Chapter Thirteen
Angela
A date with Brady. Why am I going on a date with Brady? I mean, of all people. He lived in the same borough where I went to college, for God’s sake. The Bronx is a big place, but still…the coincidence…
The coincidence.
Well, we’re going out tomorrow. That will give me an opportunity to find out a little more.
The next day, I rummage through my tiny closet and pull clothes out of my broken-down dresser, trying to figure out what to wear.
What would say, “I’m not trying too hard,” “You’re cute, but I don’t entirely trust you,” and “I wouldn’t mind kissing you some more,” all at the same time?
I try on a pair of skinny jeans with a thrift-store flowered halter top that comes to rest just above my hips, revealing about a quarter inch of skin.
I sigh, not pleased with my outfit but reminding myself that I’m not going to try too hard with Brady. Maybe this “date” isn’t such a good idea. Aside from knowing nothing about Brady, I need to keep him knowing nothing about me.
But he’s so, so cute, and funny, and an outrageously good kisser.
Okay, outfit change. I frantically go through my closet and drawers again. Every spare dime I have goes to thrift store clothes, and they’re starting to crowd me out. But clothes are one addiction that I haven’t been able to shake. I just spend pennies on them instead of thousands of dollars.
This time I settle on a short, flirty halter dress in thin aqua cotton with a pattern of yellow flowers.
I add a bronze chain belt and top it off with a pair of Jimmy Choo hiker booties that I couldn’t bring myself to part with.
I’m applying my makeup when a knock at the door makes me jump and smear my eyeliner.
Cursing under my breath, I quickly clean up the mess with a tissue.
“Coming!” I call. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
I try to fix my eyeliner some more and finally just give up.
I take one final look in the mirror and sigh.
My eyes look a little smokier than I intended, but otherwise I’m understated enough, definitely not trying too hard.
I tamp down the urge to try really, really hard for Brady and head to the living room.
I grab my phone from the sofa just as it starts to ring.
And, of course, it’s Elisa. It couldn’t have been a telemarketer, right?
“Hey, Elisa,” I say, realizing I’ll have to let Brady in. There’s no way around it. Elisa, who rarely works fewer than twelve hours a day and can be pretty oblivious to other people’s schedules, is already launching into an update on one of my clients that she knows I’m concerned about.
I open my door and mouth, “Hi,” to Brady before waving him in.
A faint trace of light cologne and warm Brady sunshine drift my way.
I watch his face for a reaction to my complete shithole of an apartment, but he just raises an amused eyebrow at me, makes himself comfortable on the gross brown plaid sofa, and starts scrolling through his phone.
I remain by the door, eager to get him out of here as soon as possible.
“Thanks, Elisa,” I say when she pauses for breath. “I’ll work on it first thing tomorrow morning, cool?”
“Yes, yes, of course!” she exclaims. “Oh my God, look at the time. I have, like, a thousand things to do before I leave. I’ll see you tomorrow!”
I end the call and huff out a sigh that’s a mix of relief and nervousness. Brady is in my apartment. We’re going out together. This is a huge mistake, an irresponsible risk, a…
A date. It’s just a stupid date, Angela , I remind myself. I take a deep breath, straighten , and turn around just as he’s standing up from the sofa and heading toward me.
“Hey,” he says, looking down at me like few men can.
Most are my height, give or take an inch or two, but Brady is six three or six four.
“Damn, princess,” he says, hands in the pockets of his jeans as he looks me over in exactly the way I knew he would, with laughing eyes and unfettered appreciation.
And then, there it is. That smile. A big, nothing-to-hide, perfect smile.
The better to eat you with, my dear…
Knock it off, Angela. It’s just a date. He’s just a guy from the Bronx. He said it himself—typical Bronx Irish Catholic, no surprises, no secrets, no drama. He’s just a nice guy.
“Smokin’ hot, Angie Pines,” he says, making me flush with heat.
“Looking pretty good there yourself,” I say.
He’s wearing a short-sleeve, green plaid button-down over a white T-shirt with dark, slim-fit jeans.
I wonder if he deliberately chose a shirt that brings out his eyes so well, and the thought makes me smile.
“Do your mom and sister pick out your clothes, too?”
He smirks and gives me a little nudge. “I’ll never tell.”
“Sorry about that,” I say, holding up my phone. “Work called, and I love my boss too much to ignore her.”
He frowns. “You have another job?”
“Well, no, it’s not a job exactly,” I explain. “They don’t pay me. I volunteer at Legal Aid two days a week on human trafficking cases.”
He looks at me with a mildly inquisitive expression. “You volunteer at Legal Aid, work full time, and go to law school?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Why. That’s a much bigger question than the three little letters that comprise it.
How about this, Brady? My dad is the head of a large mafia organization.
In addition to your garden variety money laundering, smuggling, and the occasional hit, he operates a couple of strip clubs.
As it turns out, they’re not just disgusting; they’re a front for his human trafficking ring.
So you might say I have a personal interest in righting the wrongs that he and his associates perpetrate every day.
I shrug, hoping he’ll just let it go and focus on the date. “Bleeding heart, I guess.” I smile the best smile that orthodontics can buy, and that seems to do the trick.
“Want to get out of here?” asks Brady.
Ten minutes ago , I think as he opens the door for me.
We head down the cracked, weed-filled driveway. Brady opens the door of his Cherokee for me and helps me in, even though it’s not really an issue for my long legs.
“Where are we going?” I ask once we’re both buckled in and Brady is pulling away from the curb.
“Finnegan’s?” he says. “Have some wings, play some darts…” He angles a mischievous smile toward me, and I laugh. “Nah, I’m kidding. I thought we’d get out of Dos Torres tonight. What do you think?”
“Whatever you want.” This was his idea. I’m just the nervous, conflicted passenger along for the ride.
“It’s kind of a long drive,” he says, glancing at his navigation. “About an hour and fifteen minutes.”
An hour and fifteen minutes. And we’re heading toward the westbound freeway.
“Are we going to the beach?” I exclaim, delighted.
I love the beach, even though I’ve never had the fun family trips that Brady had grown up with.
We have a place in the Hamptons I escaped to by myself whenever I could, usually in the offseason when my parents weren’t entertaining there.
“Yep. Ninety miles due west, princess. As you already knew, being from here and all.” Something in his tone makes me stiffen slightly.
It sounded like he was playing along with my little charade, like when I told him I grew up in foster care.
“Oh, and I brought something for you,” he says before I can dwell too much on that.
He touches his car’s computer screen and connects it to his phone’s music app.
I burst out laughing as soon as the music starts. “The Dirty Dancing soundtrack? You’re too funny, Brady.”
“Hey. Nobody puts Brady in a corner.”
“You’re ridiculous.” He’s totally cracking me up.
A guy hasn’t made me laugh like this since a kid I had a deep but unrequited crush on my entire freshman year of high school.
Now, here I am, relaxing in Brady’s car, laughing my ass off, my anxiety blowing out the open window as I listen to The Ronettes sing “Be My Baby.”
A little over an hour later, we’re in Cataluna Hills, a beach town that’s like Dos Torres 2.0—artsy and eclectic but more upscale and cooled off by an ocean breeze. Brady pulls up to the valet station of a beachfront hotel with a hipster-chic vibe.
“A hotel…” I muse, shooting him a quirked eyebrow. “I like the confidence, Brady.”
“Just for dinner,” he says, “so don’t get your panties in a bunch, Pines.” He puts the car in park. “Leave that to me.”
I meet his sideways smirky glance with one of my own and allow a valet to help me out of the car.
Well, here we are. On a date. A nice date, in a nice town, at a nice hotel. I can pull this off.
The hotel is built along a cliff, so we have to take an elevator down a couple of levels to the beachfront restaurant.
Brady steals a glance at me and cocks an eyebrow as we crowd in with a very well-coiffed family of four who look like they produce and perform cheesy pop songs together.
I almost giggle but manage not to. When they step off on the floor before ours, he pulls me against him and gives me a quick kiss on the lips.
“You look amazing,” he says, running his fingers through the chin-length strands of hair that frame my face. Then his hands are cupping my face and he’s giving me another, deeper kiss.
Electricity travels through my body like lightning. I inhale him as we kiss, throw myself against him so that he hits the wall, stifle a groan when he wraps my hair around his hand. I pull away abruptly, startled by the effect that kiss had on me.
He loosens his grip on my hair and lets me pull away, but he holds my eyes with his.
Being locked in a stare with him gives me the same panicked feeling as my recurring dream.
I try to remind myself that this is what I wanted: a new identity, a normal life.
Normal girls have casual affairs with no strings attached.
But now that it’s happening, it feels totally wrong.
This isn’t real. It’s a dream, and when I wake up the dream is going to come crashing down around both of us.
The elevator stops with a slight jolt. I blink and move away from him.
“This is us, I guess,” I mumble and step out of the elevator.