Liar

by Zahra Girard

  Both Luca and Frank have been on a roll lately, and apparently there’s a lot of older women experiencing a moist heat wave.

  I get up front and stop in my tracks.

  I stare.

  Luca’s standing there, dressed up to the nines — suit and tie, his hair styled in a way that’s messy but perfect. Right away, I notice the scent with a dark, heady cologne that smells brand new and expensive.

  There’s a big grin on his face that highlights his dimples and rugged jaw.

  I’m almost in shock.

  “What’s this?”

  He steps forward, coming right in front of me wand planting a long, deep kiss on me that leaves me breathless.

  “Don’t ask questions, bella. Just grab your things. You’re coming with me.”

  “Huh?”

  Luca doesn’t answer. He lifts me up and carries me out into the parking lot. I yelp a little, I’m confused as all heck, but being wrapped up by him, with my face buried in his shoulder and his scent all around me, it’s enough to shut up any protests I might be thinking about.

  There’s a limo outside waiting for us. Long, black, sleek. I’m still airborne and the limo driver hops out to open the door for us. Luca hefts me inside like I’m weightless.

  “What is this?”

  “A kidnapping.”

  He winks at me.

  “No, seriously, what is this?”

  “Yes, seriously. Sit tight, beautiful.”

  I think about trying to get more information out of him, but he’s got this look on his face like he won’t be talking no matter what I say.

  We drive out of town, with Luca just making innocuous chit-chat the whole way. The whole time, I’ve got my eyes glued to the windows, trying to figure out where the hell we’re going. Eventually, we pull up to this Spanish mission-looking place, with a big sign out front saying “Galina Winery and Spa”.

  The driver pulls us up to the front and then hops out to open the door for me, even extending his hand to help me out.

  I stand there, still feeling utterly clueless.

  “Seriously, what are we doing here?”

  Luca ignores my questions and grabs me by the hand and pulls me to the front desk. An overly-friendly, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and a motherly attitude looks up as we approach. “Barbara” reads the nametag on her purple blouse.

  “Welcome to Galina. Are you two here for a wine tasting?”

  Luca shakes his head. “Actually, no. This beautiful woman here has an appointment for the deluxe treatment and the full vineyard package, or whatever the hell it is that includes the bottomless wine.”

  Barbara smiles at me. “You must be Stephanie. Right this way, we’ll get you your robe and take you to the VIP massage room.”

  My feet stay rooted to the spot. I’m still having a hard time processing this whole thing. “What about the shop? I can’t take a day off — “

  Luca shuts me up with a kiss that makes me rise up on my tiptoes. He pulls back and I’m panting and Barbara is staring with her mouth open.

  “You’re taking the day off,” he says. “Don’t worry about anything else. I’ll take care of everything. For the rest of the day, all I want you to think about is what wine you want to drink and what kind of massage you want. When you’re all done here, the limo will be back to take you to dinner.”

  “But what about — “

  He gives me another deep, leg-shaking breath-taking kiss and whatever protests I had die on my lips.

  “I can’t wait to take you out later.”

  I watch him leave, my mouth wide open.

  Barbara’s staring at him just the same and I can just tell that she’s totally jealous.

  I don’t blame her, though. I’m the luckiest woman in the world.

  Luca looks fucking regal right now, walking like he owns the world. His suit fits like a dream — sitting just so on his broad shoulders and his slacks fitting his marvelous ass just right.

  He is beyond incredible. He’s this genuine, honest breath of confidence and support.

  Where would I be without him?

  With one last wave and grin, he gets into the limo.

  “Ma’am, are you ready?”

  There’s a butler behind me — an actual butler — with glass of champagne in hand and a towel draped over his arm.

  Thousands of bubbles carry my fears and cares away as I take a sip. It’s bright, effervescent, and just what I need.

  I’m not afraid anymore. I’m in love.

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Luca

  How the hell does she do this every day?

  I’ve faced down killers and mob bosses with their own personal armies without breaking a sweat.

  But this?

  This?

  There’s so much red ink in this pile of papers on Stephanie’s desk, it’s like someone bled out all over them.

  It pisses me off, seeing these threatening letters from asshole bill collectors who want to ruin the work of the woman I love.

  I take more than a couple from the pile and, for the ones that look important and have respectful notes with them, I pay them myself. The ones that don’t look so respectful, I make a mental note to pay a personal visit later.

  But I only do that for a little while. I don’t want to intrude too much into her personal life and have her think that I know better than she does about how to run the shop. All I need to do is just make sure that this place runs smooth today and that things close up without a hitch.

  It can’t be that hard, can it?

  Fortunately, it isn’t.

  The day goes just fine.

  Frank works his song-and-dance magic and sells a whole central air system, Sabrina holds down the front end, and I circulate through the store, keeping up morale and doing whatever little chores pop up.

  The whole time, I’m waiting on pins and needles for tonight. I know Stephanie’s going to look incredible — hell, she manages that every damn day — and I can’t wait to see the look on her face after a day of relaxing.

  “Ok, Luca, that’s it for my register today,” Sabrina says.

  I briefly glance over her cash reconciliation form and then at the open register. Sabrina’s so guileless, I know I don’t need to check over her totals.

  “So, what do you have planned for Ms. Turner later?” she asks.

  I smile. Even thinking about her brings a big, stupid grin to my face. My cheeks hurt. It’s the kind of expression I never would’ve figured would be on my busted mug.

  “I’m taking her to Puerta al Mar. I’ve booked us their private dining room.”

  She lets out a little gasp, which is about the reaction I was hoping for.

  Puerta al Mar is a little restaurant about an hours drive north of Arroyo Falls on the Pacific Coast Highway and it practically dangles off a cliff out over the ocean. It’s the kind of place anyone who’s rich or famous must visit anytime they’re in the area.

  It’s going to blow Stephanie away. I hope.

  I lock up the shop and hang out in the parking lot a bit. Part of me’s going over a checklist in my head of the things I know I need to do before I leave. Even though I’m sure I’ve done everything, I need to make sure everything is perfect.

  Register totals? Check. Make sure the shelves are organized? Check. Lock everything up? Check.

  The other part of me is exulting in a job well done. This regular life thing ain’t too bad, and, with a woman like Stephanie in my life, it could be good. Better than good, even.

  The sun’s set almost an hour ago, the last dying gasp of daylight is barely peeking above the horizon. Above me, a pale moon looks down. The streets are quiet, the air’s still.

  In the distance, a lone pair of headlights draws closer at a steady pace. A van, dark and nondescript, pulls into the parking lot and parks a few spaces away from me.

  Even at a distance, I get this feeling in my gut that something isn’t right. I
f I had my guns with me, they’d be out right now.

  The door thuds as the same delivery driver from a week ago gets out.

  Tattoos, leather jacket doing a piss-poor job of covering a pistol shoved down the back of his pants, and ripped jeans that look like they’ve seen better days, he squares up opposite me.

  I meet his gaze and don’t even fucking blink as I stare him down.

  “We’re closed.”

  He answers with an ugly smile.

  “I’m just here to pick a few things up, friend. Your boss is expecting me. Go around back and open the loading dock for me.”

  I don’t like this man’s face and I like his fucking attitude even less. I used to grind men like him into dust back in the Bronx.

  I’ll be damned if I let a piece of shit like him steal from the woman who means so much to me.

  “If you think I’m going to let you rip this place off, you’re even more fucked in the head than you look. Get back in that fucking rape van of yours before I lose my good mood.”

  His lip curls back. “Do you even know who you’re fucking with? Do you know what I’ll do to that sweet piece of ass you work for?”

  He reaches behind his back for the pistol stuffed down the back of his jeans.

  He’s fast, but I’m faster.

  I charge.

  The distance between us disappears in the blink of an eye. With one hand, I seize his wrist, while I drive the other right into his neck.

  His throat collapses with a wet, concussive thud and he staggers like the bitch he is.

  Gurgling, he swings back at me and I slip right by it, his fist whooshing by my face.

  Pathetic.

  This is going to be a piece of fucking cake.

  Once, twice, I hit him with a jab, snapping his head back into the window of his van. He growls and swings again and I bob and weave, dodging his counter to slide inside to slam my fists into his midsection. The sharp splintering snap of ribs breaking reverberates through my knuckles.

  God, I missed this. Beating the shit out of some dirtbag is one of life’s simple joys.

  I hammer this son of a bitch and I do not let up.

  There’s no mercy for this pathetic excuse for a man. He lost all right to that the second he threatened the woman I care for.

  The night air fills with the sound of my fists making mincemeat out of this piece of shit Russian.

  When I’m done with him, he’s a wreck. A broken nose, blood dripping from canyon-like lacerations in his forehead and his cheek, and a steady stream of crimson oozing from an inch-wide tear in his upper lip. He collapses to the ground in a fucked-up heap and I’m barely breaking a sweat.

  Chest heaving, heart thudding with the adrenaline that is just ripping through my veins, I stand over him.

  Pathetic.

  I plant my foot square on his face, grinding my heel into his shattered mouth.

  I stomp down. Hard.

  Worthless.

  He wheezes and spits a thick wad of blood onto the pavement.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he gasps.

  I smile down at him.

  His life is over.

  I’d forgotten how good this feels. That sensation of raw, brutal power you feel when you hold someone’s life in your hands, and the look they get in their eyes when that realization hits them.

  There’s nothing else like it.

  It’s intoxicating. Addicting.

  That rush is why I’m the best at what I did. At what I do.

  I stomp down again and he repeats his question, his voice weaker this time..

  I kneel closer to him, putting my weight on the foot that’s crushing his jaw, bringing my face closer to his.

  “I’m the man who’s going to make you a legend. Right now, you’re just some dirty Russian. But when the coroner finally puts your fucking jigsaw-piece remains back together and they use your partial fucking dental records to figure out who the fuck you are, every one of your dirtbag friends is going to shit themselves.”

  He laughs and tries to squirm under my heel and I kick him again.

  “Do you know who I am? You’re fucked,” he spits out, another glob of mucus and blood spilling out with his words and landing on my shoe. “You are fucked.”

  I frown down at him.

  “You’re the guy who got my good shoes dirty. And I have a fucking date later, you asshole.”

  I lift my foot and bring it down hard on his face. Something in there shatters. Shuddering, his arms flailing, he goes stiff.

  I breathe deep.

  That felt good.

  It might not have been the ‘good’ or right thing to do, but when it comes to defending the woman I love, I’ll do whatever it takes.

  Whistling, I make my way back to the shop, to the store room. I strip off my good suit, hanging it up carefully so it doesn’t wrinkle before I grab the tools I’ll need: plastic sheeting, garbage bags, a circular saw, and bleach.

  I’ve got some work to do.

  I left a trail of bodies back in the Bronx. What’s one more?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stephanie

  I haven’t though much about love lately.

  These last few months, it’s been all about survival, about doing what I have to do to make it through the day. Before that, in the ER, so many of the patients that came through our doors were there because of love or love gone wrong, that I kept my heart guarded.

  Love leads to stupid decisions and painful consequences. Especially when you’re trying to actually build a career.

  Yes, there were guys from time to time, but I never loved them. For one thing, they had a high example to live up to: my dad. How does some guy who buys you a drink compare to a man who worked selflessly and tirelessly to help your dreams become real?

  Here’s a hint: they don’t.

  But as I’m getting out of the limo in the parking lot of Puerto al Mar and see Luca standing there, leaning casually against the trunk of his sleek BMW, wearing his suit and a giant grin, I think I finally may have found a man who meets the standard.

  I think I might be in love.

  “You look incredible,” he says and that smile gets wider and I can feel myself blushing because I know that smile is just for me.

  I don’t own many dresses and I think the last time I wore one was at a friends wedding a few years ago — I might have been wearing this same dress, even. Getting ready for tonight — when I finally wheedled the destination out of the limo driver — no matter what I did I didn’t feel like I’d look good enough. Nothing seemed to fit right and my hair wouldn’t cooperate.

  But none of that matters. He thinks I’m beautiful. That genuine, handsome man who could have any woman he wants is head over heels for me.

  And I’m just as crazy for him.

  In that moment, I know the truth: I’m his.

  I sprint the distance between us, somehow managing to not fall even though I’m wearing heels and I haven’t worn heels in literally forever, and throw my arms around him.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, once I manage to peel my lips off his. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, bella,” he says, like it’s nothing and like he’s not fucking incredible. “So, can I take you to dinner?”

  “Please.”

  I am itching to go inside. Puerta al Mar is one of those restaurants that everyone in this part of California’s heard about, and it’s one I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d be eating at. Much less showing up to it in a limo and accompanied by an insanely hot man like Luca.

  He crooks his arm and I slide mine inside it. Together, we stride into the restaurant like we own the place.

  Puerta al Mar looks like one of those places out of a magazine called “Restaurants that you’ll never be able to afford”. It’s elegant, immaculate, a vaguely Spanish Mission looking building perched over the ocean from atop a cliff.

  A hostess in a flawlessly put together outfit smiles at us from over her podium. Recognition gli
mmers on her face.

  “Right this way, Mr. Moretti,” she says without any hesitation. “Everything’s just as you asked for.”

  I look up at Luca sideways. “What did you do?”

  He winks. “You’ll see.”

  The hostess leads us through the dining room to a small door set against the back corner of the restaurant. Other diners — people who look like they’re rich enough to dine here on a regular basis — watch us with envy naked on their faces.

  The door opens out onto a small terrace. There’s a single table, some ornate lanterns for light, and an endless, uninterrupted view of the ocean. It’s beyond beautiful.

  There’s a bottle of wine on ice sitting on the table, which the hostess opens for us.

  “The chef will be along shortly to go over your personalized menu,” she says. “Enjoy.”

  As soon as she’s gone, I look up at Luca.

  He knows I’m confused — stunned, even — and he’s enjoying the hell out of it.

  “What did you do? What is this?” I stammer.

  “Dinner,” he says, shrugging, and then pulling one the chairs out for me. “Can I pour you some wine?”

  I sit and he takes the bottle and fills my wine glass nearly to the brim. While he’s holding the bottle, I get a get a look at his knuckles.

  “What happened to your hand?” I say.

  He shifts his grip, bruised knuckles flexing, and shrugs nonchalantly. “Lost my grip moving an air compressor in the store room,” he says. “But that’s not what we’re here for. This is a celebration.”

  Luca pours his own glass and sits down across from me.

  “What for?” I say.

  He raises the wineglass and looks practically regal, dressed up as he is, with the sea behind him and that aura of confidence that just he just radiates.

  His green eyes only see me, and that smile on his face I know is for me alone.

  “I want to celebrate you, Stephanie,” he says, his gaze unwavering, entrancing, loving.

  My heart swells in my chest. It’s like something is filling me up, something bigger and greater and happier than I could have ever imagined.

  “Me?”

  “You,” he says, then pauses for a second, as if looking for words. “You know, I didn’t want to start over. When I first came to Arroyo Falls, I thought I’d hate this regular life thing. And to be honest, I did. There were some bright spots, some friends that I’d made, but, I spent a lot of time looking back at the life I’d left behind. Missing it. Wanting to pick up the pieces of what I’d left behind.”