Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  I was so convinced she loved me with an infallible intensity, even on our worst days.

  I was one hundred percent certain we were going to spend our lives together, that there was no one better suited for me.

  I was sure a life without her would be akin to trying to breathe under water.

  Turns out, I was nothing more than a damn fool.

  I’m more upset with myself for believing her empty promises than anything else.

  Pulling the box out, it feels a lot smaller than I remembered, and maybe that’s a metaphor for our relationship, but I’m too exhausted to think that hard about her tonight. I tuck it under my arm and take it to the fireplace.

  It’s June, and the AC is running on high, but it feels like a good time to light a fire.

  Dropping to my knees, I pop the lid off the box, glancing down at the photo that rests on top of piles of love letters and cards and the kinds of sappy mementos a lovestruck man might think meant something at the time.

  “Kerenza.” I say her name out loud, though I’m not sure why.

  It feels foreign in my mouth, though my chest tightens at its familiarity.

  She’s grinning in the photo, perched on the edge of a sailboat just outside of Martha’s Vineyard. Kerenza’s wearing nothing but an emerald green string bikini, a summer tan, and a mischievous glint in her violet eyes. Her glossy black hair is tied loosely on the top of her head, piled into a knot of some kind, and she smiles wide for the camera.

  For me.

  We were happy then, blissfully unaware of our fate. Taking things one day at a time with a mutual understanding that we were on the same page: hopelessly, endlessly, unstoppably in love.

  Or so I thought.

  I reach forward, hitting the switch on the bottom of the mantel, reaching so far it causes my shoulder to ache. A fire roars to life and I push the screen aside. Taking Kerenza’s photo between my two fingers, I fling it into the flames, something I should’ve done a long time ago.

  Chapter 13

  Aidy

  “Ace asked about you this morning.”

  I stop chewing the delicious medium-rare filet mignon before me and glance across the table at Topaz. She wears a mischievous glint in her eye and her lips are twisted.

  Chewing my bite, which takes for-ev-er, and swallowing hard, I say, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yeah,” she says, glancing toward the sidewalk at passersby. It’s a beautiful Friday, perfect for a casual café lunch with one of my best friends, and she drops a bomb like that? Like it’s nothing? “He asked how you were doing.”

  Reaching for my water, I ask, “And what did you tell him?”

  Topaz grins wide. “I asked why he wanted to know.”

  “You didn’t repeat anything I told you, right?” I ask, mentally rewinding to last night, when I caught her up to speed on everything and she accused me of having a crush on him and I admitted I thought he was ridiculously gorgeous but way too moody for me and changed the subject.

  She pretends to zip her lips. “I would never.”

  “Good.” I exhale, attempting to cut through my steak with the dull end of my knife. I flip it over after making sure no one saw.

  “I told him he should take you on a date or something. You two would be so cute together.”

  “Topaz.” I scold her with my tone, placing my fork aside.

  “He said he’d think about it.”

  “Topaz.” I bury my face in my hands. She knows how I feel about her meddling with these sorts of things. I’m sure he was just being nice and telling her what she wanted to hear. Guys like Ace, professional athletes, date super models and actresses and long-legged European socialites. Plus, like I told her last night, he’s too moody. I’ve made it my life mission not to take life too seriously, and Ace acts like it’s physically painful to smile.

  We’re oil and water. Clearly.

  “What?” Topaz scoffs, acting as though she’s done nothing wrong. “I was doing you a favor.”

  “You know I don’t have time to date.”

  “If you have time to Instagram thirty-second makeup tutorials that take you hours to edit, you have time to date.” Topaz lifts both of her palms and lifts her brows. “Just saying.”

  “Those are for work,” I say. “For my business.”

  “Anyway, you think he’s hot, he thinks you’re hot, I was just doing the two of you a favor,” she says. “You’ll thank me someday.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. He thinks I’m hot?”

  “It was implied.” Topaz shrugs, sipping her mojito and smiling at a handsome suit that passes by and checks her out.

  “Implied how? I need you to be specific. I need details.” This is the most frustrating part of being Topaz’s best friend. Trying to extract information from her is a strategic endeavor. You have to be careful and know when to fill in the gaps because she can be flighty and forgetful and her stories are all over the place.

  She laughs. “Implied like . . . I don’t know. We were talking about you, and I said that you were one of the first friends I made when I moved to the city and how you’re so sweet and funny and how there are a lot of social climbing assholes in New York and you’re not one of them.”

  “Okay, and then?” I sit up and lean forward, impatient because she still hasn’t answered my question.

  “And then I said you had inner and outer beauty, and he said that was a rare combination in this day and age.”

  My shoulders fall. “He was just making a general observation, Topaz. He wasn’t necessarily implying anything.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” she says, winking. “So then I said, ‘Don’t you think she’s absolutely stunning, by the way?’ to which he said, ‘Undoubtedly.’”

  My heart flutters hard and fast before settling to a moderate pace.

  “He was probably being nice,” I say.

  “Aidy, now’s not the time to be modest.” Topaz rolls her eyes. “Anyway, you act like I’m arranging a marriage here. All I did was get him to admit you’re a sexy little thang and then nudged him in the right direction.”

  “If he doesn’t call, I’ll know he was just being nice,” I say. “Just promise me you won’t hound him about it anymore, okay? God, you’re worse than my mother trying to set me up with all her friends’ sons every time I go back home.”

  Topaz laughs. “Not a problem. Anyway, I probably won’t see him again. His guest spot ended today. Antoine is back on Monday.”

  There’s a slight sinking feeling in my stomach that I can’t deny if I try. Picking up my utensils, I return to my filet and change the subject.

  Up until now, I hadn’t considered what I’d say if Ace asked me on a date because until this moment, the likelihood of him randomly calling me up and asking me out was pretty much nonexistent. Besides, the whole prospect of dating anyone, let alone him, has been completely off my radar. I’m too busy with work, and I’m not necessarily lonely or looking.

  And yeah, Ace is an outrageously beautiful specimen of a man, but there’s also something dark and tormented about him, and I’m fully certain we’d look ridiculous together.

  Topaz checks her phone after we pay our tabs. “Ugh, that guy I went to Aruba with won’t stop texting me ever since we got back.”

  “That guy?” I ask. “I thought you two were dating? Now he’s just that guy?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Shit got weird in Aruba.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything? Weird like how?”

  Topaz tucks her lavender hair behind one ear and leans forward. “He got really drunk one night, I mean hammered. He told me he loved me. Aidy, we’ve been seeing each other for two months. There’s something wrong with him if he already thinks he loves me and we’re still not through the open-bathroom-door-policy part of our relationship.”

  “Could be that he just knows?” I ask. “I mean, when you know . . . you know.”

  “Or he’s loco?” Topaz rises, pushing out her café chair and slingin
g her bag over her shoulder. “Besides, he’s too touchy feely for me. I need space. He encroaches.”

  “And you wonder why you’re always single.” I brush my shoulder against hers as we exit the restaurant and hit the sidewalk.

  “Nothing wrong with being single,” she says, grinning. “Life’s too short. There’s an ice cream smorgasbord of eligible bachelors out there all dying to show me a good time, and I want to try all the flavors before I die.”

  “What flavor was this last one?”

  Topaz lifts a finger to the side of her mouth, staring to the left. “Vanilla. No question.”

  We come to the familiar street corner where I turn south and she turns north, and I throw my arms around her.

  “I’m going to feel like the biggest dweeb if he doesn’t call. You know that, right?” I say into her ear.

  She squeezes me, hard, and laughs. “He’ll call.”

  “I don’t even know if I’ll say yes. He’s not really my type.”

  “You will.”

  Chapter 14

  Ace

  I can’t remember the last time I asked a woman out on a date. My memory fogs the further back I try to go, and for the longest time, there was only ever Kerenza. Everything before Kerenza is static and noise, and everything since her is darkness and void.

  I allowed her to break me.

  It isn’t something I’m proud of.

  Clutching my phone and hunched over in my leather chair Saturday night, I swipe my thumb across the screen and recall my conversation with Topaz in the makeup chair this morning. Topaz is unusually bubbly for a native Brooklynite. She’s the kind of person I can only handle in small doses because she’s just . . . too much. But in the midst of one of our many conversations earlier, she mentioned Aidy, and I’ve found myself thinking about her ever since.

  I’ve been around enough women in my day to know that they rarely speak kindly of each other, especially when men are concerned, but Topaz rambled on about how kind and beautiful Aidy was, inside and out, and then she caught me off guard, telling me I should ask her on a date. Not wanting to be rude, I told her I’d consider it.

  But I know damn well I’m not dating material. Not in the condition I’m in.

  Aidy’s a beautiful woman. She seems bright and content. Someone like me would only weigh her down, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t make the best impression on her this past week. She’d have every right to turn me down if I asked.

  Thumbing through my contacts, I pull up her name in my phone and re-read her last and only text to me. I barely have a chance to read the words, “Fuck off” when a call comes through and turns my screen black.

  Matteo, one of my four younger brothers, is calling, and I haven’t heard from him in months.

  “Alessio,” he says when I answer. He’s one of the select few who never quite adapted to calling me by my nickname, but for him, I’ll allow it. “How goes it, fratellone? You around tonight?”

  “I am.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs wide. My elbow props me up on the arm, and I rake my hand through my beard.

  Not only have I not spoken with Matteo in months, but he hasn’t seen me since shortly after the accident.

  “I’m in the city for work,” he says, and I can hear the smile residing on his pretty boy face. Matteo’s an aspiring actor living in Los Angeles, taking bit parts and small jobs whenever he can get them. “Only for a few days. You want to meet up? There’s a group of us from this commercial I shot earlier, and one of them has the hook up at this club. We can get in.”

  I snort through my nose, shaking my head. There was a day not too long ago that my name opened doors and busted through VIP list barricades. There was a day when everyone wanted me in their club, drinking their drinks, exciting their patrons.

  Funny how quick people are to move on to the next best thing.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” Matteo says. “Believe it or not, I miss your dumb face.”

  My fingertips trace along the scar hidden beneath my beard. “Yeah?”

  “Go out with us,” he says. “I know you sit at home, Alessio. No one ever hears from you anymore. You’re a shell of a man, and you’re better than that. Don’t let . . . don’t let what happened ruin you. Don’t give her that.”

  Matteo has a point.

  “I’ll come by in an hour. You think you can be ready by then?” he asks.

  Fuck.

  Fine.

  Whatever.

  It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do tonight.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Matteo laughs. “Good, good. Molto bene.”

  A year ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead at a club like this.

  Pulsing music.

  Flashing lights.

  Women stumbling out of bathrooms, brushing white powder from their nostrils.

  But I glance at my brother, and he’s grinning ear to ear, like he’s proud his connections opened doors for once. I guess I can at least give him that.

  “We’re going to be in the VIP lounge,” he yells above the club remix of a god-awful pop song I’ve never heard before. Matteo points to a small room illuminated with blue lights and sectioned off with a red velvet rope.

  In the cab on our way here, he mentioned we’d be partying with a bunch of production people from some underwear commercial he shot this morning: lighting guys, hair and makeup people, and a couple of production assistants. I’ll admit a small, pathetically curious part of me wondered if Aidy Kincaid might be included in that group.

  But I know better.

  The industry is huge and this city’s enormous.

  The odds of running into her yet again this week aren’t in my favor.

  The closer we get to the VIP room, the more I find myself scanning faces for an ounce of familiarity.

  Just in case.

  But none of them register.

  None of them are Aidy, and I’m kind of relieved because I’d be disappointed if she hung out in places like this.

  Sinking into a patent leather chair, I take a clean glass resting on a nearby table and pour myself a glass from the magnum of champagne resting in a bucket of ice before me.

  “What are we celebrating?” I ask the woman sitting next to me.

  Her lashes flutter and her mouth pulls into a drunken grin as she slinks a shoulder to her ear. “Why, hello there, handsome.”

  The woman leans toward me, her eyes struggling to focus.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  Jesus. Had I known she was going to be my instant best friend, I never would’ve said anything.

  “Alessio,” I reply, glancing at Matteo who’s leaning against the wall, sleeves cuffed to his elbows and bedroom eyes in full effect as he chats up some leggy blonde.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve offered anyone my given name, but I didn’t want to take the chance that she might recognize me by my mononym since I’ve evolved into the male athlete equivalent of Cher or Madonna.

  “Alessio,” she says. “That’s really fucking hot. I like that. Alesssssio.”

  I don’t ask her name, and I don’t look at her long enough to figure out if her hair is brown or blonde or red. Under these flashing lights, it’s damn near every color in the rainbow. Her skin too. She could be magenta for all I know, but I don’t give a shit.

  I didn’t come here to get laid, and I’m sure as hell not taking anyone home with me.

  I only came here to spend time with my brother and to get out of my own head for a bit.

  Matteo pulls his phone from his pocket.

  We’re not even here five minutes and already he’s exchanging numbers.

  The blonde woman walks out of the VIP lounge a moment later and my brother makes his way to me, crouching down in the seat beside me.

  “Shameless,” I say, taking a swig of champagne.

  Matteo grins, showcasing the set of million-dollar dimples he was born with. At least that’s what our madre always called the
m. She told him they were going to make him famous one day; make him a lot of money.

  I’m not sure that’s happened yet, but Matteo’s going to die trying.

  That’s the thing about us Amato brothers.

  We see what we want, and we pursue it with relentless determination. We’re not capable of stopping until life happens. Until it’s physically impossible to keep going.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he says, eyes scanning the bevy of beautiful women surrounding us. “Just doing a little networking.”

  “Right.”

  “Seriously. Fuck auditions, Alessio. It’s all about who you know.” He pours himself a glass of champagne. “Nobody walks into a casting call and lands a part anymore. It’s all about who you’re fucking.”

  “So you’re going to fuck that leggy blonde and get a part in the next Michael Bay movie?”

  Matteo hunches forward, his elbows on his knees. His dress shirt hugs his muscled physique, the one he’s spent hours upon hours sculpting in some outrageously expensive L.A. gym he belongs to.

  “She’s the daughter of a producer,” he says, huffing. “This isn’t baseball, Alessio. You don’t get by on merit and batting averages here. You kiss ass. You fuck who you’re told to fuck. And you hope to God these rich assholes have the decency to keep their word.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” The drunk girl from two minutes ago takes it upon herself to plop down into my lap. She slinks an arm around my neck and smooshes her cheek against mine.

  Matteo turns away, hiding the amused smirk on his pretty boy face.

  “You know what? You two look like you could be brothers.” The drunk girl’s jaw hangs open. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “We are brothers, babe.” Matteo pats her knee the way an adult might pat the top of a child’s head.

  The woman giggles, leaning back and nearly falling off my lap.

  Leaning toward my brother, I give him a look and ask, “Where’d you find this one?”