“Did you suck Allister’s cock?”
I sighed. “And here comes the vulgarity, right on cue. Can’t you mix it up for once, Dick?”
I headed toward the kitchen, tensing as I felt him walk up behind me. He grabbed my arm and spun me around.
He was always finely dressed—today, in a pinstripe dress shirt and black pants—but the smell of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and stripper sweat clung to him, just like the greasy hair gel barely holding his combover in place.
His fingers dug into my skin. “I followed you out of the club earlier. How long have you been fucking him?”
Always, always, plead the fifth.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You have a hickey on your neck, you little slut.”
Dammit. That asshole . . .
His meaty finger traced the bodice of my dress. “If you wanted to fuck an icicle, I could have helped you out.”
“Honestly, Dick, it’s the Lord’s day. Let’s keep the penetration talk to a minimum.”
“If you make it up to me, I might forget about all this.” His thumb rubbed the hickey on my neck, and my skin crawled.
“Fortunately, I don’t sleep with my stepsons anymore.” I patted his chest. “Drink?”
“You think I’m going to let him make a fool of my father?” he asked, as I headed to the cupboard.
“What about me? Don’t tell me I’ve grounded myself for a week for nothing?”
He examined a stain on his tie. “Whores will be whores. But Allister crossed a fucking line. I won’t let my father die a laughingstock.”
Translation: he loved a good whore and couldn’t find the will to punish her for being easy. It would be a little counterproductive, considering his career choice and all.
I filled my glass from the faucet. “Well, I doubt Allister will be in for confession anytime soon. Better go make him pay, Dicky.”
Hesitation flickered across his face, and amusement rose in me.
“Aww,” I cooed. “Does the dirty fed scare you?”
He scoffed.
“I don’t blame you. The man is too comfortable around a gun.” I leaned against the counter. “I’m assuming you snuck out of that meeting like the little cockroach you are and nobody else saw this afternoon’s, ah . . . tête-à-tête?”
His eyes narrowed—he didn’t like bugs—but he nodded.
“Well, then, there’s no need to avenge anyone’s honor, is there?”
He rubbed his cheek in thought. “It’s the principle, though.”
“Principles are stupid. Not to mention, I don’t remember you piping up today when that Abelli talked crap about me and your papà.”
“Harmless locker-room talk. Nobody jammed their dick in my father’s wife.” He glared.
“Oh, please. You’re assuming—nothing more. I’d bet you didn’t stick around long enough to see a thing.”
He sniffed, proving that theory correct.
Never thought I could appreciate the fact the dirty fed was a cold-hearted, terrifying bastard until now.
“So, are you going to tell me why you were following me around earlier?” I asked.
“Yeah. You need to get your shit out of this apartment, that’s why.”
I frowned.
“You probably haven’t noticed your husband’s dying, being Allister’s whore and all. The doctor says he’s got a week, tops. So, all this shit?” He made a circle in the air with his forefinger. “Needs to be gone by yesterday.”
“Well, Dicky, that isn’t very hospitable.”
“This place is in my father’s name, which will make it mine very shortly. Stay if you want, but I’ll expect payment.” His beady eyes dropped to my breasts.
“Tempting, but I’ll pass. The maintenance here sucks; my washer’s been broken for a week.”
“Don’t expect a dime from his will.”
I pursed my lips. “I don’t want any of Richard’s money. I have plenty of Antonio’s left.”
He let out a sarcastic noise. “Right. Call me if you change your mind about staying here. I’d give it to you easier than I bet Allister does.” He shut the door behind him.
I looked around my apartment, at the shelf crammed with books and knickknacks, the paintings—from a cheap Marilyn Monroe portrait to an authentic Picasso—my Singer sewing machine and bags of fabric and thread, the haphazard stacks of magazines with circled fashion ideas in ballpoint bell, and way too many decorative pillows. If I was being conservative, I’d say it was cluttered. If I were Allister, I’d say it was a nightmare.
Regardless of that issue, I hated moving with a passion as fiery as the cover of any of my old bodice rippers.
I banged my head against the cupboard.
I didn’t make dinner that night. I ate a bowl of Cap’n Crunch while watching one of my cheesy TV shows in Spanish. Magdalena changed the language a while ago, and I hadn’t yet figured out how to change it back.
My washer really was broken, and all my dirty laundry could rival the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I walked past the pile in a dreamy, restless state. My body was exhausted, but my mind kept finding things about this afternoon to obsess over. It’d been so long since I’d slept with anyone, and my skin was still charged with an excited, breathless electricity.
The faucet let out a squeak when I turned it off with my toes. The bathwater was hot—almost too hot—but I needed something strong to soothe the ache. I was sore, and more than just between my legs. The asshole had left little marks all over me, including that stupid hickey on my neck.
Minus the whole he’s-a-giant-prick thing, there had been something undeniably perfect about sleeping with him. The rough and greedy way he’d touched me. The sound of his voice in my ear. The feeling of him inside me.
A flush drifted down my body.
I dropped my head against the tub. Turned the faucet on with a squeak and let the water run until it threatened to tip over the sides.
What a shame it was that Christian had to be the one to reintroduce me to the world of sex. Because now that I was so close to being a single woman, I didn’t think I’d be leaving again anytime soon, and it was going to be near impossible to find someone who touched me as good as he did.
Me: Tell your husband I have to be out of my place soon, but he doesn’t need to worry. I’m taking care of it all!
I knew Ace would be annoyed if I just upped and moved without telling anyone, and I was already on his shit-list. I’d decided to go through his wife so I didn’t have to face him regarding that silly club incident yesterday.
Elena: He said, “Don’t think you’re getting out of yesterday by going through my wife.”
Elena: What did you do?
Me: Daddy issues.
Elena: We’re about to board our plane, but the strangest expression just crossed his face . . .
Me: What kind of ‘strange’? Joyful? Brooding? Devious?
Elena: Definitely leaning toward devious . . .
Me: Dammit.
Elena: He just said, “I’ve got a place.”
Me: Definitely not necessary.
Me: In any way.
Me: Shape or form.
Me: At all.
Me: Ever.
Elena: He says a few men will be over to help you move . . .
Me: Will I get out of this alive?
Elena: He just smiled to himself.
Me: Pray for me.
I spent the next week packing my precious possessions into boxes, though, admittedly, grew distracted more than once while blowing the dust off my old books and magazines. I’d often end up on my divan, burying my face in some long-forgotten fashion journal or a novel with enough drama to put Jersey Shore to shame.
On Saturday, my laundry had gotten so out of hand, I decided to bite the bull and head to the laundromat. I was watching my reds whirl around in soap bubbles when my phone dinged.
Valentina: You know how I have this obsession for anything Aleksandra Popova?
Me: Indeed.
Whatever the Russian fashion model wore one week, Val was wearing the next.
Valentina: Well, I think it’s turned into jealousy.
She’d attached an article captioned: Can we talk about what Aleksandra was wearing last night? And we don’t mean her Polka Siena evening dress . . .
Probably a real muskrat shawl with the head still attached. Russians were so rustic two thousand two.
I had zero interest in the model and was in the middle of plucking a piece of lint from my maxi dress as I opened the article. I stilled.
The photo showed the gorgeous blonde at last night’s Broadway debut, and on her arm was no one other than a dirty blue-eyed fed.
My chest tightened.
He had a hand on her hip, and she had a hand on his arm—the one I’d run my nails down just last week. They looked comfortable together—perfect, really—like two connecting puzzle pieces.
He wasn’t looking at the camera but at some point in the distance. He appeared handsome and elusive, like some carnal fantasy you could only dream about but never touch. She wore her usual smolder—slightly pursed lips and cat eyes—and, with skyscraper-long legs and stilettos, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. They probably had all kinds of crazy positions to try out without such a large height difference.
I rarely lost a bet, and I would put a lot of money down on the fact this woman was the one he would finally marry.
My pulse missed its next beat.
I was sure Aleksandra didn’t have mental breakdowns after sex. Something bitter spread through me as the thoughts kept whirling in my head. They probably had romantic conversations in Russian. Probably fed each other sips of vodka.
My heart was beating so hard and erratically it hurt. I put a hand over it, growing seriously concerned about a potential heart murmur.
A woman in a pink sweat suit smacking her gum pulled me back to reality. “You going to sit there all day or what, honey? We all got clothes to wash here.”
I sent Valentina a quick text before swapping out my laundry.
Me: Twenty grand says he marries her.
Valentina: Lol . . . you’re on.
“HEY, BE CAREFUL WITH THAT! It’s an antique!”
After gouging a small hole in the wall while bringing an armchair into my new apartment, two of Ace’s men dropped it none-too-gently on the hardwood floor. They then dusted off their hands, like a good deed done, and stepped out to create more damage from the lobby to here.
The apartment was cool and modern, with a beautiful view of the Manhattan cityscape. There seemed to be nothing wrong with it—I’d even gone so far as to check for leaky faucets—and that made me even more suspicious. Ace rarely concerned himself with my affairs. The club incident must have annoyed him enough there was some punishment involved with this place. I was just waiting to find out what it was.
I wore a pair of faded overalls, and a red bandana kept my hair back from my face as I sat on the floor amidst an overwhelming number of boxes. There’d been no rhyme or reason to what I’d unpacked so far, and the place was beginning to look like a hoarder’s wet dream.
I scratched a nonexistent itch on my cheek and decided to give up and instead bake something for my two new neighbors.
After running to the store to fill my fridge, I spent the next hour in the kitchen, putting a whole lot of neighborly love into some tiramisu.
The sun was just skimming the tops of the skyscrapers when I stepped out of my apartment and knocked on the door at the end of the hall.
My first neighbor was an older lady wearing a Hawaiian-themed muumuu. She squinted at my smile, as if it was so bright it hurt her eyes. Her gaze drifted to the plate in my hand.
“Cake?”
“No, tira—”
“It’s been ages since I’ve had a piece of cake.”
She grabbed the plate from my hand and shut the door in my face.
Well. Not exactly the welcome I’d been looking for, but it could have been worse. Though, everyone knows, when you look on the sunny side of things it begins to rain.
The only other neighbor on this floor lived right across the hall from me. I knocked, smiled brightly, and as the door opened, it slipped off my face like the ice cream on a little kid’s cone.
The dirty fed’s narrowed gaze fell from mine to the plate I cradled with two hands.
Well played, Ace, well played.
Was Allister supposed to be my babysitter until he returned to Seattle? It seemed I was everyone’s joke, but I wasn’t going to let this sour my mood. I was almost a single woman, after all.
I lifted the plate, finding my smile again. “Cake?”
He looked at the dessert, then drew his icy gaze back up to mine. “Are you high?”
I pursed my lips. “Unfortunately, no.”
His eyes swept the hall over my head, as if he thought I might have brought a mariachi band or something as equally ridiculous along. It was then I realized he didn’t know I was his neighbor. Interesting.
His voice was full of impatience. “Why are you here, Gianna?”
I frowned. “Are you saying that, after everything we’ve shared together, I can’t bring you some dessert?”
He ran a hand down his tie, his gaze coasting to the two other apartments in the hall. I could hear the wheels turning in that clever brain of his.
“And here I was,” I muttered, “telling everyone who’d listen that you and I are an item.”
His eyes settled on my door. He ran his tongue across his teeth in thought.
“I’ve already made it Facebook official. I won’t change it back, Christian. The amount of jealousy coming in has brought me closer to world domination than I’ve ever been.”
I knew the moment he figured it out—the mat in front of the door, saying, “Welcome, Bitches”—might have given it away. And it was oh so painfully clear he was not happy about being my neighbor. In fact, it looked like he’d sucked on something sour.
“Don’t tell me you lounge around in a tie, Officer. Goodness, I don’t even wear pants.”
The sudden anger radiating from him gave me the strong urge to back away slowly until I was in the safety of my apartment. I was beginning to think this joke wasn’t all for my benefit.
He let out a sardonic breath as he processed this. Ran his hand across his jaw. Settled his fiery gaze on me. “Are you knocking on my door just to harass me, or do you want something?”
“I want a decent welcoming for one. The muumuu next door was seriously lacking.”
“I’m not eating your cake.”
Frustration rose in me. Didn’t anyone have respect for dessert around here?
“It’s not cake, dammit!”
His stare was drier than the Sahara. “You said it was cake.”
“Yeah, well, I say a lot of things. It’s tiramisu, for goodness’ sake. Give it to one of the women you con into your bed. I promise, she’ll fall madly in love with you, and you won’t have to be lonely anymore.”
“Just fuck her and give her some dessert. Is that all there is to it?”
“Pretty much.”
“And to think I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, musing, “You seem to have a vested interest in the women I’m with.”
I laughed. Twenty grand, to be exact.
His eyes narrowed as if he’d read my mind.
I batted my eyelashes in innocence. “So, I know this isn’t the most ideal living arrangement—I’d prefer you were back in your frigid homeland, working to sit the next Stalin on the throne, or whatever else it is you do—but we’ll just have to deal with it like two mature adults.”
He was not convinced by his monotone response. “And how do you propose we do that?”
“Easy.” I drew an imaginary line down the middle of the hall with my foot. “I get this part of the hallway, and you can have this part. As for the pool and gym, I get to use them dur
ing the day. You can have them once the sun sets, right after you get home from corrupting good Christian women.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Anything else?”
“Sometimes, I run out of eggs and sugar. In exchange, I’ll make sure to keep condoms on hand in case you have company and misplace yours again.” My smile was all teeth.
“You’ve really thought this out,” he drawled.
“I have.”
“And you even baked for me.”
I bristled. “Well, I didn’t know it was you I was baking for, if it’s any consolation.”
He looked at the dessert in my hands as though he’d never tried sugar before. He nodded toward it. “Chocolate?”
“Arsenic.”
“My favorite.”
He took the plate from my hand and slammed the door.
I sighed.
My neighbors sucked.
Awareness connected me to the door across the hall like a line of static electricity. He was just over there, probably talking Russian on the phone and lounging around in a dress shirt and tie. My skin buzzed with hypersensitivity whenever I changed my clothes, knowing he was so close. My breath caught whenever I heard the smallest noise from the hall, only to realize it was the air conditioner kicking on or Muumuu’s walker dragging across the floor.
I was frustrated with all of it.
This living arrangement wasn’t going to work out, but I refused to be the one to concede and check into a hotel until he went back to Seattle.
We’d run into each other in the hall twice this week, and he’d made it clear I was on his mind about as much as world peace. He’d even gone so far as to ignore one of my cheery, “Good morning, neighbor’s!” completely.
If he could handle this, then so could I.
I fought with my doorknob and the stupid key that needed the perfect wiggle to turn in the lock, an irritable edge biting beneath my skin at the picture Valentina had sent me earlier. Of course, it had been Aleksandra and Christian. They’d seen each other again last night. I bet he let her take off his stupid shirt.
The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2) Page 17
