?” Their eyes met, and she offered a sad smile before tossing a blood-soaked cloth into the trashcan.

  “God told me…” He looked away. “I had the cards and a few other things laid out, and then, I opened my new Bible. You know you can’t keep this sort of thing from me, Angelo. When I’m not supposed to be involved, I don’t get an answer. When I’m supposed to know something, I find out. You should’ve never shown romantic interest in me if you expected to be able to hoard all of your secrets to yourself.”

  “I know what you are.”

  “That’s fine to know what someone is, but you must also understand what they can do.” Their eyes locked, and he once again averted her gaze. “I imagine, with other women, they kept their mouths shut, right? Some were clueless, totally in the dark about your comings and goings, and as long as the money, good lovin’, and presents kept rollin’ in, they didn’t ask you about your affairs. Well, baby, I’m not that type of woman.” He slowly turned back in her direction, this time, with a smirk. “I ask questions. I want answers. And I love you. All of you, even the parts of you that I don’t comprehend.”

  “I love you too, baby.” He took a drag of his cigarette.

  “I know you do, and in loving one another, we’re discovering things. This life you live? It’s part of your journey. Me tellin’ you to stop won’t fix it. You have to want to stop on your own. I understood that after a while. You have to do it all by yourself or it won’t stick. You’d blame me years down the line for your unhappiness. I know you don’t like what I do exactly, either. I get that this is a two way street. No, I’m not out here… well, you know, but what I do makes you uncomfortable. And yet, we were drawn to each other, and we have this powerful, passionate connection. We’re strong apart, and even stronger together. You don’t want a woman you can walk all over anyway, and I don’t want a man who can’t at least try to be a better person.”

  “Baby, but this is me. This is who I am. My friends are in the life. My family members are affiliated. My entire adulthood revolves around this. It’s not the only thing that defines me, but it’s important to me.”

  “Because you’re good at it… and everybody wants to be good at something. Even if that ‘good at something’ is bad.”

  He placed his cigarette down, bent slightly forward, and raked the hand of his good arm through his locks.

  “What did you want to be when you were a little boy?” She offered him a smile, still dabbing at his wound.

  “What I am.”

  “Oh, come on, Angelo! No little boy looks up at the stars at night and says, ‘Damn, I hope I get to be a killa.’”

  He burst out laughing, unable to help himself.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I did.” He looked at her earnestly. “You know why?”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to know how, but I’ll settle for why. So, why?”

  “Because I wanted to be just like my father…”

  Her lips curled in a smile, and she nodded in understanding.

  “Well, that makes sense.”

  “I hated him a little, too… but I still wanted to be him.”

  She knelt down in front of him, looking into his eyes.

  “Why’d you hate him, baby?”

  “…Because, I would’ve chased him to the ends of the earth to get his approval, to make him proud of me. He did act proud of me, all the time. As I got a little older, it started to dawn on me though. You know, the truth. He only loved me, because I was just like him. What if I had been different? Like my brothers? I was young, but my mind worked that way, ya know? I was asking, ‘What if?’ He treated my brothers different – they weren’t the kind of kids he wanted. They were shyer than me and him, less athletic, and not as outgoing. They had positive attributes, too, but they weren’t the kind my father coveted. Like bein’ book smart, funny, or good at chess. Don’t get me wrong, he loved all of us, but he showed favoritism. He wanted someone with a killer instinct. A kid that didn’t show much fear. Halloween and scary movies rarely made me jump. My mother used to say that me and my father had a screw loose. At first, as a little kid, that seemed pretty cool, right? Being like my old man. Being the favorite had its advantages, but then, it caused trouble between me and my brothers. Jealousy. My brothers and I have never been very close as adults. I talk to my sisters every now and again. They’re both married. Kids. Doing all right.”

  He puffed on his cigarette, offering a crooked smile. He hadn’t thought about some of this shit in years. Much to his surprise, he didn’t mind talking about it with her. Andrea had that kind of magic.

  “Sometimes, I was a rotten kid, just to try ’nd make him hate me. A test. But, he never did. So, there ya have it. I hate my father because he loved me too much. And I hate my mother because she didn’t love me, my brothers and sisters, or my father enough. I’m a sick motherfucker, baby.” He laughed, but her eyes were full of pity. He was up to his neck in sorrow. The emotion seeped out like that smoke from the corners of his lips, and it filled the room with the pains of yesteryear. He looked into her gorgeous eyes, and his smile slowly faded. “What am I to you, Andrea? You’re askin’ what I wanted to be as a kid, and all this other shit, but when you look at me, baby, what do you see?” Maybe he was feeling lightheaded after all. On second thought, that was his broken heart.

  She reached for his hands and covered them with hers.

  “To the streets, you’re Casper. To me, you’re my angel… Angelo. Just like your grandmother, your nonna calls you. When I look at you, I see a beautiful disaster, carefully contained in perfect packaging. I see a complicated man who is open and honest, but only to those he deems worthy. We’re connected. You’re a part of me now. I can feel your emotions if they are extreme – swinging from one end of the pendulum to the other. I will always know when something isn’t right with you, if God allows me to know, Angelo. I could feel your burden all the way in Brooklyn. You’ve had a horrible day which will lead to a challenging week, and month, and even years to come. How dare you try to hide that fact from me? Because I know exactly who you are. There is no hiding. Your shadows, demons, and darkness cannot protect you from the lights, angels, and likes of me…”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Whiskey Tenor

  Rule 17: Be ready to endure some pain, and lots of it. Pain was made for men, and only real men can bear it.

  Getting to her feet, Andrea kept on working, and when the next surge of pain hit, he realized he was out of whiskey. He didn’t bother asking her to grab him another bottle from the kitchen to refill his glass. He simply grinned and bore it. Moments later, smiling, she showed him the bloodied projectile between the pinchers of the plyers. His eyes trained on that damn bullet, the agony it had caused when she’d pulled it out of him.

  He could not speak for quite a while. Figured he hadn’t much to say, especially since Luc was dead. At least I can still feel, even if it’s nothing but pain.

  She spent some more time cleaning his wound with the cotton and cloths, gently washing the blood away. Then, she wrapped a few cubes of ice in a towel and applied it to the area to numb the skin a bit. Going to the kitchen once more, she returned with a needle and thread and sutured the wound. Lastly, she covered it with fresh gauze.

  “We have to change that dressing often. T
he stitches are just for a week or two, we’ll check it periodically to make sure it’s healing okay. It will need some air, so if you can manage, in between cleanings, leave the wrapping off for like five or ten minutes. We have to avoid an infection because if you get one, you will definitely be starting a paper trail. That or, worst case scenario, you could lose your whole damn arm if things go left.” He sighed. “You got it in a good spot, not much damage to the muscle, not too close to your rotator cuff where you can’t move, but it’s going to hurt worse tomorrow than it hurts today. It’s going to hurt like hell as it tries to heal. This ain’t like those cowboy movies, baby. You won’t be okay tomorrow, or the day after that, either. Use that Bayer in your medicine cabinet to help you, and watch the whiskey. You don’t want dehydration and inflammation. At least, that’s what I remember Aunt Bev saying to some of those guys sittin’ in that apartment in the same boat as you’re in tonight.

  He managed a weak smile, and nodded. “Okay, baby. Do I get a sponge bath to go with all of this attention and care, Dr. Andrea?” he half-teased, feeling a bit amorous as he looked into her beautiful face, smelled her perfume, and admired her ass in those tight black pants.

  She shook her head and smiled at him, then started to wrap up his wound with another layer of gauze.

  “You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous.” He caressed her chin. “Damn. How’d I get so lucky?”

  “No such thing as luck.” She winked at him. Finishing up, she picked up all the bloodied debris around him and cleaned the area. Peter Frampton’s, ‘Do You Feel Like We Do’ serenaded them. He grabbed a fresh cigarette from the carton and lit it. And then another. Chain smoking one after the other. A warm sensation filled him. She was like hot tea poured over blocks of ice, a flame caught within a glacier, refusing to be extinguished. He began to feel human again, after sitting there, shivering from his injury every now and again.

  “Are you hungry, baby?” she asked as she rested her hand on his good shoulder. “I bet you haven’t eaten all day.” She was right. He hadn’t. He just stared at her. “I’ll take that as a no. I’m going to fix you somethin’ to eat. Let me see what you’ve got in here.”

  He heard her turn on the television, then the sounds of water from the kitchen faucet, followed by the clanking of pots and pans. Wincing with pain, he got up to go to the restroom and took a long piss, then went to sit in the living room while she cooked. It wasn’t long before the aroma of herbs and spices filled the room. Craning his neck, he watched her back at the stove, sprinkling a little of this, then a little of that.

  “What are you cooking, baby?”

  “I found some bread in your refrigerator, a can of string beans in the cabinet, and I’ve got a couple fish defrosting in this big bowl of cool water. You had some trout in the freezer in butcher paper.”

  “Nonna made me take ’em last week. She said she’d bought too many.”

  “Well, they’ll be good fried up. I put the string beans in the pot with the two strips of bacon you had, and some black pepper. I figured we could have this, and I’m about to slice up a couple of these potatoes, too. You don’t have a fresh onion, so I’m using onion powder, salt and pepper. It should turn out fine.”

  “It smells good already. I know you wonder why there isn’t more, but I’m not much of a cook, baby.” He swallowed as a wave of pain shot through his arm from readjusting his position on the couch. “I just buy the bare minimum. Enough to get by. Not much in here.” He waved his hand lazily about. On the television, the newscaster discussed the New York Jets. “Thank you for doin’ this.”

  “You’re welcome. Just sit there and relax.”

  She brought him a tall glass containing ice and a red beverage.

  “What’s this?” He took the offering.

  “Kool-Aid.”

  “But I didn’t have any of that. I don’t buy it.”

  “I keep a couple packets in my purse for work, and some sugar cubes in a little sandwich bag, too.” Her face flushed, as if she’d been put on the spot. His lips twitched as he tried to suppress the desire to laugh.

  “…You keep… you keep Kool-Aid in your purse, baby?”

  They burst out laughing. Her cheeks turned red, matching the drink perfectly. She looked beautiful. Happy. He slapped her on her ass as she raced back to the kitchen. Half watching the television, he took a sip of the drink. A little too sweet, but not half bad. He placed the glass down on the coffee table and stared at the screen, seeing nothing but blurs of color. His thoughts drifted to the debilitating phone call with his nonna, an hour or so before Andrea had showed up. Tony had already stopped by her home to give her the bad news on his behalf, but her crying on the phone with him tore him apart. She’d lived through so much, seen tragedies and devastation. No matter how he’d tried to comfort her, it was no use.

  He decided to take a shower. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, including his own mind. The warm water poured down his skin, the scent of the fresh soap filling the heated enclosure. He moved his hurt shoulder, working through the pain and determined to get better, soon. Stretching his fingers, he worked those muscles, too, back and forth.

  These hands have caused death. They’ve held on tight, loved, and embraced. They’ve acquired a lot of money. They’ve punched, pulled and prayed. They’ve given pleasure, and pain. They’ve wiped many a tear from a face… but rarely my own.

  He lathered his hair with Prell shampoo, then rinsed it away. He cut the water, dried off and wrapped the dark blue towel around his waist. I could really use a fucking drink. He turned off the bathroom light and headed back to the living room to find she’d switched off the television and turned on the record player. Fleetwood Mac’s, ‘Rhiannon’ was currently playing. The candle he kept on the coffee table for power outage emergencies was lit, and two pretty ceramic blue plates he’d picked up from a hotel auction years prior were loaded with fragrant food. She set down her glass of Kool-Aid and refreshed his. Then she made herself comfortable on the couch, with her sexy orange sweater sliding off one shoulder, long legs crossed and silky bare feet, one toe on each foot adorned with a gold ring.

  “Don’t just stand there. Come eat,” she said with a pretty smile, patting the side of the sofa for him to sit next to her. He dug in with relish.

  “Good. Real good food, honey. You can burn in the kitchen.” She offered him a modest nod. Eating together, sharing small talk felt so… normal. Natural, the way life should be. After a while he realized he felt no pain in the shoulder anymore, as if it had all been a bad dream. As if she were a groovy drug, something that took the edge off and let him fly high to a bright escape.

  When they were finished, she cleared up and started to take the plates to the kitchen.

  “Let me do that, baby. You cooked.”

  “No,” She put everything in the sink. “I just need you to get better. You’re in no position to be moving that shoulder around. Relax tonight.”

  He enjoyed the way she popped her hips from left to right to the beat of the music. She looked like she belonged there. With him. He lit a cigarette, watching the show of her washing the dishes. He had problems looking away. He didn’t want to look away. He couldn’t look away. He wanted to sketch her in his mind. Remember this moment, always. His desire soared as love mixed with lust. His cock throbbed until he was so turned on, he could barely contain himself. She dried her hands, let the water out of the sink, and joined him back in the living room. She was about to reclaim her seat next to him when her gaze drifted down to his towel.

  “Is that your gun, or are you happy to see me, Angelo?” she jested, pointing to his prominent erection beneath the towel.

  With his eye keenly upon her, he exposed himself.

  “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” He winked. “You wanna take a ride, baby? Seat for one, right here, with your name on it.” He grabbed the base of his dick and began to stroke himself with his left hand.

  “What about your—”

  “I’
m fine. Come on, baby.” He pumped his groin suggestively. Impatiently. Hard with need, as she undressed before his eyes. Soon, she was standing before him in nothing but her birthday suit on. He reached out to her, like a child for their favorite toy, and she fell into his arms, mindful of his shoulder. “Andrea, you can touch me, baby. I’m okay. I’ll let you know if things get uncomfortable, or I need ya to move in a different way or somethin’.”

  She nodded as she straddled him, but didn’t mount. “Rise up a minute.” She moved back and up as he adjusted himself. Then, as she looked into his eyes, she took hold of his shaft.

  Slowly but surely, she started to mount him, guiding the head of his throbbing tool within her. “Oh, baby… your wet, hot pussy feels incredible.”

  He gripped her ass and she purred, her face twisted with pain and pleasure as he drove himself deeper within her tight, wet, sheath. She pressed her palms into his chest, taking more of his length inside of her, riding him. He savored every moment, needing her more than she’d ever know. His gaze wandered down and he observed with great satisfaction his sword slide in and out of her soft, hairy pussy, stretching her pink hole wide open. Curling his hands over her shoulders, he forced her down on his pounding dick, balls deep. She screamed out in passion and lust, throwing her head back.

  Heavy, guttural grunts poured from his mouth and there was just not enough time in the world for him to ever be fully satisfied. He needed all of her. Right then. Right there. And all of the time. The sounds of their lovemaking competed with the music, and their moans grew hoarser, more urgent, as each moment passed.