by Sam Mariano
But doing something had consequences, too.
For both of us.
“Stay here,” I tell Lance, propping my gun up against the fence.
He goes alert, eager for conflict. “What? What do you see?”
“Don’t worry about it, just stay here,” I tell him before taking off toward the road.
She slows to a stop, her gaze moving warily to Lance.
In lieu of a greeting, I say, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“So I’ve heard.” She shifts her weight, as if unsure. She’s holding a wrapped cloth, and without warning or explanation she thrusts it in my direction.
It’s barely warm since she had to travel so long to get here, but a whiff and a look tells me it might be an apple turnover. My mouth waters, but I don’t betray any sort of pleasure.
“What’s this?” I ask evenly.
Her cheeks are a little flushed, and I don’t know if it’s from the cool autumn air or me being a jackass. I hope it’s the former, but it’s probably the latter.
She shrugs, self-conscious. “I had extra.”
I sigh, glancing back at Lance to make sure he’s still where I left him.
“You can’t come here,” I tell her.
“Why?”
I look back at her. “You just can’t. Raj told you to stay away.”
She knows that, and she glances at Lance, too. “I don’t care what they’re doing in there.”
She would if she knew what that was, but I say nothing.
Now she’s looking back at me, her big brown eyes faintly imploring. “Why were you at my house last night?”
I avert my gaze. I’m not sure how to explain that. I shouldn’t have been there, and the truth is, I don’t know why I was. I settle on a half-truth. “Raj told me to follow you home the day you left. Make sure you weren’t spying for your stepfather.”
Her nose wrinkles up at the mention of him. “Ew. Why would I ever do that?”
I raise my eyebrows, since that should be obvious.
Annabelle shakes her head. “I hate him. I would never help him with anything. I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”
It’s funny she should say that. I’ve stalked her enough to know she isn’t spying, but I’m curious at her level of hatred for the man. I mean, he’s very hateable, and most people do feel that way, but they still fear him enough to do his bidding. And she’s family.
Well, sort of.
Miss De Luca-Covello.
Or Mrs., I should say.
The reminder that she’s married effectively cools me down.
“You need to leave. Lance is a bulldog, he could go in and tell Raj you’re here any second.”
“Raj always liked me,” she says, glancing at the old building.
“Raj still doesn’t believe your loyalties don’t lie with Pietro.”
That makes her smile for some reason.
“Maybe instead of following me, you should kidnap me until he can be convinced I’m on your side,” she advises, flashing me a smile. Her brown eyes are warm as she looks at me, like I’m a goddamn knight in shining armor instead of the guy she now knows has been stalking her. Girl’s ten kinds of crazy, but damn, is she pretty.
Since it gives me the opening to bring it up though, I find I can’t pass it up. “I think your husband might notice you missing.”
Her eyes go dim at that and her whole face seems to darken. I feel like an asshole, but remind myself, hey, she’s the one who married the guy.
I wish I could tell her I’d help her if she wanted to leave him. I wish there was any point.
I feel bad for her, and I wish I didn’t know what I know.
She deserves more.
I want to know things I shouldn’t care about. Things I can’t care about.
Then she says, “He’s not my husband.”
That’s confusing, and I frown. “He seems to think he is.”
Annabelle looks aggravated and shakes her head. “He isn’t. Not really.”
“Then what the hell is he?”
“I feel like you should buy me a drink before I get into all that,” she sort of jokes, kicking at a spot on the ground with a cute little smile.
That’s exactly the kind of thing I shouldn’t do, but I can’t keep standing here and she doesn’t seem inclined to listen to me when I tell her to go away.
“All right,” I say, formulating a new plan on the fly. “Is there somewhere near your house we could go to get one?”
Grimacing, she said, “Paul’s a regular at most of the bars.”
“Food?”
She pauses. “There’s a deli up the road.”
I remember it. I nod. “I know the place. I’ll meet you there tonight.”
“When?” Her eyes light with excitement and I feel both encouraged and apprehensive.
“Seven.” I miss half a beat. “Now, I need you to wipe that look off your face and look like I just pissed you off, let you down easy, but you didn’t take it well.”
She narrows her eyes as if annoyed, but there’s a trace of amusement there. “Really? I doubt you’re that good.”
I’m amused, but I don’t show it. “Just listen to me for once, huh?”
She nods too quickly, her lips pursing, like she just greeted me wearing Saran wrap and I didn’t even look. “All right. Fine. Be that way.”
I bite back a smile. Lance can’t see my face, but I don’t want to test her composure.
Then I reach out and pat her on the arm with a, “you’ll be okay.”
“Oh my God, I hate you,” she says, barely holding on. “Later I want the phone numbers of everyone you’ve ever dumped so I can personally apologize on your behalf.”
I don’t smile with my mouth, but I wink at her before I turn and head back to my post. As I do, I’m hit with a troubling flicker of excitement at the prospect of seeing her again, face-to-face.
My amusement quickly fades and I don’t look at Lance as I approach. I retrieve my gun and resume my position, tossing him a half smile and saying, “Thanks.”
He’s frowning. Always suspicious. Always assuming the worst. I understand the impulse, but it’s damned annoying when you’re on this side.
“What was that all about?” he asks, guarded.
I’m still not sure this is the best strategy, but it is the best way to make it clear she’s not special, I don’t care about her, and I’m damn sure not going to put my ass on the line for her.
“I fucked her,” I tell him simply.
The furrowing between his brow subsides and his bro-side wins out. “Aw, shit. She caught feelings?”
I shrug, like I collect one night stands. “Sometimes it happens. Can’t be helped.”
“Her though?” He shakes his head. “Damn, man.”
“I know, I know.” I smile a little self-deprecatingly. “Least we don’t have to worry about her coming around here again. Pretty sure she’d be too embarrassed.”
“How was she?” he asks, because he’s Lance.
I shrug as if unimpressed. “Eh.”
He laughs, delighted, also because he’s Lance.
He nods at the wrapped parcel in my hand, the one I’d forgotten about, preoccupied with coming up with a reason for her showing up. “What’s that?”
“Oh.” I look down at it, frown. “Apple turnover or something? I wasn’t totally listening.”
That’s a lie, but Lance is still pleased. His mother must not have loved him.
I unwrap it and take a whiff. My mouth waters and I take a big old bite out of it.
Lance is shaking his head, smiling. “You’re cold, man.”
I grin and take another bite.
Annabelle
My nerves are eating me alive. I’ve changed clothes five times and I feel ridiculous. I’ve never seen Liam in anything but his gear, and I don’t even know if he’ll still be wearing it. I feel stupid, but I’ve never actually been on a date before.
Well, not that this is a date.<
br />
Or is it? I don’t even know. I just know I want to do better than jeans and a bulky sweater, which—aside from my disheveled nightie in the moonlight—is all he’s ever seen me in.
By the time I arrive at the deli, you can’t tell I changed clothes seven times or rummaged like hell through drawers looking for something that passed for a matching bra and panty set. I’m cool and collected as I wait for him by the door.
He gets there right at seven.
He’s still in a stripped down version of his gear—a fitted black t-shirt and his usual dark camo pants. He looks really good. I’m convinced he would look good in a sparkly pink tutu, but a tight black shirt that hugs his bulging biceps and hints at the chiseled physique beneath? Yes, please.
I found a red long-sleeved top with peek-a-boo shoulder cutouts in my closet. I don’t recall ever buying it, but my mom probably gave it to me for Christmas one year. I paired it with this fabulous bra she got that has zigzagging straps across the chest, and a pair of snug jeans. I even curled my hair. I feel a lot sexier than I have, maybe ever, which seems like a good place to start a maybe-date.
When Liam sees me, he rakes an appreciative gaze over my ensemble and moves in closer. He smells good and I already want to kiss him. It’s not my style, but I’d skip the sandwiches and go home with him now if he asked.
He places a hand at the small of my back to guide me toward the line, but I suspect it’s just an excuse to touch me. Boy, am I fine with that.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Good,” I answer brightly. “How was… work?”
I watch his mouth tug up ever so slightly in amusement, but he doesn’t fully smile. “Not too bad. This crazy girl showed up though, kind of threw a wrench in things.”
“Oh yeah? Was she hot?” I take a step forward, waiting for Marco to approach the counter and take our order.
He finally looks at me, but settles on cutting me a look of disapproval, then pointedly looking at Liam, then walking away.
Oops.
“She was,” he says, placing his hands on my hips and pulling me in front of him. He pulls me against his hard body and wraps his arms around me in a sort of crisscross embrace, then calls over, “We’re ready to order.”
He must’ve noticed Marco giving me the stink eye. I’m as red as my shirt at this point, and so is Marco, which is more impressive given his darker complexion.
He takes our order but he doesn’t like it. I can’t see the look Liam is giving him, but I pick up on his controlled tone and the unhappy but obedient motions Marco makes as he goes about taking our order, so I assume Liam is alpha-dogging him.
Poor Marco. He doesn’t know Paul isn’t my real husband. I’ll have to make him a strudel or something.
Once his point’s made, Liam releases me and my chest feels inexplicably empty. I want him to do that again. No one’s ever embraced me that way before and I like it.
Liam pays and carries the tray with both of our sandwiches over to a table. He doesn’t ask where I want to sit, and I like his casual dominance.
Once we’re seated, I’m not entirely sure what to do. He distributes our sandwiches and I murmur a thank you, then there’s a moment where I’m more preoccupied than I should be with a sandwich. I eye the glob of mayonnaise slinking down the side of my bun. I wonder why I picked something so potentially messy for the first time we ever share a meal together.
I wonder why I say that like there will be many more times.
I wonder where this could possibly go.
I wonder if he’s thinking any of that.
Finally, I try to stop thinking and focus on the sandwich again. I steal a glance at Liam without lifting my head and drawing his attention.
He’s moving the top bun and looking at the stack of meat beneath like it’s disappointed him. I hope he never looks at me like that.
I’m getting ahead of myself again. Way ahead of myself.
Dropping the bun back on top of his sandwich, Liam reaches beneath the table and draws two beer bottles out of the many pockets of his pants.
I laugh as he uncaps one and hands it to me, and he cracks a smile.
“Thank you,” I say, while glancing uncertainly behind the counter at Marco. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t allowed though.”
“Then he can say something to me about it.”
One look at his size, stoicism, and general ooze of intimidation gets his point across—he’s not going to.
I’ve been in the company of dangerous men my entire life, so I don’t know why he feels so much more impressive. Using that strength and intimidation to protect me probably helps. Normally they’re not doing that.
I don’t know why he protected me, but it gives me the boost of confidence I need to ask. I take a sip of the beer he just handed me first, then I dive right in. “So, why were you outside my house last night?”
He rotates his beer on the tabletop, studying it. “I told you, Raj had me follow you.”
“Was someone else following me while you were at work?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point? I could’ve engaged in all sorts of deviance while you were guarding the junkyard.”
“You weren’t,” he says, apparently unconcerned.
He didn’t answer my question, at least not honestly, so I lift my eyebrows expectantly.
“What?” he asks.
“If you want me to answer your questions, you should probably answer mine.”
“What makes you think I care if you answer my questions?” he shoots back.
I flush, but hold my ground. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
He sits back in his seat and sighs. “I only had to follow you that first night.”
“But you kept doing it?”
He shrugs, half sheepish, half, “Well, yeah.”
“Why?” I ask.
At first he doesn’t answer, then he fingers the discarded cap of his beer bottle, watching it instead of me. “It didn’t seem like you were safe.”
My insides melt. “Well… I’m glad you did.”
He nods, seeming uncomfortable.
I nod as well, looking at my sandwich. I’m hungry, but I feel weird eating if he’s not going to. “I know he’s not much, but Paul does have dirty friends, associates, people who… would do stuff for him. I immensely appreciate what you did, but—”
He holds up a large hand to stop me. “If any variation of you telling me to watch out for the retaliation of that little weasel is about to come out of your mouth, don’t.”
“I’m sure you can look out for yourself,” I say, trying to take the sting out of the hit I must’ve dealt his ego. “It’s just, I would feel really terrible if you got hurt for defending me. It’s not like it would be a fair fight. Obviously Paul can’t hurt you, but….”
“I’m not afraid of your husband.”
He’s immovable and I drop it because I really wasn’t trying to offend him.
Since I don’t respond, he folds his arms across his chest and says, “Speaking of, you were supposed to explain how he’s not really your husband.”
I grab my beer and give it a shake. “You were supposed to wait until I had a little more of this.”
He smiles as I take a sip, but waits for my answer.
I take another long sip, snippets of my farce of a wedding playing across my mind. Father McCarthy’s wrinkled brow dripping sweat as I stood at the altar wordlessly. The threatening glares of Pietro’s goons, the man himself seated calmly beside my mother in the family pew, knowing his will would be done regardless.
“I never consented to it,” I finally tell him. “I never spoke the words, never signed a paper. I wanted no part of it. It just didn’t matter.”
“How do you get married without saying a word?” he asks.
I shrug. “It was a small ceremony. I told them I wouldn’t say the vows, so no one who didn’t already know I was unwilling attended. They threw a reception for everyone else.”
>
“You went?”
I nodded. “Got drunk and told anyone who would listen that I didn’t want to get married, but they either thought I was joking, or wanted to believe I was joking. Same difference, really.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why force you into a marriage you don’t want?”
“Served two purposes. Punished me for refusing to accept Pietro, ‘rewarded’ Paul for some job well done, I guess. He was obsessed with possessing me, didn’t care that I wasn’t into it. They all figured I would cave eventually. Obviously they underestimated the depths of my stubbornness.”
Liam nods, accepting the explanation. “Well, that sucks.”
“Agreed.”
“Didn’t your mom know you didn’t want to marry him?”
I nod once, lips pressed firmly together. “Yep, she sure did.”
He shakes his head. “That’s fucked up. I’m sorry.”
“Life sucks and then you die, right?” I take another sip of beer, then decide, fuck it, and finally take a bite of my sandwich.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and I frown at him, confused.
“You said that already.”
“No, not for that. I mean… the tree thing,” he specifies. “I didn’t realize at the time, obviously, about Paul—”
Now it’s my turn to stop him. “Oh, no, don’t. Don’t do that. I’m not some delicate flower, I’m honestly used to Paul, and I don’t… I don’t want you to treat me like….”
I’m not exactly sure how to finish—a battered woman? A victim? I don’t want to use any of those words to describe myself, but he doesn’t make me, as he nods, understanding my meaning.
Just to clarify, he adds, “I’m not like Paul.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. “I didn’t think you were.”
Missing a beat, he admits, “I did like pinning you to that tree though.”
I snort, like the delicate fucking flower I am. “I liked being pinned against that tree.”
“I like that you give as good as you get,” he tells me.
“Paul does not.”
Something flits across his face but I don’t have time to process it before he’s stoic again. “Paul is shit and not really your husband. We don’t have to talk about Paul anymore.”
