by Mj Fields
“I don’t have it,” I lie.
There is no fucking way she’s getting that thing back. I will burn it first. Too much of my soul is now on those pages. My fantasies are not for her or anyone to read. Writing in there for her was a mistake.
She looks around me and points. “It’s right there.”
“Well, you can’t have it.”
“But it’s mine,” she says, her brows knitting slightly.
“Get a new one.” I cross my arms in front of me.
“I want that one.”
“No.”
She sidesteps me, which shocks the shit out of me, and then she takes a step toward it.
I get between her and the book, and she puts her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Woman, are you out of your mind?”
“Are you?” she snaps back then points at the book.
“You aren’t getting it.” I turn around and grab it, then turn back to her.
Just like a few nights ago, she jumps at it.
I hold it higher and ask, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking, I’m getting my book back.” She glares at me.
My dick is hardening, and my annoyance is maxed out. Her lips are so fucking pink. I’m on the edge of losing it. I know I am.
“You need to leave.”
“That book is mine,” she repeats.
“It was until you gave it to me,” I remind her. “Now, you don’t get it back.”
Holding the book tight in my hand, I walk over and open the old cookie jar on the small kitchen counter top. “How much was it?” I ask, fishing through the jar of cash I have yet to deposit.
“My words are worth a lot,” she says, and then I hear her stomp toward me. “Now the book—” She stops when she’s beside me and sees the cash on the counter. “Why the hell do you have all that money?”
I look at her and hold out a hundred. “I have a job.”
She doesn’t take it. She’s still looking at the cash. “You should put it in a bank. Someone could steal it.”
I give an annoyed laugh. “Nobody is stupid enough to come up here.”
She looks up at me. “Except me.”
“You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, Tatum Longley,” I warn.
I expect her to be afraid, make an excuse to get the fuck out of here, but she doesn’t budge.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she finally says.
“Well, that’s pretty damn stupid.” I thrust the bill at her.
“I...” She stops and looks down.
I know damn well what she stopped herself from saying, I do, and I’m just waiting for it.
She looks back up at me. “Michigan State.”
I shrug. Hell, it wasn’t a lie.
“You... You killed a man.” She keeps her eyes trained on mine.
“Yes,” I answer automatically. I knew she was going to find out after I gave her my name.
She looks at me, just staring, not appearing disgusted or disappointed.
“Take the money, Tatum, and leave.” I push the money in her hand.
Instead of leaving, she grips my hand. “You had no drugs in your system. You didn’t kill her like they said.”
“Wasn’t convicted of killing her,” I tell her, shocked by the fact that she is still gripping my hand.
“You...” She pauses, and I pull my hand back. “You were seventeen.”
“Not discussing this with you.” I walk to the door and hold it open. “Goodbye, Tatum.”
She walks in the opposite direction.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask as she sits in the recliner and looks out the window.
She doesn’t answer. She just sits there and stares out the dingy fucking thing.
“I asked you to leave. Now leave!” I yell.
She looks at me fearlessly. “Not without my book.”
“I told you—”
“I spent three days looking at your case. Three days of trying to find a reason you didn’t tell them you were trying to protect yourself, protect her. Three days of trying to understand why the hell you never took the stand in your own defense.” She looks down and shakes her head. “Why didn’t anyone help you?”
I drop the book on the counter, walk over, grab her elbows, and lift her up to standing. “I said leave.” I am not going back there, not with her, not with anyone.
“I’m not afraid of you. I want to help—”
“No. No, you don’t,” I tell her, leading her toward the door. “It’s done. It’s over. I killed him, and I should have—”
“You should have done it when they started dating? You should have killed him then? That’s what you have been quoted as saying.” Her words come out rushed as I release her arm.
“Why the fuck are you doing this? A story? A fucking story?”
“No... Yes... No.” She shakes her head. “I believe you. I believe in you.”
“You don’t know me,” I growl. “Now get—” I stop mid-sentence when she starts to take off her shirt. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Rage, anger, hate—I understand all of those feelings. But this... this confusion is not something I feel. It’s black or white, right or wrong, good or bad, not this.
She turns her back to me, and I see what appears to be a bullet wound in the middle of her back.
“I tried to save him.” She looks over her shoulder, tears filling her eyes. “I tried to save him.” Then she turns around and fucking hugs me. “I’m sorry you lost her. I’m sorry no one fought for you.”
My body trembles as I try to step back, but she doesn’t let go. She holds tighter. Then she cries, and I hate it. I want it to stop.
“Stop crying,” I tell her as she grabs my arms and wraps them around her. “Please stop crying,” I repeat.
She does, but she doesn’t let go, and now I’m hugging her back.
“No, no,” I tell myself as I force myself back. I can’t do this. I won’t do this.
“You didn’t deserve what you got. You didn’t any more than what they said about you, about Maria, and—”
“Leave!”
She takes a step back, and I notice for the first time that she looks afraid of me. And for the first time in years, it bothers me.
She turns to leave, watching me over her shoulder like I may do something to harm her. In a normal situation, this is what I want. In this case, it’s not, not at all.
“Wait.” I reach for her, but she pulls back, fear, shame, confusion, and anger all mixed in her eyes. “How did you expect me to respond?” I snarl.
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. And fine!” She throws her hands in the air. “Fine! I’ll leave you alone.”
“I told you a number of times to do just that, Tatum Longley.” I step toward her and grab her elbow. She freezes. “You wear a scar on your back. Someone shot you in the fucking back, and you are so damn desperate for a story that you put yourself in a position where you ask a man to fuck you, not knowing who he is? Then... Then you know who he is and you show up for a fight? Did you learn nothing the first time around? You keep pushing! I don’t know what to do with that, with you.”
“I learned to live.” Her words are fiercely delivered and the conviction in them does not go unnoticed.
“Then do it smarter,” I say, looking down at her.
Chapter Thirteen
Tatum
“I am smart,” I counter as I look up at the beast of a man before me.
“Then act like it,” he retorts in a gruff voice as he continues looking down at me.
We are in some sort of standoff. Him against me, me against him. I feel like, if I look away, we both lose.
“I would have killed him, too,” I admit.
His stance straightens. Then he tilts his head as if he’s trying to figure out if the words are truth or lies.
I take a deep breath and push out the words I have not spoken in years. “I tried to save someone I loved. I jumped be
tween him and the man holding the gun.”
“And you got shot.” He scowls.
I nod. “And you went to prison.”
“That’s what happens when you kill someone,” he says.
“If I had a gun, I would have shot the man who shot me. Then he wouldn’t have shot Gregory four times.”
“Don’t blame you.”
“And no one would have blamed you if you had just told the truth and said it was self-defense.”
“I killed him with my hands. Could have stopped when he passed out, but I didn’t.”
I don’t want to tell him that the fact finder in me, not only read every article and watched every local news stations story, but spoke to three of his classmates who said that the young man they all called Saint Michael would never hurt a soul, unless he had no other choice. They told me the man he killed was a drug dealer, but his family was wealthy and his friends were intimidating, so no one dared speak up against the things they had said about him. I don’t want to tell him that I spoke to two of the nuns who taught him and that they told me they had given statements to the police and tried to visit him, and that I know he hadn’t allowed it. I don’t want to say anything that would push him away any further.
Not yet, anyway.
I can see an invisible protective shield building in him. I know I need to do something, anything to change the situation, the mood, the interaction, or I’m going to lose him.
I can’t lose him.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him, to which he raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to eat lunch in a really shady area of town, alone, unless you go with me.”
He sighs and licks his lips. “Not hungry.”
I nod and step back.
“You going to a better part of town?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Thought you said you were smart.”
I smile to myself as I walk down the stairs. Then I look down as I cross the floor of the gym, not caring to see the speculative stares as I walk past the group of women taking the self-defense class, who have all made comments about “Kid.”
I promised myself I was coming here to close this chapter of my life, one I have been told to close a million times over the past seven years so I wouldn’t wind up in a situation I shouldn’t be in, with a man far more complicated than I could have imagined the first time I saw him. However, even with Melanie’s warning, with his warning, and with only three weeks until I head back to New York, I can’t stop the need to finish what I started.
Once outside the door, I start walking, when I hear a loud whistle.
I look back in the sound’s direction to see Angelo pulling his fingers out of his mouth and walking toward me at a fast clip.
I look up at him when he is beside me as he mumbles, “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, well, I leave in three weeks, so the pain isn’t all that long lasting.”
I swear I see a hint of amusement in his eyes, and maybe even a ghost of a smile.
The Diner is the name of the place we end up, and honestly, I don’t know if it’s the right or the wrong side of town, but we are here, in a red pleather booth, in the corner farthest from the entrance.
He sits with his back to the wall and looks around, almost like he is preparing for something bad to happen. I push a menu forward, hoping to distract him.
As I look through my own menu, I decide to open up to him about what happened to me, hoping he will feel a little less alone.
“After I was shot, I passed out. I woke up next to him... Gregory, my boyfriend,” I say it out loud for the first time in years, not looking at him. “Our pinkies were linked, so I know he was conscious for a while. I never really forgave myself for not fighting to stay awake.”
“Tatum, you don’t have to tell me this,” he whispers.
I look up at him and shrug. “It’s easier to talk with someone I don’t have to face again.”
He takes a deep breath and nods, sitting back. He is silent for a few minutes before he says, “When he stopped fighting, I didn’t let go of his neck.”
“Maybe you were afraid he would—”
“Attack me?” he huffs. “Tried that. Got him dead.”
I have no idea why, but it makes me laugh, and then he smiles, a real, genuine smile. Then he laughs. His laugh is deep and dark, but it’s beautiful and authentic.
I order a big greasy burger and fries, and he orders chicken and vegetables.
When the waitress leaves, I lean back in the pleather booth, look at him, and whisper, “You served your sentence, Angelo, and it was far harsher than you deserved. Now you have to live.”
“Not up for discussion,” he says sternly.
“I understand, but maybe... just think about it.”
He leans in with what I suppose is intent to intimidate. “I’m here because you were making a shit choice, which I will point out, you make a lot of shit choices when it comes to your safety.”
I lean in and give him the same thing. “I lived in fear for years. I won’t do it anymore.”
“There’s a big difference in being cautious and being stupid,” he says back, eyes narrowing.
I nod. “There’s also a difference between living and existing.”
Both his eyebrows creep up slowly. “I hear what you’re saying, but tell me. Are you really living, Annie?”
I feel my mouth drop open and quickly snap it shut.
He sits back, seeming proud of himself, as the waitress comes back with our drinks. Him water, and me a diet Coke.
After a moment of thinking as I sip my drink, I lean forward and say, “I get to live a thousand lives now that I’m writing fiction.”
“I wouldn’t want a thousand,” he huffs.
“Fortunate for you, we only get one, Angelo.” I use his real name to make my point. “Are you living the way you want?”
He takes a drink then leans back, his eyes searching my face, scanning my neck, and landing on my chest. “I’m doing just fine,” he says in a voice a little thicker than just moments ago.
We stare at one another, with me shifting in my seat because I can’t help being incredibly turned on by this man with that hair and body. More so, it’s his mannerisms. He wants to be standoffish. It may work for other people, but I see his pain.
“If you could do anything, what would you do?”
His tongue swipes across his lip as he looks at my lips. “Get the fuck out of Michigan.”
“But you own a gym.”
He slides to the left and stands up. “Excuse me for a minute.”
As he walks away, I see him adjust himself. That’s when I know—well, I think I know—what it is he wants to do.
I look behind me, watching him as he walks to the bathroom. I see women look at him, men look at him. Hell, everyone is looking at him. I know how uncomfortable it must make him.
I remember back to the first three months after Gregory was killed. I was terrified to leave our apartment. The only thing that got me out was that damn class that Melanie wouldn’t let me quit.
I was a bitch and did not deserve her kindness, one of a random stranger. I had only met her two months before the shooting, yet she didn’t give up. There we were, just classmates, but suddenly, she was with me as a support system I never knew I needed. She was at the hospital, and then at my apartment when my parents left, assuring them I would be fine.
After the course was finished, I holed up in the apartment and buried myself in research about adopted children, and then the foster care program, the one Gregory was raised in.
His biological mother gave him up. The only thing he knew was that he was born in Detroit General Hospital, in Michigan. At sixteen, when his adopted mother was killed, he was then taken away from his father, due to abuse and neglect, and placed inside the foster care system, where he bounced around from home to home, until he met me and was no longer angry.
Gregory wanted to know who his biological mother was. He dreamed we would live here one day. He said, for y
ears he felt like Detroit was his true home. We were supposed to visit and make that decision together. The decision was already made. I would have gone anywhere with him.
He was the love of my life.
It has been nearly a week since I let myself think about Gregory’s and my love. Since I allowed myself to let the pain settle back in. I came here for him, for me, for the ability to close the book of our love, giving him and I finality.
I wrote his story, the story of a boy given away. Now it was my time to let him go.
It was an awful feeling, but something I needed to do for myself.
Melanie always begged me to slow down, to live again, and not in research and writing, but in hope and love. I knew this push of writing fiction wasn’t just about the books and sales. It was about me living again. I never in a million years would have propositioned a man who I didn’t know without Melanie pushing me. Without life pushing me.
When Michelangelo Mazzini comes back out to sit across from me, I don’t look up. The emotions, the feelings, the truths told to him today, of him and of me, suddenly seem to leave me feeling more of the old me than the Tatum after Gregory.
We eat silently, looking at each other every so often. He is trying to figure me out, and I am doing the same.
When I try to pay, he gives me a look, one that says I am overstepping. I’m not. I basically forced him to come with me, so it should be my treat. Regardless, I don’t argue, not this time.
If I allow myself a moment to think about it in the way I should, like he is Jonathon and I am Annie, it kind of feels nice.
We walk toward the hotel, his hands shoved into his pockets, hood up, shoulders slumped a bit, looking down at the sidewalk; and me looking out of the corner of my eye at him, catching him doing the same.
I notice he stands taller, eyes narrowing slightly, jaw tightening, and his lips grow straighter as we approach people. His presence grows bigger, if that can even be possible, and he becomes more intimidating. When we are alone, though, he seems to relax, probably for the first time since our very awkward meetings—plural. I have never had such a strange beginning with anyone.
“Are we okay?” I ask him as we grow closer to the hotel, knowing I need to say something to keep this illusion going.
