by Sam Mariano
I nod. I don’t like talking about Paul, either. “What about you?” I ask. “Girlfriend? Wife? Boyfriend?”
He smirks on that last part, and I’m glad, because it was slightly risky. “None of those,” he tells me.
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” he asks, one golden brow shooting up.
“Well, any of those might object to the tree pinning,” I point out.
“True enough,” he allows.
I drink a little more beer.
“Sorry it’s not wine,” he puts in playfully.
I narrow my eyes at him as I set my beer back down on the table. “Did you take my chicken parm out of the oven?”
He nods, unapologetic. “I did. Didn’t want you to die. I’d have to find a show or something to fill my evenings.”
I bite back a smile. “What will you do now that I don’t need your protection anymore?”
He shrugs, slowly bringing his beer to his mouth for a sip, never breaking eye contact.
I’m not sure what we’re doing here, exactly, and a wave of nerves threatens to hit. I don’t want to be nervous, so I dodge it by, well, diving right in.
“Planning on stalking me tonight?”
He’s not at all sorry for the stalking. I’m not surprised. “Unless something better comes up.”
I smile, slow and suggestive. I’m pretty sure I’m already in too deep, but I’m not about to admit that or back down now. I’ll figure it out as I go. “What constitutes better?”
He flicks a glance at the food on the table in front of us. “Not sandwiches.”
I smile again, looking at my own turkey sandwich. Turkey. Cold turkey. Cold feet.
I don’t have cold feet, but I also don’t have my own bed.
“There is the small matter that I don’t actually have a house,” I point out.
He seems unconcerned. “We don’t need a house. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
I picture him taking me against the tree in a loincloth, his hair loose, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
As I’m amusing myself with mental images of him pulling a kinky Tarzan, he says, “Tell me something else about you.”
“Like what?”
“How old were you when this shit happened?”
“The marriage shit?” He nods. “I was 18.”
Liam scowls. “Jesus.”
I try to keep it light. “You mean you weren’t married at 18?”
It’s like he tries to respond to my lightness, but isn’t quite making it. “Weird, I realize. Why do you hate Pietro?”
I don’t want to talk about Pietro and I don’t want to get heavy. I want smoldering eye contact and kinky tree sex.
“Because I’m an excellent judge of character,” I deadpan, hoping he’ll drop it.
Liam appears completely unmoved by my wit, and he’s also waiting for a better answer.
I sigh heavily, but figure I might as well get it out of the way. “He’s… he’s pure evil. He was friends with my dad back then. He was a Judas, but my dad trusted him. He has an appetite for power above all else and no loyalty. He’s a snake.”
“He betrayed your father?”
I nod. “Helped the guys who set him up. Led him right to them, knowing what they were going to do. If Pietro wouldn’t have helped them, my father would still be alive.”
“Your mom, she knew?”
“She denies it, but she knew. She had already locked onto him since he was rising to power, so she couldn’t very well admit it without seeming like the faithless sellout she is.”
“You obviously did not.”
“Obviously. Look how well that turned out for me.” I smile derisively. “But I’m alive. I do enough heinous shit to get by.”
“We do what we have to,” he reasons.
I glance up at him, wondering what his story is. “You do what you have to?”
He nods without a word, watching me. The moment stretches on longer than I expect it to, then his gaze drops to the untouched sandwich in front of him and I feel him withdraw, like it’s a physical act. Even though I feel the shift, I’m still surprised when he suddenly says, “I have to go.”
I rear back in surprise, my jaw dropping open a couple inches. “What? Now?”
The chair scrapes against the floor and he stands, nodding.
I’m so confused, I don’t even move. I don’t stand. I don’t know what I did, what I said. My mouth opens to ask, but nothing comes out.
In the center of the table is a black wire basket with suggestion cards and pencils. He grabs one of each and jots something down. “If he comes back, if he tries anything and I’m not there to see it, call this number.”
“It’s yours?” I look at the card when he hands it to me, but I’m still reeling.
He nods. “Don’t come back to the junkyard. I can’t be seen with you there, you’ll get us both in deep shit.”
I want to ask what happened, or at least whether or not I’ll see him again. Right now it doesn’t feel like I will, and I’m so confused, because I’m sure he was planning on leaving with me just minutes ago.
I finally start to stand, but he just gives me one last, almost remorseful parting look, and makes his way to the door.
Liam
I’m grumpy as hell as I head into Raj’s office, but I doubt I look any surlier than I usually do as I stop and stand at attention in front of his desk.
“You wanted to see me,” I state.
“Yes.” He’s distracted, fingering papers in a stack as he quickly scans the tops. Finally he stops and looks up at me. “You can sit.”
I prefer to stand, so I don’t.
After a couple seconds, he looks up at me, then shrugs. One of the things I like about Raj is that he isn’t a tiny man with a power struggle ‘cause he thinks he’s got something to prove. I can’t stomach working for that type.
“Lance says you had a visitor.”
Goddamn motherfucking Lance.
“I took care of it,” I say simply, hoping that’s enough and we don’t have to get into it.
He murmurs something decidedly unconvinced. “I believe I told you not to hurt her.”
All this mess with Paul makes me a touch more defensive about that, but I can’t afford to show it. “I didn’t.”
“Lance says differently.”
“Why don’t you tell me what Lance said then,” I say evenly, not liking this little guessing game.
Raj looks at me disapprovingly, removing his glasses and setting them on top of his stack of papers. “That you…” He pauses, unsure how to word it, maybe hoping I’ll save him from having to, but I don’t. “—slept with her. Which seems… improbable given your specific directions not to be seen.”
“I wasn’t.” I’m not sure how much of the truth to tell. Truth is, I can’t figure out what Raj is thinking when it comes to Annabelle. Seems like he used to be close to her, but now he can’t accept her innocence in her stepfather’s world.
Raj quirks a dark eyebrow. “Then perhaps I’ve been doing sex all wrong.”
Expressionless, I make a snap decision and go with it. “I went back after that night. The following night after work. Just to make sure I was right about what I’d reported back. I didn’t sleep with her; I saw her husband hurting her. I stepped in. It was easier to tell Lance I slept with her.”
“You spoke with her?”
“Briefly. She isn’t working for Pietro. She hates him. Blames him for her father’s death. Not to mention he made her marry an abusive prick. I can’t say she’d be much use, given that she doesn’t seem to have much contact with him, but… if given the chance, she’d switch sides.”
He’s eyeing me up but he doesn’t unsettle me. “We don’t need anyone on his side.”
I shrug. “I don’t know the girl, but you seem to have a history. Just thought you might be interested in another way.”
Raj shakes his head and sighs, looking at his desktop. “My history is w
ith a naïve young girl who doesn’t exist anymore. Her husband is abusive, you say?”
I nod once, feeling a tick in my jaw and hoping he doesn’t notice it.
“That’s unfortunate,” he says, looking worn.
“Her whole life seems to be,” I state.
“What would we do with her?”
I shrug, like it doesn’t mean much to me, but I’m excited that he’s taking the bait. “Extra assurance? She knows the place inside and out, knows the people—she could help everything go smoothly, night of.”
Raj considers it for several seconds, then shakes his head. “I don’t believe she would go along with it. She’s not cold enough. She would end up betraying us.”
I don’t know if she would, and I can’t vouch for it. Then if something goes wrong, it’s my neck on the line. Not to mention, if I cared enough to put my own neck on the line already, Raj wouldn’t believe I’d let it go as easily as I will. Raj doesn’t know me, and usually that’s fine, but I don’t want to suddenly make him skittish, make him start second guessing me. Not over some girl I barely know.
“All right,” I say, easily enough. “It was just an idea. I thought you might have some sentimental attachment. Anyway, I’ve already taken care of it. She just wanted to thank me for stepping in with Paul. She won’t be back around.”
“She didn’t question why you were following her in the first place?”
I pause, because I’m not sure how to answer this. “She thinks I want to fuck her.”
“Do you?”
I shrug. “She’s attractive. So are many others. Would I fuck her? Yes. Do I need to?” I snort, instead of answering.
This is easy for him to accept.
“She didn’t seem to suspect anything?”
“She doesn’t seem to give a single shit what we’re doing here.”
He frowns in thought. “Could be an act.”
“It isn’t.”
His eyebrows rise, and he’s skeptical of how confidently I answered. He isn’t sure he can trust me right now. Maybe I’ve been compromised; maybe I’m as much a fucking schmuck as any other guy in the world, bewitched by a beautiful woman. What if I sell him out in the name of love and ruin everything?
I want to roll my eyes. Instead I smile, answering his unasked question. “I’m good at reading people.”
The coldness in my eyes despite the smile maybe hints that I can read him, as well, because then he flushes and retrieves his glasses, suddenly busy with his papers again. “Yes, well. If she comes around again, I don’t want to hear it from Lance.”
“Got it. I should’ve said something myself, honestly it just didn’t occur to me. Her visit wasn’t about any of this.”
He nods and is quiet long enough for me to understand I’ve been dismissed, so I turn to leave. Just as my hand touches the doorknob, Raj speaks again. “I can still count on you to show up that night, right?”
A cocktail of uncomfortable feelings trickle through me, but I barely spare him a glance over my shoulder as I open the door to leave.
“Of course.”
Instead of camping outside Annabelle's house after work, I get food and go home.
As I devour my takeout, I try not to think about her plight. About my plight. I shouldn't even have a plight. This girl is a stranger to me—okay, not as much a stranger now as she had been before, but still not worth tanking my life over. She couldn't be. It wasn't an option.
I should have never gotten involved. I should've followed orders and followed her home the first night, and that should've been it. It wasn't my job to protect her. Now, because I got involved like a fucking rookie idiot, I have a moral fucking dilemma on my hands. Moral dilemmas aren't really my thing. I try to tell myself it isn't even my dilemma, because there's nothing I can actually do about anything. I may be a player in the game, but this is not my game.
It doesn't make me feel any better.
I do what I can to keep my mind off it—work out, shower, watch some television, but I can't shake thoughts of this damn girl and her plump, soft-looking goddamn lips. I can't shake visions of tiny little Paul trying to hurt and intimidate her. Images of her goading the man she despises, unafraid. That scares me more than it should. It doesn't when I'm outside in case she needs anything, but from this distance it scares me.
Eventually I decide, just to set my mind at ease, to drive by. He probably isn't even home. If I see that she's fine, I can stop thinking about it.
That's what I tell myself.
That's how I end up driving by her house, even after I told myself I wouldn't anymore. That's how I end up parking my car up the road and creeping into her back yard to peek in her bedroom window, where the light's on. That's how I get stuck with the mental image of her curled up on her bed alone, reading a book and periodically glancing hopefully at the windows like she's watching for me.
Goddammit.
I should've kissed her at the deli. Could've done more than kiss her, I remind myself. Maybe I should’ve, just to get her out of my system. But it wouldn't have been right.
I scoff at myself. Right. Talk about a concept I haven't worried myself over for a long-ass time.
Can't twist yourself up over right and wrong in this line of work. They hire you for a job, you do the job, you move along. You keep your morality and your heart—if you have the misfortune of possessing one—out of it. If you can't, maybe you should find a new line of work.
I've never had a problem with it. Some guys struggle with it at some point, either way early, or way late in the game. Even a guy like Lance may crack eventually, have a crisis of conscience. Not me. This isn't even a crisis of conscience, that's the aggravating part. It's a goddamn crisis of libido.
That's what I tell myself.
She took me off guard by that goddamn tree, her and her weird-ass coping mechanisms. She laughs when Paul wants to kill her and flirts when an armed stranger has her pinned to a tree.
I wonder what it would take to make her show her fear. To break through her defenses.
I wonder if she'll be afraid when her world comes crashing down around her, and I'm standing at the gateway, not allowing her to escape the wreckage.
I wonder if she'll be afraid when she realizes I'm going to kill her.
Annabelle
I’m smack dab in the middle of a tense standoff when stupid Paul comes skulking into the bedroom.
I narrow my eyes at him over the edge of my book, but I don’t speak. My eyes drop back to the page and I reread the last line. I want to finish the chapter, but now I can’t focus because Paul is home and I’m not sure what he’s going to do.
I haven’t even seen him since the night Liam saved me. Beaten, soggy and humiliated, Paul had run away with his tail between his legs, and that’s exactly where I wanted him to stay—away.
My eyes move across the page without absorbing a single word. Why is he here? Is he staying? What’s his mood like? A dozen similar questions run across my mind, but I keep my eyes on my book so he doesn’t try to talk to me either way.
I hear Paul drop his jeans and toss them into the laundry corner (there’s a basket along the same wall, but he’d die before dropping his clothes into it). I sigh irritably, turning the page just for something to do.
“Gettin’ good?”
I glance at him over the edge of the book again with dead eyes.
He attempts a half smile that comes across more as a grimace. “Your book. You always… start making noises when it gets good or starts aggravating you.”
I stare.
“Little impatient noises,” he adds, and I can’t imagine why he’s still talking. “It’s cute.”
Now I scowl, but I just go back to my book without replying. He’s confusing me and that’s probably what the bastard is going for, so I’ll just ignore him.
Try to get me to lower my guard, motherfucker. Tell me I’m cute. Stupid cow.
“You know you were reading a book the first time I saw you?”
I can’t believe he’s still talking to me, and still nicely, when I’m only giving back unceasing disinterest. Also, I couldn’t care less what I was doing when he first saw me. I wish I would’ve been ass-naked, fucking someone else, because then he probably wouldn’t have fixated on owning me.
“You didn’t see me,” he continues, for some reason. “But you were so wrapped up in your book, and you kept sighing and glaring at the pages, and then a minute later you’d grin, all giddy, and you’d laugh, and you swore at it a time or two. I couldn’t look away. I remember thinking that I’d bet you were that passionate in everything you did.”
I’m not glaring anymore, but I’m not pretending to read anymore, either. I glance up at him uncertainly, not understanding this game.
Finally, Paul drops my gaze and says, “I brought food.”
It’s after ten, but I don’t say that. Usually I would, but he seems like he’s in a sad mood tonight, and I’m not in the mood to kick him.
I reluctantly put my book down on the bedside table and wrap my crocheted shawl around me, trekking behind him toward the door.
I steal one last glance back at the bedroom windows, but it’s as fruitless as it has been all the other times I’ve looked tonight; Liam isn’t there.
I wish I understood why.
Paul is unpacking containers on the kitchen counter and I catch a strong whiff of my favorite Italian takeout. We never get it because it’s pricey and fattening and takes more than five minutes to pick and purchase.
Curious, I peek into the bag and see he even got a chocolate cannoli for dessert. Just one to split, because they’re so sweet—a whole one gives me a tummy ache.
I finally speak, because my curiosity has gotten the best of me. “What’s all this?”
“We haven’t had it in a while.” He scoots my container of fettuccine closer to me. “It used to be your favorite.”
I’m puzzled by this sudden trip down memory lane, and even more baffled by his desire to drag me along, when I was never along for the ride to begin with. There were no good memories of us, I’d made sure of it. I was venom in a white lace dress at our sham wedding, and I never got nicer. If he retained even a hand full of nice memories, he must have collected them through pure delusion.
