Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense)

by Noir, Mila

  Plus, there had been Grams. Although her grandmother had been well liked among her circle of friends, the town had generally considered them to be very “eccentric” old ladies. She’d been part of the Deathless Riderites for years, just a tad obsessed with the legend since her own experience. Taylor had seen them all sitting up, drinking tea until the wee hours, discussing who the Rider might be and what it wanted, who it had really killed and why. They never seemed to tire of the subject.

  Taylor supposed she’d grown up a bit unusually. Her parents had died when she was a baby; she didn’t remember them as anything other than photos in an album. And Grams had been everything she needed: loving, kind, and a good butt kicker when Taylor needed it. She hadn’t felt like she’d particularly missed out.

  Of course, she wished she’d known her folks. By all accounts they were your average nice normal couple. No skeletons in their closet, no strange pasts. Just two people who’d met in college and decided to settle back in Sweethollow near Grams, her mother’s mother.

  They’d died in a car accident, as people sometimes do. Nothing really dramatic about it, other than the obvious. She’d only been a few months old. A lot of people had wanted to turn her into some kind of tragic orphan, but Taylor had been lucky. She’d had Grams and overall felt pretty lucky. She’d even investigated the accident once upon a time, but it really was what it seemed. Unfortunate but nothing sinister. These things happened.

  Of course, sometimes it had been tough. Grams was on Social Security and wasn’t exactly rolling in money. But she had a small inheritance from her late husband and there’d been a little life insurance from Taylor’s parents. The house was thankfully paid for, a little place on the edge of town with only one neighbor, a friend of Grams’ named Susan. Taylor supposed she’d have to go and check on it before her visit was over. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

  They walked up the gravel path to the restaurant’s entrance, Taylor feeling a bit surreal. She wondered how Anton was feeling. Nervous? Confident? Blasé? He always kept his emotions so close, it was tough to read.

  When they walked in, a waiter simply nodded and led the way into the dining room. Taylor didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she let it out with a little gasp.

  “Oh. Wow,” she said. Anton smiled next to her, looking relieved. He’d been nervous, then. Good.

  The dining room was completely empty of other diners and the dance floor had been cleared. One table had been set up with candles around it. Glittering white lights dripped all over, like stars, and the whole room seemed to glow warmly.

  A huge bouquet of red roses had been set up by one chair, with a single bluish-purple orchid in the middle. Taylor blinked. Orchids were her favorite flower. Had she ever told Anton that? She couldn’t remember. But it would have been quite a guess.

  They were seated in silence, given no menus, and a basket full of steaming rolls was set next to them. Then some music began to play. To Taylor’s delight, it was Talking Heads, one of her favorite eighties bands.

  When she looked out the window, she saw the Hudson spread out, dark and silvery, the moon dappling the water like scales. It was beautiful. No one had ever put together a date like this for her. She was trying to keep her expression neutral, but she was impressed in spite of herself. He’d clearly put in some effort.

  “So? Impressed?” Anton asked, devilish grin on his face.

  “Okay, Quinn, this is pretty lovely. I’m a big enough girl to admit that,” she said, grabbing a roll. It was sweet and fluffy.

  “Good. I was wondering if you’d give me any credit, ever,” he said, sitting back.

  “I’m not that petty,” she said.

  “I didn’t think so. You were always so warm and kind when you were younger,” he said.

  “Yes, well, that was a long time ago. I’ve learned to be more careful about who I’m nice to,” she said, eating another roll.

  “There are only so many times I can say I’m sorry, Taylor,” he said quietly.

  “Well, I could do with a few more,” she said tartly.

  “Alright, I’m sorry. You can forgive me or not, it’s up to you. I know I was an asshole, you won’t hear me argue I wasn’t,” he said.

  “That’s big of you,” she said. He sighed.

  “You’re a lot more…bitter than I remember,” he said. She flushed.

  “I wonder why that is. Couldn’t be because someone I trusted, thought of as a friend, used me to get in good with a bunch of absolute creeps,” she said angrily.

  “It wasn’t like that. I never gave a shit what those guys thought of me. I made a mistake. I just thought it would be a little harmless joke, that’s all,” he said.

  “So you’re trying to tell me you didn’t know what they had planned?” she said, eyebrow raised skeptically.

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you,” Taylor bit out.

  “You think I’m a liar?” he asked, looking angry.

  “Shouldn’t I? Even if you did think it was just going to be a little prank, it was wrong and you know it,” she said. Taylor was beginning to think this night had been a huge mistake.

  “Ah, fuck, I don’t know what I thought, Taylor,” he said, rubbing his forehead and looking frustrated. “It was ten years ago and I was stupid teenager. I guess I didn’t really think much about it at all.”

  “That much was obvious,” she said.

  “Did you know I beat the shit out of Nick de Marco at school the next week?” he asked. She blinked.

  “No,” she said. That was a little surprising, but she’d stayed home that week. Only time Grams had ever let her skip school without being actually ill. She’d made her go back after, even though Taylor had pleaded. She’d told her, “You’re going to have to face them. Don’t let them see you hurt.” What Anton had been doing since that night hadn’t been much of a priority, other than making her cry herself to sleep each night.

  “It’s why I got expelled. I had to make up the rest of senior year in summer school. I broke his nose,” he said, looking at her intensely.

  “Good. You both deserved it,” she said, not quite sure how she felt about this little revelation. On the one hand, picturing Nick getting the crap kicked out of him by Anton was more than a little bit appealing. That Anton had gotten in so much trouble for it…now that, she felt conflicted about. The hurt part of her was glad and wished it had been worse. The other part wished he hadn’t done that on her account.

  “Did you get anything for your trouble?” she asked, picking at the now-cold roll.

  “Well, he did give me a black eye. But mostly it was just really awesome to see him clutching his nose and screaming,” Anton admitted.

  She stifled a laugh. “I shouldn’t, it’s mean…,” she said.

  “He was a shit. I’m not sorry I did it and I wasn’t sorry when he died with the rest of those fuckheads,” he said.

  “That whole thing still seems pretty strange to me. I don’t really get what happened. People say it was an accident, but…” She trailed off, not sure of how to explain how weird the story was getting.

  “Is that what you’re working on? A story about the accident?” he asked.

  “Sort of. And the legend. And small-town weirdness. It’s kind of my ‘break.’ Someone sent me clippings about it that were kind of…cryptic,” she admitted, realizing she was falling into the old habit of trusting him. It just felt good. She’d missed their conversations.

  “Someone sent you clippings about the Saints’ deaths? Who would do that?” Anton asked, curiously.

  “I don’t know, I think it might have been Powell. I mean, you and I both know Sweethollow has…issues. And it was always really protective wherever the Saints were concerned. And there have been odd ‘accidental’ deaths before. I figured worst case, I’d get a juicy, gossipy slice-of-life story out of it or something. Finally get away from product copy,” she said. She was admitting to not being that much of a “big
shot” writer and all it had taken was some soft lighting and carbs. She was getting annoyed with herself again.

  Truth was, Anton looked…beautiful. He always did, of course, but the lighting was making him look almost otherworldly. His dark hair swung over his forehead, those sharp, intense eyes regarded her with real interest, and his mouth…well. It was soft and smiling. The way she remembered it. The way she’d pictured it in her dreams.

  Damn. She didn’t like where these thoughts were headed.

  “I thought you wanted to write novels or something,” Anton said as salads were brought out.

  “I did. I do. But I got a degree in Liberal Arts, which people tend to think doesn’t mean anything. So I thought I should be more practical. I write other stuff in my spare time, but, I don’t know. It just seemed kind of…juvenile. Just silly stories,” she said, digging in.

  “I don’t think they were silly. What was that one the school paper published? ‘The Widow’s Dance’? I liked that one. It was sad but still kinda hopeful,” he said. She stared at him.

  “You read my story? I didn’t know that. We never talked about it,” Taylor said.

  “I didn’t like admitting to doing nerdy things like reading back then,” he said, cheeky grin on his face. She groaned.

  “And you had that little book of short stories published what, four years ago? ‘A Kind of Breath.’ I have two copies,” he admitted. Now she was truly shocked.

  “Wait, wait. Have you been…keeping tabs on me?” she asked, putting her fork down.

  “On and off. I just wanted to know you were doing okay,” he said as a big burger was put down in front of him, plate overflowing with fries. Something similar was put down in front of her, only the burger was a huge Portobello mushroom. He’d remembered she didn’t like regular burgers. This was all officially Too Weird.

  “What?” he said, looking at her with concern.

  “It’s nothing,” she said.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing. Your face just drained of color,” he said.

  “I guess I’m just…waiting for the other shoe to drop. Last time you and I had an intimate night, things got…you know,” she said. His face looked pained for a second and he looked out at the water.

  “I know. But I’m not an asshole teenager anymore. I’m a grown man, and I know how to take out a beautiful woman without making a complete ass of myself. Or I’m pretty sure I do,” he said.

  “You don’t have to keep complimenting me, you know. It’s nice and everything, but I’d rather we were just honest,” she said.

  “I am. You’re beautiful,” he said, then went about eating his burger. Taylor stared at him for a moment, feeling warm and excited. She hadn’t felt like that in a while. Maybe since she’d been a teenager.

  “Er. Thank you,” she said, then turned to her own meal. The mushroom had been expertly seasoned and marinated in a sweet balsamic sauce, but it hadn’t made the bun soggy or dripped onto the fries. Those were perfectly crispy, salty but light. They seemed to be a blend of sweet potato and Yukon Gold. Taylor knew her potatoes; Grams wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  “So. Seeing anyone? You don’t have a ring, so at least you’re not engaged,” Anton said.

  “No, and definitely not,” Taylor said.

  “Seems a shame, with so many men in the city. I would think you’d have to fight them off,” he said.

  “Only on Friday nights when the bars close,” Taylor said.

  “Do you live in the city?” he asked.

  “Nope, Queens. Manhattan is out of my league,” she said.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, looking like he was searching for things to ask. He seemed uncomfortable, which she found appealing.

  “You really suck at small talk, you know,” she said, grinning.

  “I know, I know. Most of my dates are…well, not dates,” he said. She laughed.

  “I assumed. You were always pretty…wild? I think that’s the right word,” she said. He made a mock-aggrieved expression.

  “Me? Wild? I’m just like every other red-blooded man. I like sex, I like women, and I’m not the marrying type. I haven’t really seen too many good marriages,” he said, a little darkly. “Not around here, anyway.”

  “I’ve heard they exist. In books and things,” she said, smiling a little. “If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure I’m the marrying kind either. No time. Plus, I don’t like weddings.”

  “No? I thought all women wanted to wear white and have rice tossed at them,” Anton said, teasing her. She snorted indelicately.

  “It’s fine for some people, but for me, a little too…formal. If I ever got married it would be in the some quick little ceremony with a justice of the peace. But I really don’t want to. I don’t see the point these days,” Taylor admitted.

  “Is it because your grams is gone?” he asked quietly. She started.

  “That’s very astute of you. But it’s not really that. I just can’t see myself doing the whole wife thing. And I can’t really see trusting someone enough to commit like that,” she admitted. He nodded.

  “That’s why I don’t get involved. You know, romantically,” he said.

  “You just sleep with a lot of women, then,” she said, grinning. He faked looking affronted, then smiled.

  “Not a lot, but…a few. We have an understanding,” he said.

  “I bet,” Taylor said, eyebrow arched. She had a feeling quite a few of those “understanding” women would gladly have had more of him than he was willing to give.

  “No, really. We do. No one gets hurts, everyone gets to have a good time, it’s simple. Easy,” he said.

  “Sounds perfect, then,” she said, watching him carefully. He smiled, but it didn’t seem to be quite genuine. She was still pretty good at reading his moods. He might talk about “easy” and flings, but he wanted more, too. He seemed…lonely, somehow.

  “It is. I don’t want anything to tie me down here, in case I want to leave suddenly,” he said, eating some fries and sipping at his beer.

  “Hm. I was curious about that. Why haven’t you ever left Sweethollow? You never liked it here. Is it just easier to stay?” she asked. His face tightened a little.

  “I guess it just grew on me,” he said a little defensively.

  “Sure. Like mold,” Taylor offered.

  “We can’t all be fancy New York writers,” he said, crossing his arms, jaw working a little. Whoops, she’d struck a nerve. Someone else might have stopped there.

  “No, but you could be more than this. If you let yourself,” she said. She remembered other times she’d said the same thing. It made her sad that, in the ten years since, he still hadn’t believed them.

  “More than what? I own my own business, I do what I want. I’m doing fine,” he said, sounding angry.

  “You own your father’s business. Which you never really liked. You wanted to be an artist. You were good, too. But you didn’t push yourself. You always took the easy way out. Like staying here. If you don’t risk anything, Anton, you won’t get much in return,” she said.

  He didn’t have much to say after that.

  ***

  Taylor wasn’t feeling much like dessert so they finished up dinner and headed out. She stopped as they crunched over the gravel, looking up at the hill they’d used to sit on. Her mind was all over the place—his apologies, the lengths he’d gone to in order to make the night nice. And she’d kind of ruined it a little, wondering why he hadn’t left. It didn’t matter and wasn’t any of her business.

  She looked at him, profile outlined by the lights of the castle, strong features made somehow delicate in the dark. And she decided something, quite suddenly. Something she might regret but that, in the cold night air, she felt she simply had to do.

  “Come on,” she said, taking his hand. He looked at with surprise but let her lead.

  They walked up the steadily increasing incline to the top of the hill, which overlooked the castle and the river. From up the
re the lights of Sweethollow shimmered like fairy globes and the moon reflected large and bright over the water. Taylor looked south towards the city, but it was too far away. The Palisades, dark and sheer, loomed up across from them.

  She sat, still holding Anton’s hand, and he got down beside her. She stretched out her legs and leaned back, looking up into the cold sky. The stars were remarkably clear and she could see Orion’s belt so well, it was like she could reach up and touch it.

  “I want to tell you a story,” she said quietly. Anton looked at her and she looked back at him, a little behind her, face gently illuminated by the moonlight and the now-distant castle. He nodded. She turned away.

  “Once upon a time, because that’s how every good story should start, there was a girl and a boy in a small town by a pretty river. They grew up together but were not friends. In fact, they never spoke until they were almost grown up.

  “One day, when the girl was sad, she met the boy outside and they talked. The boy made her feel better because he listened, and she made the boy feel better because she listened.

  “They became friends.

  “Neither the boy nor the girl were very well liked in their small town, which gave them something in common. They would talk all the time, sometimes on walks, sometimes on a hill, sometimes at night and sometimes during the day. But always where no one could see.

  “Then one day the boy told the girl about a mean monster that had hurt him. The girl was sorry for him; she loved this boy and knew that the monster had to be stopped. But she didn’t know how. The boy made her promise not to tell, so she didn’t. But she didn’t understand why.

  “After that, the boy was distant for a while, which made the girl sad. But she left him alone and read her books and walked in the woods and by the pretty river. Until one day the boy came along one day and asked her to a very special event. He told her had something important to show her.

  “The girl got dressed up, excited and pleased. She had missed the boy. She knew she was plain and that the boy did not love her, but it still made her happy to be with him.