"Want to try it?" she asks.
I lean down and open my mouth. She blushes as she feeds me, trying not to let my tongue touch her fingertips.
"What do you think?" she asks.
I grab her hand back, and slowly suck on the tip of her thumb, as if to get every last crumb off. "Delicious."
"Gray." Kat's voice sounds strangled, and she's turned an even brighter shade of red. I can't help it. I love touching her, teasing her, and most especially tasting her.
We walk the market together, me holding the teeny damn baskets they make you carry, while she loads it up. She's chattering on about what she's going to make me for dinner, but I'm losing the thread of the conversation.
She's here. It's almost unbelievable. I'd wanted her for so long when we were young. I'd left to keep her safe. Now we're together. I can almost pretend we're a normal married couple, shopping for the weekend together.
It's real but it's not—she's real, what I'm feeling is real—but we're so far from fucking normal.
We check out and Kat blanches at the total. "It's Manhattan, babes, and you bought a ton of organic shit," I say. A couple hundred bucks is nothing to me, but I can tell she's worrying.
"Gray, I didn't realize it would all cost that much. I can pay you back—"
"What's mine is yours, Kat."
She doesn't say anything, just purses her lips like she doesn't know what to do with that information, or doesn't like it. She just needs to get used to it. She's fended for herself for so long, so doesn't know how to let go and let someone take care of her.
I realize, maybe I'm the same way. Not that I need anyone to take care of me. But, it's going to take some getting used to. Living with someone. Being with someone.
The streets outside are packed with locals, tourists, cab drivers, cars. It's a bright, sunny day. Warm. I can't remember the last time I just went for a walk through my neighborhood, went grocery shopping. I usually eat at Solonik's café, or grab something in the car on the way to a job.
"Oh, an ATM," Kat says. "I just need to get some cash. Elle and I are going out tonight."
"Who's Elle?"
"Oh, you remember Elle—well, no, you wouldn't. She was in high school with me. We started hanging out after you—" Kat frowns, then tries to hide that she's upset. She shrugs. "After you left. She's my best friend."
I make a mental note to look into this Elle. If Kat likes her, I'm sure she's cool. But it never hurts to do your research, on a job or on people you're involved with.
Kat pulls a wallet from her old purse. I put my hand over her hand.
"Babes, save your money. I'll treat you to drinks tonight."
"You really don't have to do that. Besides, I may need some cash just for the subway and stuff, later on in the week." Her face colors and she scowls at me. "If my husband gets his ass out of the 1950s and let me leave the house."
I raise my hands in mock surrender, trying to put a smile back on her face. She can't hold her fierce look for long, and relents as I grin at her.
"Kat, let me take care of you. I take out my wallet, place a few hundreds in the palm of her hand, and force her to close her fingers over them.
Kat rolls her eyes, but slowly puts her wallet and the money back in her purse. I notice the handle is ripped, the fake leather peeling off in strips.
"Kat, I'm not trying to power-trip with you. I'm trying to keep you safe. And in case you didn't forget, last night was kind of insane—"
"You think?" Kat snaps, walking down the street. I watch her sweet ass sway for a minute, before I catch up.
"I was protecting you. I didn't know if Markov would try anything. The safest place for you was in my apartment, with a guard at the door."
Kat shrugs, but I can tell she's relenting.
"Of course you can leave the apartment. Anytime you want. Dacko or one of my other guys will go with you, wherever you want to go."
Kat stops and turns at me, her mouth hanging open. "What! You're having me followed!"
Now I'm getting fucking pissed. I grab her hand, lean in and whisper, "Do you or do you not remember that your father was almost killed yesterday? That you were—"
"I get it!" Kat shrugs me off and rushes down the block, weaving in and out of the strolling tourists. It's easy for me to keep up with her, but I let her work off some of her frustration for a minute. Then I see a shop across the street. Fancy-ass purses. I think of the strap about to fall off on hers, the way she had to pack up everything she owned in plastic carry-out bags.
I take a few big steps and catch up with her, gently grabbing her arm but stopping in her tracks.
Kat allows me to lead her, but she immediately lets me have it. "Gray, you need to trust me. I need my freedom. You can't wall me up in your ivory tower. It's the same as Markov or whoever locking me up down in Brighton Beach—"
"It's not at all the fucking same," I growl, leading her across the street. "Listen, it's just until things settle down. You can do anything you want."
"Except go to work. Or have my freedom." She's spitting mad.
"Babes, do you really love being a bartender? Is that why you're so hard-up to get back to O'Malley's? I don't remember you including 'bartending' on your list of hopes and dreams, when we used to hang out on your fire escape late at night."
Kat stops dead in the middle of the street. "You remember that?" she says. Her voice is soft.
A car horn blares, and I drag her to the sidewalk, to safety.
"Of course I remember that. Jesus, Kat."
She sniffs. "Well, I wouldn't know. You left and—"
I turn around, grab her, look into her forest-green eyes. They're so fucking sad, and it breaks my heart.
"I'm sorry I left, Kat. Everything I ever did, I did to protect you. And that's what I'm trying to do right now."
Kat blinks. I see tears well up in her eyes for a moment, but then she wills them away.
"My strong, stubborn little Katya," I whisper, brushing away a bit of wetness from the side of her cheek.
"Who are you calling stubborn, big guy?" Kat says. She cracks a small smile. "And no. I'm not in love with bartending. I honestly—" She blushes, so easily and so prettily. "I like cooking. Derek and Smalls—the cooks at O'Malley's—have been giving me lessons. And I've been working on my baking in the bar's kitchens, too. I didn’t really have a working oven at my last place."
I suddenly understand. Her joy while we were shopping. The way she touched and tasted and studied everything.
"You'd make a great cook," I say. "Chef. Baker. Whatever the fuck you wanna be."
She grins. "Yeah, whatever the fuck I want to be."
"And I want to help you do whatever that is. But for now, you need extra protection around." I grab my heart and roll my eyes dramatically. "Do it for me. Don't give me a heart attack by running around, unprotected."
"Oh my God, I just realized something. Gray Petrokov is a fucking cornball." Kat says, then cracks herself up.
I smile, then pull her inside the shop I'd been eyeing. Kat's eyebrows raise as we enter the quiet, modern space. She stops short and looks around, her eyes widening. It's one of those fancy stores where there's only twenty different dresses hanging up, and they're all shades of black or kumquat or some shit.
"Gray," she whispers. "What the heck are we doing in a place like this?"
"Kat, I told you, you don't have to worry about money anymore."
She lets me pull her over a line of purses in the display window.
A saleswoman rushes over to Kat, her face pinched as she takes in Kat's relaxed—okay, cheap—outfit. Then she glances over at me and her face colors. I know that look too well. She's checking me out. She wanted to kick my girl out of the store. Then she sees tattoos and muscles, and now she wants me to whip out my dick.
"Sir, hello," the saleswoman says, suddenly sweet as candy. She's tall, high-lighted hair, too thin for me. She runs her left hand down the front of her shirt, playing with a necklace that's
laying between her two fake tits. I'm used to this. Women like her don't want to marry me, but they sure as fuck want to take me home—or just plain fuck.
At one point, I would've been down to take what she was offering. But now I'm just pissed that she's doing it in front of my girl.
I shift the groceries I'm carrying and put my free arm around Kat's shoulders. I expect Kat to stiffen at my touch, but then I notice: Kat's cheeks are red. She's blushing, which normally I love.
But she's also watching Slutty Saleswoman like a hawk.
I feel a wide grin spreading across my face. Is Kat jealous?
It shouldn't make me feel good. But if I’m honest, the fact that she might still care for me—when I'm not on my knees making her come—makes me feel like I just won the Super Bowl.
"My wife needs a new bag," I say.
The salesgirl's eyes involuntarily snap to Kat's left hand. No ring. Yeah, I'll have to remedy that, as soon as Kat will let me put the ring that's hidden in my dresser on her hand.
"No I don't," Kat whispers.
I shake her shoulders, lightly. "Babes, no more carry-out bags, yeah? Now pick one out. Then let's go home and eat all this stuff you bought. I'm starving."
Kat looks at me like I'm crazy, and maybe I am. But she does what I say, walking hesitantly around the room, looking at all the purses.
"Which one is the cheapest—"
"Don't even ask that, Kat," I say.
Kat bites her lip and looks away, but I think she's trying not to smile.
Finally she strides over to the window and grabs one. I don't know shit about purses, but it's not too big, and not too small. It's a gray-blue leather with a short strap.
Kat puts it over her shoulder and takes a few steps, testing it out.
"Looks nice, babes."
Kat shoots me a little smile, her cheeks reddening. "Well, if you're insisting I buy one of these things, I figured I'd get one that reminds me of you."
I raise my eyebrows. I have no idea what me and a purse have in common.
Kat sighs like it's obvious. "It's the same color as your eyes. Kind of gray, blue in another light…" She trails off like she's embarrassed. "Oh, you know what you look like."
"Bottega Veneta. Very good choice," the saleswoman says stiffly.
I hand her my card and tell her to hurry and ring us up. Then I walk up to Kat, tilt her face up to look at me, and say, "I like you carrying a little piece of me with you."
She's still beet-red so I give her a break. "Now get home and cook me dinner, like a good little wife."
Kat rolls her eyes and stalks away. I slap her ass on the way out and she yelps, but when she turns around, she's laughing.
18
Kat
"Wait, I'm confused: you're mad because he gave you a new phone?"
Elle takes another sip from her strawberry margarita and fiddles with the sleek, gray contraption. It's definitely a step up from my old flip phone. And of course it's gray. Dammit, soon every single thing I own will remind me of my…husband.
"No, I'm not mad he gave me a new phone. I'm mad that he is suddenly in control of my life." I subtly nod at Dacko, who's sitting at the bar watching us. "I'm mad I have a babysitter."
Elle glances up at my bodyguard, then smiles and waves. His mouth drops open before he can collect himself.
"Elle," I moan.
"I know, I know, don't tease the bodyguard. He just looks so young and adorable. I mean, his face is an absolute mess, but what a cute little mafia member."
"He probably weighs two-hundred pounds and has a gun, Elle."
She shrugs. "Still cute!"
I put my new purse on the chair next to me. It was close to two-thousand dollars. Insanity. Then again, once I get out of town, I could sell it and probably pay rent for a month or two.
Elle giggles and hands the phone back to me, "Who Let the Dogs Out" blaring.
"I don't know. I think that's maybe more a ringtone for Gray rather than me. Wait—wait! That one's for your dad! The dirty dog. Have you heard from him, by the way?"
I shake my head. "No, Gray says he sent him down to Florida. Just to be safe, in case Solonik changes his mind."
Elle nods. "Gray should've sent his ass to rehab." She flings her long, blonde hair behind her back, completely oblivious to the fifteen guys behind her who can't stop staring.
She giggles and fiddles with it some more. "This one is for Gray."
Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" is surprisingly loud at 4 p.m. in this fancy bar.
"Oh my God, give that to me!" I grab it, mute that darn thing, and stuff it in my purse. Bag. Whatever.
"The disadvantage of you being banned from O'Malley's is no more free drinks," Elle sighs. "The advantage is, damn, these are good drinks! And I gotta say, the clientele is a little more upscale, too."
I look around at the Financial District bar, where an absurdly large number of men in suits are already drinking. I guess it is a Friday. But still.
"True, we don't do margaritas at O'Malley's. But I could change that. If I still worked there."
Elle smiles and pats my hand. Instead of my schlepping all the way to Brooklyn, she had offered to come into the city. She works in Brooklyn Heights, which is just one subway stop out from Manhattan. She's still wearing her adorable kindergarten-teaching outfit: pink leggings covered with photos of cats; a white-and-blue oversized striped shirt, and silver-glitter tennis shoes.
I'm sure the outfit alone would garner her more than a few looks, but she also happens to be absolutely gorgeous. Like, if the girl were six inches taller, she could be a supermodel. As it is, she's got naturally tan skin, long blonde hair, and blue eyes that always seem to sparkle. Oh, and giant boobs, a great ass, and a teeny-tiny waist despite the fact that she can eat anything she wants. Her metabolism is a gift from the gods.
If she wasn't my best friend, I'd hate her.
She's also super-nice. And has been a faithful friend to me since we met senior year of high school. Elle was a military brat, and I couldn't imagine transferring to a new school—hell, a new state—during your senior year. But she did it with aplomb. Of course, everyone wanted to be the beautiful new girl's friend, or boyfriend.
Somehow, she chose the weirdo in her English class. Moi. We'd been besties ever since.
"Kat, I hear you. I do. I mean, my head's spinning from all the craziness that's happened to you in the past 24 hours."
"And the two margaritas."
"Not yet. We'll do shots next, then I'll be spinning for a different reason. But seriously, Kat, do you really want to work at the bar? You hate working there! I'm saying this with love: get a clue! You've bitched and moaned about that place since high school."
I take another sip of my Seven and Seven. I don’t normally drink, probably because my dad drank enough for our entire extended family, but since the drinks are on Gray, I'm imbibing.
"You know what I want." She's heard all about my great plans to start a pastry shop ever since I was in high school. "But, I mean, I didn't have the money for cooking school before. I sure as hell don't have it now."
Elle raises her eyebrows and holds up the black AmEx that I'd shown her earlier.
"Girlfriend, I understand your life currently resembles a Lifetime made-for-TV movie. But did you or did you not say Gray's apartment is totally expensive?"
I take another sip of my surprisingly strong drink. "I did."
"And he gave you the very latest phone."
I nod. "Yes."
"And he gave you a mother-flipping black American Express credit card, and basically ordered you to just try and wreck his credit?"
I groan. "But that's the problem, Elle! Yes, he's rich. Yes, he told me he doesn't want me to work, and that he'll pay for anything I need—"
"Like chef school!"
"No way. I don't think he meant for me to put forty-thousand dollars down on one fell swoop."
Elle shrugs and hands the card back to me. "Black card. No
limit, man. But I hear you. You don't want to be indebted because…you think he'll leave you? Once the whole thing with your dad blows over?"
I bite my lip, then remember Gray's finger there, pressing down.
"Maybe. Or, I'll leave him."
"Wait, Kat, why are you blushing?"
I groan and hit my forehead on the table. "I may have…" I whisper what happened this morning. In detail, of course, because she's my girl.
My drunk girl.
"HE ATE YOU OUT?" Elle screams. Every single man in the place is staring at us now. Dacko turns bright red.
"Elle, shut up!"
"But…TWICE!" Elle begins kicking her legs, raising her hands in the air, and dancing in her seat. "I. Cannot. Believe it! You let him go downtown, and twice no less."
"Please stop talking," I moan.
"Yeah, I totally get it now. Hot body, unlimited funds, wants to buy you anything you want, saves you from an arranged marriage with a Russian thug, treats your pussy like it's made of gold and doesn't even ask you to touch him. Now I totally get why you want to run away: because you're crazy."
I laugh and pull the phone out. 5:38 pm. "Honestly? Elle. I think I still love him. But that's crazy, right? We were just friends, and that was a long-ass time ago."
Elle puts her empty glass down and reaches across the table, grabbing my hand. "Sweetheart, seven years doesn't mean shit in matters of the heart. The sad fact is you haven't let any man in, not since Gray. And given your fucked-up father and general trust issues, I totally get it. But I've got to tell you: don’t you think there's a reason you let him touch you? Beyond the fact that he looks like a hot-as-hell cage fighter?"
I take another sip of my drink. Damn, it's sweet but strong. Kinda like Gray…oh no. I did not just think that. I am officially drunk.
Or officially falling for him.
"Elle, what if he leaves again? I just can't handle it, not a second time. He wouldn't just break my heart. He'd rip it to fucking shreds."
Elle nods, still holding my hand. "I get it. Kat, I get it, I really do. But what if he doesn't leave? What if he's in it for the long haul, and you're the one who runs? What's worse: never getting hurt, or never falling in love?"
Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 10
