Delicious (Daddies Know Best #2)

1

Andrea

“Being here makes me so happy and so sad.”

My aunt’s almost skeletal fingers drift over the edge of the carved mahogany arm of the dining chair where she sits.

It was just five years ago she took me skydiving. She’s aged twenty years since then.

She’s the same age as my mom, her sister-in-law, but that is where the similarities end.

She was the fun aunt. The one that took you on adventures and taught you the things your parents didn’t want you to know.

She gave me my first vibrator when I was sixteen. It wasn’t weird. She knew I had a bit of an obsession with barely-veiled smutty romance, and on my birthday, she gave me the full series of my favorite author’s filthiest books.

Then, under my pillow that night, I found another gift. A sleek white box, and inside, a black silicone treat which I proceeded to wear out over the next year trying to get to that magical, mysterious place, but honestly it eluded me. After a couple of years of thinking something must be wrong with me because my body just sort of shuts everything down before I get to take flight so to speak, I quit trying. I’ve got enough things in my life to feel inadequate about. Failing at orgasm 0 is not going to be one of them.

“Andrea.” My aunt turns, choking on a wheezing cough, pointing toward her bottle of water just out of reach. The former glory of her onyx-black hair has turned wiry gray. Her once-flawless skin is now lanced with deep wrinkles, her ocean-blue eyes sunken and fading, just like her spirit.

I step toward the table and sweep the bottle off the top, pressing it into her outstretched hand.

“Slow down. Breathe,” I say, as I place my hand between her shoulder blades, feeling the protruding vertebrae against my palm.

She takes a long drink, choking back more coughing that’s been lingering since her last bout of pneumonia.

Her eyes fall to the floor, one hand coming up to rest on my forearm with a soft squeeze.

“Why don’t you go check on the garage?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Make sure that padlock hasn’t been cut off again.”

I start to tell her it doesn’t matter. There’s no padlock that can keep someone out that’s intent on getting in, but pointing out the futility of the situation is surely not going to ease her stress.

“I’ll go look. You stay there. No getting up until I get back inside, deal?”

She scoffs but gives me a soft nod, as I give one in return and turn toward the kitchen, headed out the back door.

The hundred-year-old Craftsman house has been in our family since my great, great-grandfather built it here, in the middle of what used to be a farm field just outside of Detroit. The area went from cornfields, to a friendly working-class neighborhood, to blight in the span of three generations.

But my aunt inherited the house from her parents when they passed. It’s where she grew up. She’s as stubborn as they come, and when a slick developer came around offering her market value plus some to sell, so a new casino could move forward, she dug in. Hard.

She hasn’t lived here for over a year. I insisted on moving her out when one of the outlets started a fire, and the electrician we hired to fix the problem told us that the rats and mice that had taken up residence in the walls had turned the cloth wrapping of the old wires into strings of wire just waiting to burn the place to the ground.

Scratching comes from inside one of the base cupboards as I pass through the massive, stale smelling kitchen, my vintage Red Wing boots crunching on the dust and grit that’s gathered on the wood floors, but I don’t care to investigate what sort of four-legged rodent has moved in.

I may be a take no shit sort of gal, but I can’t kill anything. Not even spiders.

It’s Sunday evening after Thanksgiving, and even the cool air that whooshes by me as I open the back door does nothing to dampen the prickly heat that’s been nipping at my skin ever since I shook the hand of my best friend’s new brother-in- law on Thanksgiving.

Erik Leonard.

Sounds like a Viking.

He looks like one too.

A Norseman in a perfectly-tailored handstitched suit.

Sexier than should be allowed.

I hop from the back porch onto the weedy grass, landing with a huff as a zing of pain shoots up my leg from my ankle. It’s another reminder of the Viking distractions that’s had me surviving on three hours of sleep and left me with an odd, unfamiliar feeling in my belly.

What does any of that have to do with my ankle? Well, leaving Cassie’s house after the holiday meal, I was less than steady, and it wasn’t from the two glasses of wine I had. No, I wasn’t drunk on alcohol, I was Viking drunk.

Erik escorted me to my car, because he wouldn’t allow me to walk outside in the dark alone, even though we were at Cassie and Magnus’s gated property. So there I was, working my best runway-model high step, when one of their dogs came barreling out from behind my car without warning, launching himself into my arms and throwing me off balance, nearly breaking my ankle as I tripped over my knock- off Jimmy Choo’s.

You’d have thought I nearly died, the way Erik was all over me. And I keep thinking I should have milked it some more, instead of trying to pretend it was nothing. Maybe I would have seen just how caring he can be…

Since we said goodbye that night, I’ve been immersed in the strange but comforting text messages I’ve received at all hours of the day and night, thanks to Cassie giving him my number. What was for breakfast? What are your plans for today? Where are you right now? Sleep tight and sweet dreams. You have a nightmare you message or call me, understand? Don’t even touch your phone when you’re driving. And, I forgot to ask, what kind of car do you have? How was your sleep? Do you take vitamins?

There’s definitely one thing I’m not getting, and never have got, and I’m sure he could help with that, but this is no time for a relationship. And anyway, my track record in that department is less than stellar. After I dumped my last red flag flying boyfriend, I made a solemn vow to myself—with my aunt holding out the bible for me to swear upon at my request—no more men until I get some therapy.

The sound of a chirping cricket comes from an overgrown patch of grass near the corner of the garage as I approach, seeing the padlock is once again cut off, laying on the cracked concrete in front of the open door.

“Assholes,” I murmur, crouching down and grabbing the metal lock, feeling its cool weight in my palm as I toss it from one hand to the other, swiveling my head back and forth, tracking anything that might give me a clue that whoever keeps breaking in here might still be around.

The last bits of daylight are sinking behind the eaves of the house, casting elongated shadows over the overgrown lawn. Beyond the missing boards of the barely-standing privacy fence, there are acres and acres of cleared land, ready and waiting for the new life one Mr. Ernesto Buffalino wants to breathe into this desolate former family neighborhood, where my aunt’s house stands like the lone survivor in some sort of inner-city apocalyptic hurricane.

Back on my feet, I push away the image of Cassie’s new brother-in-law Erik, who seems to have a sudden interest in my well-being in an odd sort of fatherly way, and flatten my hand on the chipped paint of the creaking wood door.

It sticks on the rusty hinges but swings free, the low light from the November sunset streaming through the open door, illuminating another ominous message spray-painted on the back wall of the collapsing hundred-year-old former stable turned garage.

Time to go before it’s too late.

It’s written in red this time. The thick spray-painted letters are accented with long strings of the dripping paint, making it look more like blood on a mirror than spray paint on the thick white painted boards of the garage interior.

A shiver shakes my shoulders as I cock back and throw the broken lock through the dark space, listening as it bangs against the wall, then falls with a metallic clunk onto the stone floor.

It’s eerily silent here with no other homes or buildings around. There’s the soft low rumble of an airplane taking off from the city airport a mile away, and I think of the people on the plane. I imagine being one of them. The plane taking me and my aunt somewhere fresh. I understand why she wants to keep this house, but in another way I don’t.

There’s nothing here. Even if somehow the casino and the surrounding development were to be stalled indefinitely, who would want to live here in the middle of no man’s land?

The women in our family are known for their stubbornness, so I support her as I can, including paying for our rent in the one-bedroom apartment we share close to the medical center where she receives her daily dialysis and COPD treatments.

This is not the life I imagined growing up in the upper middle-class suburbs no less than six miles from here. We have my dad to thank for the years when we felt that life was stable and the future was bright.

We also have him to thank for the shock and shattered illusions when the sheriff showed up to let us know we had one week to vacate our home. Seems good ole Dad put three mortgages on the house to fund his other family.

Yep, he had a girlfriend in Ohio and twin five-year-old boys. Life [Ei][2]took a hard left after that, and it hasn’t really turned back since.

Mom went AWOL, Dad moved to Cleveland, and Aunt Jess became the only stable part of my life. If not for her, I’m pretty sure I would have ended up God knows where doing God knows what.

Working at the frame shop may not look like life goals for a lot of people, but it’s a reasonable paycheck, it’s creative, and it’s not all I want to do. For now, it gives me a way to take care of Jess, and I owe her that.

But I still have dreams of walking runways, and of striking awkward poses on top of snow-covered mountains, wearing the latest Dolce or Versace.

The sound of an engine snaps me out of my stupor, the breeze shaking the dried leaves on the one remaining oak tree that leans precariously toward the upper peak of the house.

A car approaches, slowing as I bolt for the back door. There are only two reasons a car would be on this street. One, maybe the cops wondering why someone is at a condemned structure. More likely, someone looking for trouble.

Without thinking, I’m barreling through the back door and into the dining room, where my aunt is still sitting with her eyes now pinned on the front door.

“Someone’s here,” she says without turning my way, and the chill from outside follows me as I march to the foyer, leaning over to peek through the leaded glass side window flanking the front door.

“Fuck,” I snap, shooting Jess a tight smile over my shoulder.

“Lemme guess, black Lincoln?”

I nod, noting the slight tremble in her chin.

My stomach drops to the floor as I sprint back through the dining room to the kitchen, tugging on the drawer next to the stove.

It sticks as I curse, give it a kick with the heel of my boot, then try again. With another tug, it squeaks open, revealing a disorganized drawer of kitchen utensils.

Although I moved Jess out and into the apartment a year ago, so she could be closer to the medical center and not have to worry about the house falling down around her, she insisted on leaving the house as is, with all the contents still in place. Her way of telling me the move was only temporary, no matter what the writing on the wall was spelling out. So there are still knives inside the drawer, and knowing who is coming to the door, I’m glad there’s a good selection.

I grab the longest, sharpest one I see, tightening my fingers around the wooden grip, and manage to make it back to the dining room to stand in front of my aunt before a single hard knock hits the front door.

In the space of a breath, the knock is followed by a loud boom and a crack as the assholes don’t even try the handle. Instead, they choose intimidation, with one enormous thick-browed goon slamming through the door and into the foyer with two more men in tow.

“I’m calling the police!” Jess screams, as I spin to find her already poking at her phone.

Her eyes widen as the smaller of the three men, with gray at his temples and a stupid diamond pinky ring, starts walking around the room, inspecting the furniture with a single finger, tsking as he pulls it up covered with dust.

“There’s no police coming.” He chuckles, turning to face us, as the muscle twins flank him on either side. He steps forward, waving a hand toward the ceiling, and smiles on a sympathetic shake of his head. His eyes are fixed on Jess, whose own gaze is darting from me to the men, and back to her phone. “Let me guess, no signal out here?”

He shakes his head as Jess holds my gaze, her face falling white as she struggles to her feet, swaying unsteadily. I rush to her side to grab her elbow, my heart working its way into my throat.

I brandish the knife in my other hand, which only draws more laughter from all three men.

“She’s cute.” The smaller man jerks his head my way, the humor leaving his voice. “More than cute. She could use her assets to sweeten the deal, then work off the rest. She’s very marketable.”

Marketable. I’ve heard that word a lot as an aspiring model. But the way he says it sends a wave of goosebumps over my heated skin.

They move in silent unison, closing in, the heavy sense of foreboding filling the musty dining room.

“Don’t touch us,” I snap, jabbing the knife forward into the air, wishing I hadn’t put my hair into two pigtails this morning.

“Forgive me.” The boss flattens his hand over his red tie on a slight bow. “I’ve forgotten my manners. We haven’t met formally, but our lawyers have. I thought it was time we met in person. Get things sorted out once and for all. All these legal bills, they have to be a burden for someone like you.”

His humorless smile returns as he shifts his black eyes between us.

I hold steady, the tip of the knife shaking in my trembling hand.

“I’m Ernesto Buffalino. I already know who you are.” He presses his index finger to the point of the knife, raising his eyebrows toward me, then pointing to my aunt. “And, of course, I know who you are, Miss Jessica Collins. You are the thorn in my side. One I intend to remove, by any means necessary.”

He raises his hand, snapping two fingers together, and in the blink of an eye the goon to his left with the bald head reaches out, his meaty fingers encircling my forearm, squeezing so tight I wince as his other hand twists the handle of the knife free, flinging it across the room to stick in the yellowed wallpaper above the dusty sideboard, where I used to steal Aunt Jess’s famous snickerdoodle cookies every Christmas.

A scream comes from my left. I jerk my head around as the beast of a man continues to squeeze my arm, to see my aunt crumple to the floor with a hard shove from the other enforcer, lighting a fire down in my belly as I tug and slap at the hand encasing my arm, squeezing my bones until they feel like they will snap.

“Don’t touch her!” I yell, my voice breaking as Ernesto reaches into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a thick white envelope, which he places on the table, tapping two fingers on the wood.

“No one will need to be touched if only you put your signature where it belongs. You will receive fair market value for the property, which is more than you deserve.” He makes a disgusted grunt, looking around the dim room.

The hand on my arm disappears, and I have just enough time to turn my eyes on the bald-headed goon before he cocks back and delivers a full force fist into my mouth.

I’m on the floor before I can get a thought together, pain screaming up my cheek and warm wetness seeping down my chin.

My body feels like it’s pulsing, all the sound sucked from the room as I lie on my side, one hand drifting to the burst of red pain in my face, pressing my fingers into the slick blood now flowing from my broken lip.

“Sign the papers, Miss Collins, and this all goes away.” Ernesto crouches down, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between them as he leans forward, his face inches from Jess. “I have a lifetime of experience getting what I want.”

He jerks his head toward the dark-haired neanderthal, who reaches down, grabs the top of Jess’s head, and turns her face my way as a foot connects with my chest, sending me tumbling backward. A jolt of pain screams through the back of my head as it slams into the corner of the credenza’s carved leg, sending stars dancing in my eyes and an orchestra of ringtones going off in my ears.

“Leave her alone!” My aunt’s voice cracks as my hazy focus and the pain in the back of my head makes me feel like we’ve been transported into a warped version of a Fellini movie.

By the time my vision returns, Ernesto is on his feet, and I realize one of those ringtones is real and coming from his phone, as all three men turn and head back toward the foyer.

“Perfect timing.” Ernesto’s voice turns light and jovial as he answers the call. “I’ve just finished a very productive meeting with the last homeowner. The papers will be signed by tomorrow, you can count on it.”

“Good.” A male voice answers, and a chill zaps over my skin. “I’ve had my crew ready for a week. Every day costs me money, and I don’t like losing money.”

I push to my feet, stumbling toward Jess, the voice vaguely familiar as I tug her into me, pulling her from the floor and easing back into the chair, running my hand over her clammy forehead.

“Asshole,” I spit, as Ernesto turns, the phone screen suddenly at an angle where I can see the name of the caller for a second before it’s gone. And it feels lik my world has been torn apart.

“Do you mind?” he asks, his voice sounding distant inside my disbelieving head. “This is a private call.”

The cold that covered me a second ago becomes an inferno. Confusion and anger twist through me as the throbbing in my face is forgotten.

And from somewhere, a plan forms in my mind. People aren’t always what they seem, and the thought of calling Cassie is quickly come and gone.

How well does she actually know her new husband Magnus Leonard? They were a whirlwind, and even Cassie said there are times she wakes up, looks over at the sleeping man next to her and wonders who he really is.

I swallow as my resolve solidifies. I know what I need to do.

As the three men move out the front door, a sense of loss and heartbreak tightens around my throat. It may have been only a few days of text messages, but Erik made me feel something maybe I didn’t want to admit to myself.

Now, I’m not sure who is who, and what is real or part of some twisted cosmic coincidence.

Either way, it’s time to use what I have to get what I want.

Ernesto said it himself. I’m marketable.

Cassie may be a friend, but my aunt is my family, and I’m going to fix this mess once and for all.