Take Me

by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin

  “As charged,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

  “I think you just did.” A plate of lasagna was pushed into my hands, but Antonio took it from me and passed it to the person behind me.

  “Come on. I’m not feeding you outside a trailer.”

  He pulled me, but I yanked back. “I have to work.”

  Katrina didn’t even look up from her food. “We have to set up the next shot. I’ll text you when I need you. Get out of here.”

  I let Antonio put his arm around me and lead me onto the sidewalk. He held the wine bottle by the neck with his free hand. The neighborhood was light-industrial hip, with factories being converted into lofts and warehouses housing upscale restaurants.

  “There’s a place around the corner,” he said. “No liquor license yet, so you bring your own.”

  “Let me see.” I held my hand out for the bottle and inspected the label. “Napa? You brought a California wine?”

  “It’s not good?”

  “It’s a great wine, but I figured, you know, Italian?”

  He laughed. “I was trying to not be pushy. Meet you halfway.”

  “This is how you say ‘not pushy’?”

  “You can run. I won’t chase you.”

  “You won’t?” I handed him the bottle.

  He smiled. “Yeah. I will.”

  “Has it occurred to you that the chasing might be what you like about me, and that if I stop running, you might get bored?”

  “I don’t get bored. There’s too much to do.”

  “It’s funny,” I said. “That’s kind of what I find most boring. Everything to do.”

  “You’re doing the wrong things, no? What do you love?”

  We crossed onto a block of restaurants. The cobblestone streets were crowded. Tables were set on the sidewalks. Heat lamps kept the chill at bay.

  “I don’t love anything, really.”

  “Come on. The last thing you enjoyed, that made you feel alive.”

  I stopped walking, feeling disproportional frustration with his questions.

  He turned to face me and walk backward. “Kissing me doesn’t count.”

  “Funny guy.”

  A parking valet in a white shirt and black bowtie nearly ran into me, dodged, and opened a car door.

  “Think hard,” Antonio said. “The last thing that made you love life.”

  “Saying it would be inappropriate.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I could learn to love this thing too, I think.”

  My annoyance turned into cruelty. “The last thing I loved doing? Working with Daniel on his campaign. I miss it.”

  Still walking backward, arms out to express complete surrender, he said, “Then, to make you happy, I announce that I will run for mayor.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He laughed with me, and I noticed how reserved it was for a man who claimed to enjoy life.

  He was on me before I could take in another second of his smile. He pushed his mouth on mine, his arms enveloping me, his hands in my hair. My world revolved around the sensations of him, his powerful body and sweet tongue, his crisp smell, the scratch of the scruff on his chin, and the way he paid attention to his kiss.

  I matched his attention so carefully that when we got knocked into by a valet, I gasped. Antonio pulled me close, holding me up and protecting me at the same time.

  The valet held up his hands. “I’m so sorry.” He backed away toward a waiting car, reaching for the handle.

  “You’re sorry?” Antonio asked. “You don’t look sorry.”

  I’d be the first to admit he didn’t look sorry. He looked interested in opening the car door.

  “It’s okay, Antonio. He didn’t do it on purpose.”

  He looked down at me for a second before looking back at the valet. “He could have knocked you over.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  The valet opened the door with one hand and with the other, in a slight movement that could be denied later, flicked his hand, as if dismissing Antonio. Quick as a predator, Antonio took two steps toward the valet and pushed him against the car. I stepped into the street, heel bending on the cobblestone, and got between them. The valet’s face was awash in fear, and Antonio’s had an intensity that scared me.

  “Antonio. Let’s go, before I have to go back to work,” I said.

  He held his finger up to the valet’s face. “You’re going to be careful. Right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The man looked as though he wanted to be anywhere else.

  He stepped back, and I put my hand on his arm. He looked at me with an unexpected tenderness, as if grateful I’d pulled him from oncoming traffic.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  The authoritative voice cut our moment short. Antonio and I looked to its source.

  A short man in a zip-up black jacket and black tie, with a moustache and comb-over, appeared to recognize Antonio when we turned toward him. “Spin.”

  “Vito.” Antonio looked the man up and down, pausing on his tag for Veetah Valet Service – Proprietor. He touched it. “Really?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Yes, you can. After I bring the lady to our table. You’ll be here.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Antonio put his arm around me and walked toward an Italian restaurant with tables outside.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “He works for me. I’m going to have to talk to him for a minute.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal about the valet.”

  “It’s not about the valet.”

  I dropped my arm from his waist. He’d closed himself off so suddenly that touching him seemed out of place.

  A young man with menus approached. “Outside or inside?”

  “In,” Antonio answered, giving the waiter his bottle.

  He brought us to a table inside. Antonio held my chair for me and sat across the table, looking a million miles away.

  “What happened?” I asked. “You look really annoyed.”

  He took my hand. “Trust me, it’s not you.”

  “I know it’s not me. What did that guy do?”

  “He’s not supposed to run other businesses while he works for me. That’s the rule.”

  “That’s a weird rule.”

  He smiled but looked distracted. “Let me go talk to him. Then you’ll have my full attention.”

  I tapped my watch. “Quickly. I could turn into a pumpkin at any moment.”

  After Antonio walked away, the waiter returned with two glasses and our bottle of Napa wine. He poured a touch in my glass, made small talk, filled both glasses, and left.

  I waited dutifully, tapping on my phone and watching people. I was walking distance from home and a few blocks from the set, but I wanted to be at that table. I was hungry, and I liked the Antonio I’d walked there with.

  The wall facing the street was all windows. Past the rows of outdoor tables, I saw the lights change and cars roll by. Valets ran back and forth with keys and tickets. Antonio came into view, pinching a cigarette to his mouth and letting the smoke drift from out casually. What a stunning man he was. Maybe not in the same affable mood as he had been on the walk to the restaurant, but the intensity that condensed around him made me unable to look away.

  He took a last drag and flicked his cigarette into the street. Then he walked in, smoke still drifting from his mouth. “Sorry about that,” he said when he sat.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just a little talk.”

  The waiter came, we heard the specials, and ordered.

  Antonio picked up his wine. “Salute.”

  I held up my glass and looked at his when they clinked. His hand was firm and powerful, all muscle and vein, and his knuckles were scraped raw. I brushed the backs of my fingers against them.

  “Antonio? Were you just talking? Or do they drag when you walk?”

  He smiled. He’d gone out tense and returned relaxed. “One of t
he valets pushed me into a wall. I tried to break my fall, and this is what happened. These guys, they’re paid per car, so they all jump to open doors a little too quick. How is the wine?” His smile was deadly.

  “Good. What part of Italy are you from?”

  “Napoli. The armpit of Italy, my mother used to say.”

  “And you came here for the weather and the easy access to litigator privileges?”

  He smirked. “Do I have to answer everything right away?”

  “Chasing me around won’t go well if you don’t.”

  He leaned over and touched my upper lip. Having him that close, I wanted to let those fingers explore my body. “You tell me where you got this scar. Then I’ll tell you why I came here.”

  “I got the scar from a boy.”

  “Ah. And I came here because of a girl.”

  Appetizers came, filling little dumplings drenched in red sauce. He slipped a couple on my plate then a couple on his.

  “You followed a woman here?” I watched him eat with clean efficiency.

  “I followed men.” He moved on to the next subject as if his life wasn’t worth lingering on, brushing it off with a practiced, charming facility. “And this boy? His cutting wit, perhaps?”

  “His high school ring. This girl. Was she chasing you?” I looked at him over my wine glass.

  “No. She’s back home.”

  “The girl is home, and you chased a man here because of her?”

  “Close enough. What happened to the boy?” he asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Note to self. Don’t scar Theresa Drazen.”

  I raised my wine glass to my lips to hide my expression. He’d gotten closer to a truth than he realized.

  “So you own a hell of a lot of cars, a restaurant, and you’re a lawyer,” I said. “You contribute enough to the charity of your choice to get invited to the fundraisers. Oh, and you don’t like Porsches. You can beat a guy nearly unconscious with your bare hands. You’re a very interesting guy, Mister Spinelli.”

  He touched my hand with the tips of his fingers, finding a curve and tracing it. “Running an accounting department for the biggest agency in Hollywood. Working on the mayoral candidate’s campaign. Helping your friend with her movie in your spare time. And the most poised, graceful woman I ever met. I’m not half as interesting as you.”

  I formulated an answer, maybe something clever or maybe I’d continue to ask uncomfortable questions, but my phone dinged. It was Katrina’s new AD.

  —We’re starting in ten—

  “This has been fun,” I said. “I have to go.”

  He stood, reaching into his pocket. “I’ll walk you.”

  He tossed a few twenties down and went to the door with me, putting his hand on my back as we exited. I pressed my lips together, avoiding a silly smile. I liked his hand there.

  I didn’t see Vito around. The valets were still working the block quickly, if less exuberantly.

  “Tell me something,” I said. “Why weren’t you afraid that someone would call the cops that night with the Porsche? I mean, if you didn’t break that guy’s nose, I’ll eat my shoe.”

  “Tell me what you think. Why would that be the case?” He put his hands in his pockets as he walked.

  “That’s a common debate team switch. Putting the speculation on me.”

  “Speculate.” He smiled like a movie star, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “I’d rather you told me.”

  “Maybe I’ve met enough cops in my profession to know how to talk to them, should it come to that.”

  “Which profession is that?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  I hadn’t thought much of our harmless back and forth, but when he reminded me he was a lawyer, I caught a tightness in his voice. He glanced away. Most people were puzzles one had to simply collect enough pieces to figure out. My questioning had merely been fact-harvesting until he subtly evaded something so simple.

  “If I look up criminal cases you’ve filed, what would I find? I mean, cases where you’ve dealt with the LAPD.”

  He looked down at the curb as we crossed the street, holding me back when a car came even though I’d stopped.

  “I’m a lawyer for my business. I’ve only had a couple of clients, and mostly they need my help talking to the police. Anything else you feel like you need to know?” He said it with good humor, but there was a wariness to his tone.

  “Yes.” We got to the outer edge of the set, where the street was closed off to keep it silent.

  “What?”

  I knew I shouldn’t ask, but I was tired and still hungry, and the wine had sanded away my barriers. “Is Vito still outside the restaurant running his business?”

  The look on his face melted me, as if a fissure had opened and he was trying desperately to keep the lava from pouring out. Then he smiled as if just having decided to let it all go. “Contessa, you are trouble.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Both.”

  My phone dinged again. I didn’t look at it. I knew what it was about. “I have to go.”

  “Come vuoi tu.” He cupped my cheek in his hand and kissed me quickly before walking away, the picture of masculine grace. He didn’t look back.

  Chapter Eleven

  I strapped up my stockings with the TV on. I saw it behind me in the mirror. Daniel wore his pale grey suit and tie, ice in the sun. He’d done well at the debate that afternoon, keeping himself poised, still, and focused. He was the perfect Future Mister Mayor.

  BRUCE DRUMMOND: My opponent hasn’t opened a serious case against any crime organization in over a year. Just because it’s peacetime, do we sit on our laurels?

  I hadn’t heard from Antonio since he’d left me at the set. I’d been tempted to reach out to him, but to what end? As I watched Daniel, I knew I still had feelings for him. How could I get involved with someone else? How could I take Daniel back? How could I use another man to break my holding pattern?

  DANIEL BROWER: Believe me, my office has been gathering information and evidence against a number of organizations. We won’t open a case unless we’re sure we have the evidence we need. Please, let the people know if your administration will recklessly accuse citizens, so they can start looking for an independent prosecutor.

  Antonio would be at the fundraiser. Though I was excited to see him, despite the fact that I had to avoid him, he’d become tight and unreadable. He’d avoided telling me about his business, and his story about being pushed by a valet was absurd. Vito hadn’t gone home whistling Dixie. Antonio was Italian. From Naples. Was he a lawyer or criminal? Or both?

  BRUCE DRUMMOND: In closing, I love my wife. She’s the only woman for me, and that’s why I married her. As your mayor, I’d never distract—

  I liked nice men. Lawful men. Men with a future, a career, who could safely support children. I wasn’t the type to look for the dangerous, exciting guys.

  The dress went over my head in one movement. I twisted, struggled, and got the zipper up by myself.

  * * *

  It was eighty degrees and humid as hell, the wettest, nastiest, buggiest fall in L.A. history. Totally unexpected. Nothing anyone from the Catholic Charitable Trust could have foreseen when they’d planned an outdoor event ten months before. A string quartet played in the background, and wait staff carried silver trays of endive crab and champagne flutes. I made my way through the crowd alone, smiling and sharing air kisses. The house was a Hancock Park Tudor, kept and restored to the standards of a hotel as if the taste had been wrapped, boxed, and shipped in from a decorator’s mind.

  I was standing by the pool with Ute Yanix, talking about Species—the only raw foods place in L.A. that served meat—when Daniel crept up behind me. Ute’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and she brushed back her long straight hair like a silk curtain. Daniel did have a certain something. That thing had made him a frontrunner before the race even started.

  “Ute, I’m g
lad you could make it,” he said.

  “You know I support you. All Hollywood does, whether we say it in public or not.”

  “I appreciate you being here publicly then.” His hand found mine. “It’s even more important than the donation.”

  She laughed a few decibels louder than necessary. “Now more than ever, huh?”

  And with a look at me, the heiress in the candidate’s corner, she implied the ugliest things. The first and most dangerous was that Daniel had been running the campaign on my money and now couldn’t.

  “I assure you, donations have always been appreciated.” My smile could have lit the Hollywood sign.

  The sexting incident was never mentioned on the fundraising floor, but in the bathroom, whispered voices, offered words of support, empathy, understanding, and others were clearly derisive. I had stopped fielding both sentiments.

  I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. Over Ute’s shoulder, I saw a man in a dark suit. Lots of men in dark suits milled around, but they had jeans, open collars, ties optional. He wore a suit like a woman wore lingerie, to accentuate the sexual. To highlight the slopes and lines. To give masculinity a definition. He held his wine glass to me, tearing my clothes off and running his hands over my skin from across the room.

  “…but what you’re going to do about the traffic—”

  “I’ll be Mayor, not God.” They both laughed.

  I’d lost most of the conversation during my locked gaze with Antonio Spinelli. “Excuse me,” I said to my ex and the actress. “Duty calls.”

  I walked into the house. The unwritten rule was if the party was in the backyard, guests stayed in the backyard. Wandering off into the personal spaces was bad manners, but I couldn’t help it. I went to the back of the kitchen, to a back hall with a wool Persian carpet and mahogany doors.

  “Contessa.”

  I didn’t have a second to answer before he put his hands on my cheeks and his mouth on mine. I didn’t move. I didn’t kiss him back. I just took in his scent of dew-soaked pine, wet earth, and smoldering fires. He pulled back, unkissed but not unwanted, his hands still cupping my face.

  He brushed his thumb over my lower lip, just grazing the moist part inside. “I want you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”