Meanwhile, I’ll also be working John, and eventually, he’ll propose. Once he does, I’ll have a stable home environment and the financial means to file for custody of Mina. I’ll also be well on my way to achieving a stable career.
That’s the plan. It’s relatively straightforward, and the steps are quite clear and simple enough to follow...
But the problem is that I don’t want to.
I don’t want to study for my LSATs.
I don’t want to get my juris doctor.
And I certainly don’t want to marry John.
Instead, I want to enjoy my youth, to savor it and do the things people my age usually do.
And that makes me feel so angry and guilty and lost.
Because I know for a fact that I love Mina, and I truly do want to find a way for us to be together. But if I really wanted that… I wouldn’t have any problems with my plans, right? I wouldn’t be second guessing myself every other second.
I wouldn’t be feeling like this right now.
So, with each second closer to graduation, I feel increasingly disoriented. I can see my future, clearer and clearer, and it looks so darn bleak. I want to turn the other way, to take a U-turn and get lost at sea.
Because anything—anything—has to be better than pursuing a job I don’t want to pursue, than marrying someone I don’t want to marry.
That’s why, when the Uber driver pulls up to the front of John’s brownstone, I stay in the car, my hands shaking and my resolve trembling. I try to take deep breaths in and out, but they do nothing to calm me.
Instead, I can feel the beginnings of a panic attack approaching. Usually, when they happen, I can’t stop them. So, I find a quiet place to hide myself, and I ride them out, feeling each sharp clench of the heart, struggling for each gaping breath.
And afterwards?
I’m a nightmare to deal with.
I take out the pain, frustration and anger on anyone near me. I lash out, and I’m cruel to the people around me. It’s like the pain pushes aside the little bit of humanity I have left inside of me, and I allow the anger in me to fuel my actions.
I wouldn’t wish me post-panic attack on anyone, and I certainly shouldn’t be having a panic attack right before entering John’s home, where I need to always be on top of my game. Lucky for me, a sharp rapping of a fist on the car door startles me before the panic attack can come to fruition.
Pasting a false smile on my face in case it’s John, I turn to the window. When I see who it is, I immediately scowl. After opening the door, I ask, “What do you want?”
John’s neighbor ignores my question in favor of his own. “What are you doing here?”
I exit the car, and as soon as the door is shut, the Uber driver smartly hightails it out of here, and I wish I could go with him. But at the same time, I don’t, because I don’t want to rob my thirsty eyes of an opportunity to drink in this man I have to make an appearance with John tonight.
Once again, I’m startled by my foreign attraction to this stranger. His tall, muscular build is clothed in a black hoodie, black jeans and a black t-shirt. From the all-black ensemble to the black hair and brown eyes, everything about this man should be blending into the darkness of the night, but it’s not.
At least not to me.
In fact, he’s all that I can see—all that I can focus on.
If there was a fire raging behind him and hungry wolves on the loose around us, I still wouldn’t be able to tear my eyes away from him. I hate this man; I’m sure of it. I hate what he represents—all the things in life that I’ll never be able to have.
And that alone should be enough for me to loathe looking at him. To turn away from the sight of him and ignore the yearning—the lust—that overcomes me whenever I look his way and catch a glimpse of his intense eyes and chiseled features. Surely, if I can battle through my disgust to be intimate with a mark, I can navigate my way through a foggy cloud of lust and come out on the other side unscathed.
Yet, I can’t seem to pull myself away from his magnetism. I’m lost in this odd pull between us, and from the heated look he’s giving me, I don’t think I’m the only one feeling this. Perhaps I’m romanticizing and exaggerating this attraction because, thanks to a never ending series of marks after marks, it’s been a long time since I’ve indulged such a thing.
But the small part of me that protests the existence of my vanity wishes that I’m feeling this way for any other reason than he’s the only guy that’s physically held my attention since my gold digging campaign began.
Am I that shallow? Before now, I thought that, of all my less than perfect qualities, shallowness was one I didn’t possess. Being physically attracted to a man has always been a luxury I can’t afford, and I never cared for nor indulged it.
Yet, I’m breaking those rules with him, lusting after someone I can’t have. It’ll do me no good. I’m wasting my time. My resolve to pursue John is waning in his neighbor’s presence, in the series of what ifs it represents.
What if I didn’t need the money? What if Mina was never taken away? What if I was a normal girl with normal problems? Would this be something I would indulge? How would it feel? The way my heart clenches painfully at these questions terrifies me.
Which makes me hate him even more.
For being the person to cause such a petrifying, contraband line of self-reflection.
And also because I need this time alone, and he’s invading it and my thoughts. Because the minute of preparation I usually give myself before entering John’s is a necessity for my sanity. I use it to steel myself, to remind myself that there’s a reason for my madness.
Mina.
And the last thing I need is an interruption, let alone an interruption from a man I’m attracted to.
Correction: a man that’s butting into my business.
Reminding myself to hate him, I cross my arms and don’t bother hiding the disdain in my eyes and voice when I say, “How’s that any of your business?”
He takes in my defensive posturing and takes a step closer. “Some would call what you’re doing loitering. Maybe I’m doing my civic duty.”
My eyes narrow, and I allow the law student in me to argue, “First off, I’m not loitering. I have a purpose for being here. Secondly, even if I am loitering, there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m not breaking any laws.” I gesture at the public sidewalk beneath us. “This is public property.” I force a frown onto my face when I realize that I’m enjoy arguing with him, that I’m enjoying being around him.
He smirks at me, his stare both menacing and challenging. “Actually, loitering is codified in New York penal law under sections 240.35, 240.36, and 240.37.”
His words cause me to frown.
Who is this man?
In my experience, the only people who are that familiar with the law have studied law, are breaking it or are defending it. These are people in law school, criminals, or people that have too much time on their hands. I’ve never been one to stereotype, but he doesn’t look like any of the three.
In fact, he looks like a movie star—one of those ruggedly handsome Hollywood A-list celebrity types with haunted eyes, who star in action films until they’re Liam Neeson’s age and still haven’t retired.
I actually wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he is an actor. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have much time to watch television, nor do I have the money to go the movies. The guys I date aren’t the movie going types either. They’re, much to my dismay, usually of the staying-in-bed-naked-all-day variety.
Judging from the slightly pleased look on his face, I’ve been silent for too long, so I glower and say, “True.”
Because he’s right. Loitering is codified in New York penal law under those sections, but he’s also trying to play me, and if it was anyone else standing in from of him, he’d probably be doing a darn good job with that impressive poker face of his.
But it isn’t anyo
ne else in front of him. It’s me, someone who’s spent the past four or so years studying the ins and outs of New York and federal laws. And also someone who isn’t and never has been the type to let things go.
Of course, that’s a personal favorite character flaw of mine. It’s certainly the most fun. With that in mind, I draw upon my extensive knowledge of New York law. And while the sections he mentioned cover loitering, they don’t cover the type of loitering I’m doing.
Obviously, he’s trying to intimidate me with vague but true knowledge of the law. Laws that are technically true, but for this purpose, they don’t apply. But given my major, he’s chosen the wrong subject to talk about, and I’m not about to show him any mercy.
Not with this ridiculous lust coursing through my veins. I need to remind myself—and maybe even him, if he’s interested, but why else would he bother approaching me?—how incompatible we are.
I continue, “Except those sections don’t apply to me. We’re not in a transportation center or on a school campus, and I don’t have a mask on my face.” When his eyes flicker briefly with shock, I don’t stop. “I’m not drug pushing, and I’m not a prostitute.”
Not really.
There are differences between prostitution and gold digging, but they’re not big enough for me to possess a superiority complex over prostitutes.
“Jefferson School of Law?” he asks without missing a beat, referring to Wilton’s law school and the law school closest to John’s neighborhood.
I nod stiffly, not wanting to give away more of myself than necessary. I don’t want him to know me. Being strangers is my only defense against my attraction to him.
“That’s a good school,” he continues, slowly.
“Maybe I’m a smart person. Is that so hard to believe?”
The jerk has the guts to lift a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “A smart person wouldn’t be here for John.”
Fire flashes through my eyes, and I’m instantly defensive.
Does this guy know that I’m a gold digger?
Either way, I push aside the part of me that enjoys this exchange of wits and snarl at him, “And let me guess… A smart person would be here for you.”
He lifts his lips in a taunting smile. “No. A smart person would run away from me.”
He leans in even closer to me, and darn it, I don’t run away, though I know he’s right.
I should be running.
From this life.
From John.
From him.
Instead, I stay rooted to the ground, my eyes on his and my heart pounding an unsteady rhythm. And when he leaves without another word, leaving me pissed off at the fact that he’s getting to me, I don’t want to listen to him on principle. But for some reason, I do.
I don’t go to John that night.
Chapter Six
Never go to bed mad.
Stay up and fight.
Phyllis Diller
A few nights later, I stumble down the last step outside of John’s home and grasp for the stair’s railing, righting myself just before my face hits the unforgiving pavement of the sidewalk.
When I’m upright and balanced again, I look forward and am startled to find a dark figure, looming in the shadows a few feet away from me. I take an immediate step back in the direction of John’s home, mentally gauging the distance between myself and the door.
Should I run or am I better off screaming at the top of my lungs?
I open my mouth to scream, because honestly, I’m not exactly in the best shape. I may be skinny, but my exercise solely consists of sex with a man I can hardly muster enough enthusiasm for, save for a few fake moans and some hip thrusts here and there, and walking around campus and New York City, but only when I absolutely have to. Which basically means I’m definitely not a runner, let alone a sprinter.
And since John entered my life, I’ve been letting him pay for my Ubers. Outside of campus, I haven’t walked a block for over a month. The last time I walked, it was to go from my dorm room to the dining hall… to grab a cupcake.
My eyes widen as the figure takes a step closer to me. I open my mouth to scream, but the man speaks first.
“Relax.”
I recognize his voice instantly, though I’ve only heard it twice. It washes over me like a tsunami—deep, dangerous, and all-consuming. John’s mysterious neighbor steps out of the shadows and eyes me critically.
Though I recognize him, I don’t relax my body. After my last interaction with him, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him lately—and I’ve tried to stop often. I have my suspicions about him. I saw Lucy letting herself into his brownstone about a month ago. At first, I thought she was cheating on Asher, but then I realized two things.
One, no one in their right mind would cheat on Asher Black. (To be fair, I’m not too sure Lucy is in her right mind. But… she also waved brightly at me from the front steps of John’s neighbor’s brownstone, which she wouldn’t have done if she had something to hide.)
And two, Lucy wasn’t accompanied by her bodyguard, the tall, muscled man that usually follows her around everywhere she goes. Since I doubt Asher would let her put herself in danger, I’m betting John’s neighbor is safe.
But safe in Asher and Lucy’s world is relative.
Because I’m also betting that, like Asher, John’s neighbor is somehow related to the mafia. After all, he has more than a working knowledge of the law; I’ve never seen Lucy hanging out with anyone other than Asher and Aimee; and judging by the intensity and intimidation always radiating off of this man in powerful, gushing waves, it’s Asher this guy is connected to.
And that suspicion has me on high alert.
I’m not worried for my safety. He’s never threatened me, nor has he ever made me feel worried for my physical safety. Plus, growing up in a gang infested neighborhood afforded me with a pretty good scumbag radar, and I don’t think he’s one of them. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let my guard down.
So, I wait patiently and observantly as he takes me in, and I wonder what he’s thinking. His eyes are unfriendly and aloof, but he’s the one who’s approaching me. Not the other way around. What that means, I’m not sure.
But I wait for him anyway, because I can’t not wait for him.
Again, I’m struck by the realization that everything about this man is magnetic.
His face, his body, his voice, his aura—all of it entices me and draws me in, until I’m no longer listening to the voice in my head that’s begging me to think of my little sister and her future.
The way I react to this man is pathetic and disgusting, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop it all the same. Even with the words Mina, Mina, Mina, Mina, Mina on repeat in my head, I can’t seem to remind myself of how bad it is to lust after him. At the very least, I force myself not to draw my body closer to him, to allow myself to be pulled in by his unreasonable magnetism.
And I just stand here, lacking the willpower to do anything other than watch him watch me, and I hate myself for it.
I hate him for it, too.
“What do you want?” I finally ask, breaking the heavy silence.
Like last time we talked, I don’t expect an answer to my question.
“John Clinton?” He arches a condescending brow and nods his head in the direction of the brownstone behind me.
“He’s a friend.” I cross my arms defensively, the movement drawing his attention to my chest. I narrow my eyes in an attempt to convince him—and myself—that I don’t like the way he stares at me. And just because I hate the way he has me reacting, I add some extra attitude in my voice when I ask, “What’s it to you?”
He smirks, the lift of his lips so beautiful and foreign and wasted on such an irritating person. “He’s a friend of mine.”
I snort, hardly believing it. “John doesn’t have friends.”
And it’s true. As far as I know, John goes to work and stays at home. That’
s it. And other than that, John’s a mystery. Kind of like his neighbor, except I’m actually tempted to unravel the mystery of John’s neighbor. Not for the first time, I acknowledge that he’d make a wonderful predator. After all, he was able to make me, a frigid ice queen when it comes to wanting men, flirt. And I realized yesterday that that was what I had been doing. I was flirting with him, showing off my knowledge of the law for no other reason than the fact that I’m attracted to him and wanted to impress him.
God, I’m so stupid.
John’s neighbor stalks forward with a predatory grace, each step calculated, methodical, and leisurely, while having the same effect as a swift and ruthless attack would. Though his eyes are on me, he looks vigilant of everything in our surroundings.
Alert.
Aware of everything around us, though somehow most aware of me.
“Maybe I’m his only friend.” He takes a step closer. “Maybe I’m his best friend.” Another step. “Maybe I’m looking out for him.”
“And I’m the threat?” I look down at my petite body pointedly, but I regret it immediately when his eyes trail the same path down my body.
My breathing hitches, and his eyes flare with lust.
And I recognize that look immediately.
I just never thought I’d see it in someone I’m attracted to.
“You look pretty threatening to me,” he says, surprising me.
This man, who has tree trunks for thighs, a chest that spans the distance of the Pacific and arms with crests like hills, thinks I look threatening?
What has this world come to?
“You’re one to talk,” I reply, nodding my head in his direction, at the overwhelming presence that is him.
Surely, he realizes the kind of man he is. The imposing threat his presence alone poses to the world. I would gesture at him, too, but my traitorous hands are shaking from our proximity, so I clench my fists tightly instead and hide the useless things in the deep pockets of my Wilton University Law Review sweater.
Niccolaio Andretti: A Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 2) Page 4
