by Jaci J
“Yeah,” he nods at his friend. Standing up, he leans over and places a feather soft kiss on my cheek. I want to scrub my face immediately.
“It was nice to meet you, London. I do hope to see you again.” His voice is hopeful when he speaks against my skin, and with one last smile, he leaves the bar. I watch him walk away, thankful that he’s finally gone.
God, it's there, creeping over me like a sickness. I can’t escape him no matter how hard I try. I can’t even outrun him. Sitting alone at my table in the middle of the bar, I feel like I’m starting to suffocate. The bar starts to become too crowded and too loud. I need air.
I send out a quick apologetic text to Matt before I disappear into the silent confines of the elevator. Leaning against the cool metal, I manage to save the tears for the room. I practice my breathing and count the glowing buttons of the elevator as I gnaw at my nails. I pretend I’m not slowly falling apart from the inside out.
Once the door to the room latches behind me, I lose the battle. Slumping my pathetic self against the door, I slide down to my ass and wallow in my self-pity and let the tears fall. I pull my legs against my chest so I can bury my face in my knees and begin to sob like a baby. These are the first true gut-wrenching tears I’ve let fall since this whole fucking mess happened. Six weeks I’ve managed to hold my shit together, and one touch from someone else has sent me spiraling out of control.
I can’t stomach this emotional desperation I feel when I think of him. I hate him, yet at the same time I miss him with such a raw ache that it leaves me broken and sick. I have the disgusting urge to hear his voice. Just once, I just need one second of hearing his voice to soothe this ache.
It’s a need that’s so strong, it has me scrambling for my old phone. Once I have it in my hands, I look at the black screen in my hands and just stare at it before setting it back down. I can’t do this to myself, but the black screen of my phone taunts me. Just a push of the button, along with a few swipes and I can have it. I need to hear him. I want to feel whole again, even if it’s only for a second.
Powering my phone up, I find my text messages overflowing with unread flags and my voicemail is stuffed to capacity. Bypassing the texts, I go straight for the voicemails. No written word will ease this desolate hole inside of me that only his voice can fill, even if it’s just for a minute. I really don’t want to do this, but I have to. I’m fucking desperate.
My heart aches and my chest burns. Tears blur my vision as my hands shake, causing me to fumble with my phone. My finger hovers over the little red icon attached to my voicemail and I hesitate. I close my eyes and touch my finger to the screen, then put the phone up to my ear before I change my frantic mind.
“London … I …,” I listen to his hoarse, uneven voice and it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse when his silence screams through the phone because that silence says it all. He’s not sorry. A man who was sorry wouldn’t pause, he would plead, beg, apologize. He would fill up every second of with his words until the voicemail would cut him off. He wouldn’t pause. He’s truly just a stranger to me now.
Hurt and anger start to take over my heartache and tears. My heart hurts every day, no matter how much I try to deny it to myself. This man came into my life and purposely broke me. Standing on the street in New York that day, he disgraced me, humiliated me, and he expected me to be okay with that. He never gave a single fuck about what he was doing to me.
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm up off the floor and on the balcony, watching my phone sail through the air; a little black speck flying across the sky.
Landing with a splash in the blue ocean water, I feel liberated, yet foolish. My hands shake and my chest heaves. I feel the tears start to burn again in my already swollen eyes, but I know I’m doing what’s right. I just want this pain to stop. I don’t want it anymore because I’m not strong enough to handle it.
I watch the phone hit the water and it disappears, out of my sight. I pray like hell that it’s my first step to moving forward. It hurts and it’s something small and insignificant to some, I’m sure, but for me, it’s a major step in moving forward in my life without Dante.
Dante
Sitting at my desk, I shove away the ever-growing pile of papers. They’re not helping my cluttered mind. I’m clinging on by my goddamn fingernails to any and every bit of information I can get on London. I’m so desperate that I’ve sent the goons after her. I didn’t want to…no, that’s a lie―I did want to. My need for her is so all consuming that I’ve stalked her clear across the fucking world. The only reason I’m sitting here and not out collecting amore mia is because I know she’s safe and she needs her time. I’ve learned enough about her to know that when she runs, she means it. I don’t want to cause her to run any further than she already has so I’ll give her what she needs, even if it’s fucking killing me.
I can be satisfied with the notion that no one is getting to her. Alfonso D’Angelo, London’s father, is in hiding from the ‘Ndrangheta for making promises that he couldn’t deliver on. He had no idea that I would fuck up his plans to take over the business that he so desperately needs from London. With me in the way, the ‘Ndrangheta will keep their distance for now, but they’re a threat to me that I can’t turn my back on. But for now, they’re looking for her father. They have plans for him, that’s for certain. It didn’t take much on my part to convince them that Alfonso was never going to get his hands on the company, with or without London’s help. So, in the end, I eradicated two threats against London, bankrolled a hefty payday, and now lay in wait for the blowback. Just because I made a deal with the ‘Ndrangheta, doesn’t mean they’re not looking for ways to stab me in the back. They were promised something, so I don’t think for a second they’ll give up on finding a way to take it.
As for Perry, that little slimy fucker made a run across the border in an attempt to outrun the inevitable. He fucking knew the risk he was running by messing with me and mine, but with Alfonso hiding and trying to save his own ass, he has nowhere to turn. If he didn’t know before, he knows now who I am and how serious I take the protection of my family. Running was just a sad attempt on his part because clearly, he underestimated my reach.
His little gang of thugs have been handled, and my abandoned warehouse floor can testify to that. Perry is all alone and he alone is no threat, so as of now, London is safe as long as she can keep herself out of trouble.
“Are we still on for tonight?” Cam asks as he passes by my door. Unfortunately, I was backed into an unavoidable corner and now I’m being forced to participate in the debauchery that Carmine claims as “fun.” For six weeks, my “going out” has consisted of the drive to and from my apartment and work. Cam found me at a weak moment and now we’re going out.
“Yes.”
“Nine o’clock. Don’t be late, motherfucker,” he warns me.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I growl sarcastically. I don’t want to go, but they’re not going to leave me alone until I give in.
Looking out the window, dread seeps in at the sight of the setting sun. It’s the evenings, the quiet moments, the time alone that get to me. It’s the unbearable loneliness that claws at my chest, making it hard to breath and hard to hang on. I miss her. I miss London so goddamn much it’s become painful.
I want her back―I need her back, but even I know I can’t force her. I have no choice but to wait her out. I’ll do a goddamn sit-in if I have to. I’ll wait for her for as long as it takes. I have the patience of a monk and someday she’ll come back. She has to because she needs me as much as I need her. It’s only a matter time before she realizes it … right?
~~~~~
Deplorable and disgusting is how I feel sitting in this florescent pit of hell. Low lights dim everything in a dark, ominous haze, casting menacing shadows on so many blank, nameless faces. Laughter, jeers, and pounding music aren’t even enough to drown out my thoughts. The smell is the worst. They’re the smells of desperation, sex, an
d lost souls. This place used to serve a purpose for me, no matter how much I despised it, but now it makes me fucking sick. I’ve never been an outdoorsy type of man, but right now I’m considering going camping in the great fucking outdoors.
My ass is numb. I feel like I’ve aged twenty fucking years, my body feels so stiff and achy. How long have I been sitting here? Shifting around, I take inventory of the body parts that still work. All seem to be functioning, just without much feeling. This chair is terribly hard and too fucking small for my body.
Pains in my stomach distract me from my thoughts for a moment. I think I'm hungry, or at least I should be. It's been a while since I've eaten, I think, but that’s okay. I haven’t felt this good and numb in such a long time.
Taking a long pull from my tumbler, the alcohol fights off the hunger. Maybe I'm not really hungry after all. Maybe I'm just thirsty. Yeah, that's probably it. I need another drink. I’m way too drunk to make much sense. Actually, I’m too drunk to do anything, but right now, drunk is good―I can do drunk.
Out of nowhere, a set of tits are in my face and my curiosity is piqued, but only for a moment. Tipping my heavy head, I try to see the face that they belong to, but my vision is too blurry to make her out. Fuck her. I don’t give a shit what she looks like. The only tits I want in my face are London’s, plain and simple.
Grumbling into my glass, I shove the tits away. “Cheer the fuck up, man. You've got pussy in your lap and tits in your face. What could be better than that?” Cam’s familiar voice slurs. He’ll never understand the pain I’m in without that little green-eyed monster―without her love. Hell, I don’t even understand it.
“What happened to your hands, baby?” a seductive voice asks.
“What?”
“Your hands, handsome … they’re bleeding.” She points out.
They are bleeding. Fancy that. Flexing my fingers, my knuckles and joints are stiff. Lifting my hand up, I shove it at Cam. “What happened to my hand?”
Taking a swig from his beer, he swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You redecorated.” He says.
“I redecorated.” I repeat directly to the tits with a voice.
Leaning closer, she purrs, “You redecorated, huh?” Women shouldn’t purr. She’s not a fucking cat and it sounds ridiculous.
“Guess so.”
“Wanna show me what you’ve redecorated?” No … Fuck no. Well, maybe just a little. Why the fuck not, if it’ll get me the hell out of here.
~~~~~
Home is where the heart is, or that’s what they say … unless you don’t have a heart. So, in my case, home is where my bed is. All I fucking want is my bed. I haven’t had my sheets washed in six weeks. It’s disgusting, but ask me if I care. I want my bed and my sheets to smell like London until she comes back. I want to crawl into my bed and go into a fucking coma so I don’t have to think of her being gone.
“Take me to your room,” the desperate pair of tits begs as she hangs off my arm. Did she follow me here? There’s not a chance in hell of that ever happening. No one’s allowed in there.
“No.” But I will fuck her quick against the door, or on the floor by the door. I don’t even want the bitch here in my home, but if she can help me forget, if only for a few moments, I’ll give her what she wants, just not in my bedroom.
“Please,” she whines, pinning me with a pout. I can see her a little better now, and I wish I hadn’t.
“No. Now stop that whiny shit and go sit down somewhere.” I wave over at the living room as I stumble off and fumble my way to the kitchen for a bottle of something coma inducing, leaving whiny, pouty tits on her own.
Standing in the kitchen, downing two drinks and going in for my third, I watch her. I hate seeing her in my house. It’s not like I really want to fuck the bitch that’s prancing around my living room like a drunk leprechaun, fawning all over my shit, touching everything she can, but I’m fucking lonely. I miss London so goddamn much, and loneliness is a terribly twisted emotion. It makes the most sound-minded, levelheaded motherfuckers, like myself, do very stupid shit, like fuck this bitch when I’d rather throw her out on her ass.
Looking away from her and staring down at my Grappa, I swish around the ice and listen to it rattle against the glass, completely lost in thought. I know I’m drunk because at this point, I just don’t care anymore. I don’t care that London’s gone. I don’t care that there’s some other woman here. I don’t care that my fucking heart is broken. I don’t care about a goddamn thing, and I certainly don’t care that someone is trying to beat down my door.
“Uh, are you gonna get that?” she asks. No. If I ignore it, it’ll go away. I take a few more drinks and listen, waiting for them to stop and get the hint, but they don’t. If anything, they seem to grow more insistent on getting in. “I don’t think they’re gonna leave.” No shit, Sherlock. Ain’t she a fucking smart one.
Dragging my ass to the door that’s not even locked, I open it and Betty pushes her way in, walking around me. “Yes?” I ask, leaning against the door coolly, or maybe it’s for support, but whatever.
“Where have you been?” Betty huffs at me, being the mother hen this evening.
“Around,” I tell her. Putting her hands on her hips, she starts tapping her foot.
“Are you drunk?”
“You’re an observant mother hen, aren’t you?”
“Good Lord, Dante,” she says with disappointment and disgust.
She starts to walk further inside and I know she’s going to be mad as shit that whiny tits is in the living room. Betty had grown very fond of London before I fucked it all up. They were becoming “friends,” as she put it. Yeah, she’s gonna be pissed when she finds the filth I’ve dragged home with me tonight.
I follow behind her, dragging my feet as she makes her way to the living room. She stops dead in her tracks at what she sees, scowling. “What …Who the hell are you?” Betty’s shrill voice bombards my dulled senses. I cover my ears out of instinct. Shit, has she always been this loud? That voice is enough to make my ears bleed. “Who is this … this hussy?” Betty yells, shooting daggers at me. Hussy? That’s another good name for whiny tits.
Hussy’s eyes swing to me, but I just shrug and chug my drink before Betty tears it away from me, which she does a second later, sitting it down on the table. “No more.” She scolds me. Turning to Hussy, she lets loose. “Out! And leave the wallet,” she says, holding her hand out. Hussy is a thief. I’d laugh but I don’t think I know how to right now.
“Dante?” she whines. Throwing myself down on my extremely comfortable couch, I slump into it and ignore the two of them. Has my couch always been this comfortable? I should buy more like it. Digging a pillow from behind my back, a piece of lace brushes my fingers. You’ve got to be shitting me.
Pulling the lace out from behind me, I look at the small, pink piece of material and strikingly graphic images flash through my mind. London bent over the couch for me, legs spread wide, just for me. Groaning, I rub the piece of softness between my thumb and finger, feeling that twist of pain deep in my gut. Fuck, I miss her. “Do what she says and get the fuck out,” I tell the bitch. I’m not doing this … I can’t do it.
“W-what?” she stammers.
“Get the fuck out of my house.” She looks between the door and me. “Now!” I yell.
With wide eyes, she heads for the door, but Betty stops her. “Wallet.” She demands with her hand out and the other on her hip. Hussy jerks it from her tiny purse and shoves it at Betty, muttering “Whatever,” before she marches out, slamming the door behind her.
“Get your drunk ass in bed.” Betty’s piercing voice shouts while knocking my foot off of the end of the couch.
“Go home, Betty.” I grumble into the arm of the couch. I need another drink, I think idly, while drooling drunk all over my pillow. Things couldn’t get worse.
“I'm so mad at you, Dante. Get your ass in bed. We've got to get you right.” Betty rants at me as she t
ugs on my arm. Yeah, I’m mad at me too.
I do as I’m told and land face-first onto the bed. Citrus, flowers, and everything London engulfs me and I’ve fallen into heaven. I don’t bother rolling over. Maybe I’ll suffocate in the middle of night with her all around me. It would be a good way to go. “Tomorrow, when you’re not so stupid and gosh darn drunk, I’m going to slap you.”
“You love me, Betty,” I mutter into my pillow. She mutters something under her breath before slamming the door so fucking hard it makes the pictures on the walls and my teeth rattle. “G’nite to you too, Betty.”
Two
Miss Melancholy
London
Today isn't nearly as hot as yesterday, but it’s just as relaxing as I try to soak up the last few moments of my vacation. I need to get up and go pack, but I just don’t have it in me. I’d much rather stay here, but that’s just not how the world works. No matter what kind of shit I’ve got going on in my life, the world doesn’t stop for me and my issues, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing that it would.
Tipping my head to the side, I stare at Matt’s vacant lounger. Where in the hell did he scamper off to without me knowing? God, I’m so out of it. He’s probably off chasing around a cabana boy to hook up with on his last day here.
I’ve waited. Around every corner, behind every closed door, and in every dark room, I’ve waited for Dante. I’ve waited for the moment that he’d show up, just like he always has. I’ve constantly wondered if he’s been near, looking over my shoulder, waiting for him materialize at any moment.
Where is he? What’s he doing? When is he coming? I’ve been in perpetual limbo, dying to know where he is.
I ran as far and as I could, slipping away into the night to get away. I needed an escape―some time to lick my wounds and heal from the backstabbing I received from not only Dante, but my grandfather too. I needed to find my sense of self again and find a path to follow since my whole future had been taken away from me.
