4. Aubree
4
AUbrEE
THAT FIVE STAR TREATMENT
“ W elcome, Mr. Malone.” The air hostess, whose nametag reads Jacinta , drops her gaze as we approach the top of the jet’s stairs and Tim steps up behind me. His chest practically touches my back. His breath certainly flutters the locks of my hair. Jacinta is clearly well-trained in the ‘ don’t look into the mafioso’s eyes, or like Medusa’s victims, you might die ’ school of thought.
But then again, she doesn’t meet my eyes either, and I can’t say I appear all that threatening.
Killers don’t wear short skirts, thigh high socks, Doc Martin boots, and a jacket made of sequins.
“Welcome aboard,” she adds, avoiding my eyes and sheepishly gesturing along the aisle—though is it an aisle, considering we’re not on a commercial flight with hundreds of seats packed in like sardines in a can? “We’re set to take off just as soon as you’re ready. Meals will be served approximately one hour after we’re up. Coffee will be prepared as soon as the captain allows me to stand.”
“I’d like a coffee, please.” I don’t move along the aisle. I refuse, despite Tim’s hulking frame at my back. Look into my eyes, dammit! If you stand up to these jerkwads, they stop being scary . “The largest mug you have on board. Piping hot, and add sugar. Extra sugar. Please.”
“Yes, Doctor Emeri. I’ll get that organized immediately.”
“Let’s go.” Tim tosses our bags, literally unceremoniously lobs them, so they land on the closest couch— definitely not a commercial airliner —then he wraps his palm around my biceps and forces me to move. “You’re holding us up, Emeri. I’d like to leave the state of New York sometime in the next twenty seconds.”
“I’d like to stay another day.” I stumble as I attempt to turn and look over my shoulder, but he holds me up anyway. His grip is absolute and yet, painless. “Minka and Archer aren’t coming home today.”
“Cute. But I didn’t ask your opinion on the matter.” He manhandles me despite the witness I might someday call to the stand. Though I wonder, did she agree to omertà too?
Yeah, I can google things. I’m not useless.
“Sit your ass down.” And to make sure I do, he plops me onto a stupidly comfortable seat, the one facing toward the cockpit, and not the one facing the back. Because I get sick, and he’s irritating enough to know it. Releasing me, he takes the chair opposite, though I know he hates having his back to the door. “You used to be so sweet, you know that?”
“Hmm?” I snag my seatbelt and fix the steel buckle into place, while outside the window on my left, the engines fire to life and make the floor vibrate beneath my feet. “You don’t consider me sweet anymore?”
“You used to be soft-spoken, all rainbows and happy vibes. This cute, little, shy doctor who would sit at my bar all alone, reading her textbooks and blushing whenever anyone came by to sit on the stool beside yours. They tried,” he reaches up and smooths down the already smooth beard that covers his chin. “The dudes, they wanted to ask you out. But you were so focused on your studies, you saw no one. Nothing but the burger I set in front of you and the textbook you had laid in your lap.”
Observant asswipe.
“Yeah?” Despite my insecurities, then and now, I show him only attitude. “So now you claim I’m no longer sweet? Because I talk back?”
“I think you found a giant fucking pocket of sass, and you like to smash me over the head with it every chance you get. Minka Mayet came into your life, married my brother, and now you’ve stopped being the woman with a textbook at my bar, and instead, you’re the one tossing attitude my way, inviting men into your personal space purely to piss me off, and talking back when all I wanna do is protect that innocent woman I first met. Mayet gave you confidence, so now you think you can say and do whatever you want.”
“God forbid women build other women up.” I tighten my belt, squeezing my hipbones and gulping when the plane starts taxiing. Then I focus on the obnoxiously pretty Jacinta finding her seat at the front. I sure as hell ignore the hulking Timothy Malone as he leaves his seat and drops into the chair beside mine. “I still enjoy studying,” I rasp. Don’t pay attention to the plane. Don’t pay attention to the wheels. Jesus on a three wheeled scooter, don’t pay attention to the fact we’re about to defy the laws of gravity and go up. “I also enjoy telling you to mind your damn business. You’re not my man. You’re certainly not my husband. Your opinion about my life holds no weight at all. The fact you think you get a say is surely throwback DNA from your forefathers.”
His eyes narrow with impatience. But the tolerance he worked all his life to control means I’m safe. Always. Forever. “I could be your husband. Doing so would ensure your safety in all things related to the very topic that gives me heartburn.”
His words, so facetiously tossed about, bring a deep ache to the very depths of my soul. Because he discusses marriage as though it’s as casual as ordering lunch.
“You’re not very funny, you know that?”
His lips twitch until my heart wants to swell and, at the same time, shrivel. His flippancy hurts.
“Have you ever known me to crack a joke?” He grabs my hand when the plane’s wheels leave the tarmac and my nails dig into the armrest between us. My knuckles glow white and my thighs tense as I push my heels against the floor. But he peels my fingers apart, prying them open and placing his between each, so we’re holding hands. So he embraces me when I’m too proud to ask for comfort. “You know my reservations over the last year or so. My family and the life we’re flying away from are the reason I worry for you. And I know you heard what I said last night about the guard at Felix’s wedding. If shit went down, they would not protect you, Aubree. But they would have protected Minka and Christabelle.”
He drags our joined hands into his lap. Not to rest on his crotch or make our connection dirty. But for comfort… maybe. I think.
“If we marry, you receive protection, too. For the rest of your life. That protection is absolute, and if anyone, from any family, were to cause you harm, they risk their entire bloodline.”
“To protect me from that mafia world…” I ignore the sky rising outside the window. “You drag me in and marry me to the institution you loathe?”
“Common sense doesn’t always make sense.” He wraps our hands with his and strokes the top of my wrist. “Not everything in my world is logical. But the rules are clear. No one breaks them unless they want to die a very slow, exceptionally painful death.”
“You know what I’d consider a slow, painful death?” As the plane levels out and the tug in my stomach loosens, I slide my hand from his and gulp as this morning’s breakfast teases the base of my throat. “Marrying someone for business. Or for protection. Or misplaced loyalty. Or money. Or any kind of transaction at all. Marriage is for love. It’s for pure, unadulterated, ‘ I cannot live without this other half of my heart ’ devotion. It’s not because you’d feel bad if I died in someone else’s mafia war.”
“Aubree—”
“And it’s definitely a day to be celebrated with our families. It’s something I would invite my mom and daddy to. And my brothers. My sisters. It would mean inviting the groom’s family. And promising my heart, and being the bride who was kissed, and having a first dance, and cutting a cake. None of those things would happen to a couple who married for anything other than love. And there’s no way in hell I could invite my father to walk me down the aisle toward a man whose ‘ I do ’ is based around fear of the unknown, and not because he’s so helplessly, insanely, ridiculously head over heels obsessed with me.” I sniff and bring one leg up to cross over the other, now that the plane is steady and the delicious scent of coffee permeates the air. “Call me na?ve. Or silly. Or high maintenance. But I won’t marry for anything less than complete obsession. Hair clips and family wars don’t count.”
O ur flight lasts just over six hours, dragged out because of a snowstorm that covers all of Copeland City with white powder and ice that slicks every road. Every flat surface. Every runway from here to the next city over.
“Are you okay?” Tim rubs my back, his thumb and forefinger massaging the base of my neck as nausea wins out and the meal Jacinta served burns my esophagus on the way back up. Because snow and wind make for turbulence, and turbulence, to a small plane, is like plopping us inside a snow globe and handing the friggin’ thing to a five-year-old buzzed on sugar and big energy.
My head throbs and my stomach heaves. Sweat beads on my brow, trickling along my spine, and my feet tingle for good measure, I suppose. Or as a neurological response to my body going into panic mode .
It’s definitely the second.
“This is so gross.” Groaning, I accept the napkin Jacinta oh so helpfully offers, bringing it between my lips and the wine bucket Tim hurriedly grabbed to catch my barf. I wipe my mouth and burn hot with a blush, because half of my vomit contains unprocessed pasta, and the other half… yesterday’s champagne. “Leave me here to die,” I whimper, snatching my bucket back when Tim attempts to take it. Not because I need it. But because I refuse to let him deal with it. “Go,” I prod. “Live your life without me.”
Chuckling, he digs his thumb into the soft spot at the very base of my neck, sending sparks of relaxation along my spinal column and throughout my back. Then he leans closer, too close, considering the puke on my breath, and murmurs an infuriatingly gentle, “I’m not leaving. Do you need to vomit some more, or are you done?”
“I’m done.” I spit into the bucket, totally classy, and loathe the string of salvia holding on to my lip. But I use the Jacinta-napkin and clean my face before I expire from humiliation. “We’re on the ground now, so I’m okay.”
“That was a pretty rough landing.” He coaxes the bucket from my clutching fingers, then the napkin from my other hand. And tossing the second into the steel bowl, he sets the lot on the floor and makes it someone else’s problem.
Sorry Jacinta.
“Come on.” He’s so much gentler now, compared to when we got on the plane, wrapping his palm around my bicep and drawing me carefully to my feet. I tossed my jacket about a thousand air-miles ago, when sweat began pooling under my armpits and the threat of hyperventilation was too real. But that jacket, now wet with perspiration, will be needed when we step off this jet and head toward home.
Shakily turning, I bend to grab the sparkling item, but Tim snags it instead, too fast for my weak hands. He balls it up and tosses it to the bags at the front of the plane, then he accepts his coat, the one he handed Jacinta when she delivered our coffee after takeoff. But instead of slipping his arms into the sleeves, he holds it for me, smiling in encouragement when I accept his offering. “Good girl,” he purrs. He purrs ! “Who knew you could be so compliant?”
“Watch yourself.” Frail because of how my knees tremble, I slip my arms into the sleeves and snuggle into the soft, warm fabric. Folding the excess material across to double layer my front, rather than button it up, I discreetly turn my face and sniff the collar that sits conveniently in line with my nose. So delicious. So comforting, despite our tendency to argue every time we’re in the same room. “I’m compliant when it serves me. I’ll turn on you faster than a rattlesnake if you’re not careful.”
“Uh-huh.” He nudges me into the aisle— not really an aisle —and wraps his arm across my back, anchoring his hand on my hip to keep me standing. Then he starts us toward the door while Jacinta speeds ahead and releases the locks.
An icy wind sprints in and swaps the sweat on my spine for goosebumps. “Jesus.” He rubs the side of my arm while simultaneously grabbing our bags as we move past. “It’s colder out there than I remember it from yesterday. What the fuck?”
“It’s December.” Thanks, Captain Obvious. Wonderful addition to the conversation. “You remember the storm last year?”
“The one where you refused to keep your ass inside my bar?” He flips my duffel up onto his shoulder, then my backpack too, so the overly large, tattooed, bearded, mafioso’s back glitters with the treasures TSA scanners probably wouldn’t allow onto a regular commercial flight. “That one when you were nervous about your new chief starting Monday, so you were sitting at the bar while a snowstorm belted down outside, reading your textbooks like you thought she would quiz you, but then you got up and walked home anyway. All to piss me off?”
“I had to go home.” I burrow into his jacket as we breach the door, and look out at the private hangars paid for by Malone money. Cars sit just feet from the base of the jet’s stairs, and a man in a suit waits, much like they did in New York, with his hands folded in front of his hips and his feet set shoulder-width apart. Ready to run, I suppose. Ready to fight. Ready to join Will Smith in his war against aliens. “It was getting late.”
“It was dark. People were dying out there in that cold.” He helps me onto the steel steps, squeezing my arm to stop me from slipping. “And I had no help at the bar, so short of kicking everyone out, or letting them have free rein of my taps, I couldn’t follow you home. You wore jeans that night. And boots that went all the way to your knees.” He glances down at the skirt I wear now, and the goosebumps that litter every spare inch of exposed skin between my thighs and socks. “You were all tangled up in your stress, so you wore something a little less bright that night.”
“What I wear each day is hardly an indication of my stress levels.”
“False.” He helps me off the last step and hands our bags over to the soldier waiting. There are no words spoken, no orders given. Each man knows his role in this world, even the mafia heir who declined his place at the top of a powerful totem pole. “Your clothing choices absolutely dictate how you’re feeling. Bigger and brighter means ‘ I’m feeling good and I’m okay with people seeing me ’. Muted colors, or standard clothes with no crazy adornments, means ‘ I’m a little insecure right now ’ or ‘ I’m not as confident as I wish I could be, so I choose to blend in until I feel better ’.” He grabs the back door of what can only be a hundred-thousand-dollar SUV and holds it wide for me to slide in. “I suppose you could say I’m an observer. And everything we are, everything I know about you, began long before Minka Mayet stomped her way into my bar and declared you her best friend.”
“I made the declarations.” And I work damn hard not to flash my backside as I scoot across the backseat. “I was the one who said we’d be friends. She was the one who didn’t want to socialize.”
“And because she was so prickly at first, you wore regular jeans and your hair only had one color in it. You wore glitter high tops, which are still brighter than the average Joe’s shoe of choice, but they’re not platform ass kickers with spikes or chains.”
“You make it sound like I’m a whole spectacle everywhere I walk.” I hate that his words make me reconsider my penchant for color, like fashion is something to be ashamed of. But when I fix my seatbelt and glance across, intending to watch him do the same, I startle and find his eyes burning into mine. His lips curled and his cheeks pushed just a little higher with his smile. “What?”
“You are a spectacle everywhere you walk. You’re a fucking vision. Beauty and grace, wrapped in rainbows and really good fucking energy. People feel your presence long before they see you, and the fact you make them feel good is why everyone wants you around.”
“You think so?” Challenging, I sit back and fold my arms. Closing myself off from the man I want so badly to own me, claim me, but admit it’s for love and not duty. I cross one leg over the other and stare down at my sunshine-yellow skirt in defiance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t make me feel good.” He fixes his seatbelt and snags a bottle of water from the center console between the front two seats. Crackling the lid open, he turns and offers his gift. “You set me on fire with your mean words and make me want to walk into a wall of machetes, most often. You’re mean to me.”
I snatch the water and sip as the car begins moving, if only because I’m certain my breath smells like barf. “You make me angry. You toy with my heart like it’s a yo-yo you get to toss around.”
“If it’s any consolation,” he reaches into his pocket and takes out a stick of gum. Ever the bloody boy scout. “My actions hurt my heart, too. I’ve wanted to wrap you up and put you in my pocket since the first time I set a soda in front of you at the bar. But just because I wanted you didn’t mean I’d get to have you. Back then, it was my choice to keep you on the outside. Now you’re in, because of Archer and Minka and all the rest of them. I still want you, and I’m willing to ensure your safety. But now you won’t have me. You keep saying no.”
“Life sure is a rollercoaster.” I snatch the gum and unwrap it with fast steadying hands. The longer we’re on the ground, the more my stomach settles. “I suppose the ball is in my court now, huh? I’ve just clawed my way through a year of hell, where I got to watch you date some other chick, discover your family’s history à la blood on my shoes, argue with Felix friggin’ Malone like he’s not capable of disposing of my body where no one will ever find it, but that’s all water under the bridge, since, evidently, I was special enough to receive an invitation to his wedding. Oh, and since you so enjoy screwing with my heart, you gave me a family heirloom at my best friend’s wedding, failed to explain to me the significance, and as recently as today, you discuss marriage.”
“Well—”
“I have a right to stability and normalcy. I have a right to a functional, healthy relationship. Not whatever this ,” I flick my hand in his direction, “is. Call me high maintenance, but your in and out, hot and cold, let’s discuss marriage and negotiate the dowry is not really a game I’m interested in playing.”
“I never said there would be a dowry.” He glances down when I toss the gum wrapper in his lap. Then picks it up, the small, scrunched ball, tiny compared to his thick, scarred fingers. “And I never specifically asked you to marry me. I said it’s something a man in my line of work might consider.”
“In your line of work?” I scoff and look toward the front of the car, inadvertently catching the gaze of our unnamed, unspeaking driver as he pulls out of the airport and starts us toward the city. But then I break our silent standoff—God forbid he gets caught and Tim punishes the poor guy: that’s what mafia men do, isn’t it ? “Back when I mentioned maybe having a crush on this older, broader, quietly spoken grump,” I drag my gaze around and stop on an emerald stare, “I thought your line of work was in the pouring a beer and being mean to the customers kind. Had I known about Felix before he dropped a dead body onto my list of PTSD, I might have considered a different bar to study in.”
“Uh-huh, except you still visit my bar, even now. After all the shit. There are other places you can buy a soda and burger, Emeri. Some are even closer to your apartment than mine. And you still attended Lix’s wedding yesterday, and stayed in his home overnight, and flew in his plane today, despite claiming to hate him. You’re still here. You still want me. And most of all, you’re terrified that someday, I might stop apologizing for the things you’ve endured because of knowing me, and instead, I might give up pursuing you and start looking at someone else. Someone who poses far less work and stress for me. You enjoy your seat all the way up there on your high horse, looking down and acting like I’m some kind of fucking monster who screwed you over, when all along, I kept you at arm’s length so you wouldn’t get caught up in the very shit you’ve muscled your way into. Ultimately, you’re in a snit today because you thrive on independence and romance, and I mentioned marriage in a way that would rob you of both.”
“We’re not getting married!” He’s right. He always has been. Push me away to keep me safe. Bring me close also to keep me safe. Most horrifying of all, I lay awake at night, paralyzed at the thought that he may someday grow bored and choose someone else. Someone easier. “I’m mad that you gave me a family heirloom and didn’t tell me the story that came with it. I’m disappointed that although I remember exactly why I hate Felix, that hate has simmered to more of a vibe I struggle to hold on to when he’s being charming. I’m mortified that you know what clothes I wear and how they correspond with my mood. And I hate that, because of everything I pointed out just now, I realize you may be the most romantic man I’ve ever met. Oh, and I’m furious that my breath tastes like mint flavored barf. Because that’s embarrassing, considering our current argumentative stance.”
He plays with the wrapper between his fingers, calm, quiet, listening and absorbing my every word. So when I find a scrap of bravery and glance across to search his profile, I find him grinning, and the sparkle in his eyes, visible despite the fact he’s not looking my way.
“Well?” Shut. Up. Aubree ! “What do you have to say about all that?”
“I know.”
I wrinkle my nose, like a fiery little bulldog too stupid to know it’s outmuscled and outmatched. “You know what?”
“I know you’re proud and smelly and insecure and still, so fucking perfect it terrifies me.” He offers the gum wrapper, twisted and turned, and presents it to me in circle. A ring. Good lord, it’s a ring ! “We’re gonna come out the other side of this, Aubree. I’m not sure what life will look like. I don’t know if we’ll be happy or arguing or even alive. But I know we’ll do it together.” He grabs my hand and threads the ring onto my middle finger.
A statement, but at the same time, not.
It’s a promise, perhaps, but not a proposal.
“I hope someday, if we can log ninety days argument free, that you’ll accept a date when I ask you out. That’s when we’ll figure this out. That’s when we’ll know.”
“And maybe we’ll send each other to hatred.” My bottom lip trembles as I look down at the ring he made for me. It could be genuine gold and diamonds, and it wouldn’t be as special as this one. “Relationships—whether romantic or platonic—cannot survive on snark and bad moods.”
“Sure they can.” He wraps his arm over the top of my shoulders and pulls me closer until my cheek rests on the side of his chest. “Archer and Minka do just fine with their anger.”