8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Henny
A nother day, another job on the horizon. I rolled out of bed feeling more rested than I had in a long time. Three days since the strange experience of waking up in Marco’s bed. Three days without a drink. Three days chock full of big, scary, adult ruminations over the things he’d said, and everything else that had been left unsaid.
In spite of my better judgment, I did look up the names on the prescription bottle labels I'd unearthed in my accidental snooping. I’d die on the hill that it was an accident. At least if I had to defend my ill begotten knowledge. I wondered if anyone knew. Marco's family was close-knit and supportive. Nothing like the family I'd come from. Some foster kids got lucky and landed in nice homes with caring parental figures. Not so much the case for Jericho and I.
Nevertheless, something told me Marco wasn't quite as forthcoming with his secrets as his loving family would believe. I couldn't shake the unease that my research had revealed. No matter how many different ways I put in the search query, the result was always the same. Those three prescriptions were sometimes prescribed as a cocktail to people suffering from treatment-resistant major depressive disorder. Knowing that made my chest feel funny.
On top of juggling my confused feelings about Marco’s mental health struggles, I was left confronting the reality of my own situation after what he’d said to me about my friends. I was ready to blow it off, but when the jeering texts and compromising pictures hit my phone the following day, I could see his point. Normally I wouldn't give a rat’s ass. I was the party boy, game for anything with zero self-respect and not a fuck to give. The fact that I had no recollection of the events in the pictures and had been essentially rescued from the situation by a man who hated my existence with the ferocity of a rabid animal had me feeling a little sick to my stomach.
As much as I hated to admit it, I had to make a few lifestyle changes if I wanted to avoid things like that in the future. It started with my drinking habits. When everyone wanted to hit a dive bar the following night, I begged off with some excuse about doing laundry. The next night, I claimed I wasn't feeling well. They were already harassing me about tonight, but I asked Jer to tell them I had other plans.
“Under one condition: we actually make plans, just you and I.” Jericho grabbed me by the upper arms to stop my pacing. “What is up, Hen? You've been spinning out for days.”
“I don't want to go out tonight. Please, just tell them I'm… busy or something. I want to stay in and figure some shit out.”
He eyed me with a stern look that betrayed his dominant side and I caved like the gutless man I was. I handed him my phone and watched him type in the password. Naturally, the texts from Red were still open on the screen. I'd been staring at the pictures since I'd received them. He scrolled, storm clouds crossing his expression as he frowned.
“Hen, what the hell—”
“Normally, I'd laugh. You know me. I don't give a fuck but this feels…”
“This is fucking bad. I'm ready to fucking beat their asses.” His eyes snapped toward my face. “Did they—”
“No. God, no. Just what you see there. Um… Marco actually took me home. Well, to his place.”
Jericho's face instantly burned with red rage. “He didn't touch you, did he? I swear to God…”
“Jesus, no. He was actually great.” I ruffled my hair with a beleaguered sigh. “He said some shit about them and it just hit me.”
“Hen, I didn't know it was this bad,” he mumbled, shutting off my phone and tossing it to the couch. “You're gonna let me hug you and you aren't gonna bitch about it.”
Despite my chaotic emotions, I laughed. He smirked and pulled me into his arms with a jerk. Daddy Jericho liked to come out and play sometimes, whether I wanted it or not. In this case, I wasn't mad. My touch-starved body melted into his embrace with a quiet hum. He held me tighter and brushed a palm over my hair, slowly and repetitively. I linked my arms around his waist and let my brain shut off for a while.
We remained silent and still for longer than I expected to. There was a sneaking suspicion that he was waiting for me to be the one to pull away first and I wasn't ready yet. He felt my flinch when my phone buzzed from the couch.
“Shh, I'll handle whatever it is,” he whispered to my hair and shifted to kiss my temple. “We’re going to order takeout and watch shit movies tonight.”
I deflated and stepped back with a faint nod. “Thanks, Jer.”
I didn't even care that we’d likely be watching Fast and Furious Ninety-Five or whatever the most recent one was. Having no-pressure plans to hide behind lifted a weight from my shoulders that I hadn't realized I'd been carrying. If this was what being an adult was like, maybe I should go back to my wild party boy ways. That version of me didn't give a shit about things like struggling bosses, shit friends, and unhealthy coping mechanisms.
“Huh,” Jericho mumbled, frowning at my phone. “It's Marco.”
My eyebrows rocketed toward my hairline as I reached for the device. I was as curious as I was reluctant. I opened the text and my brows stretched even higher.
Marco: Call me.
Okay, weird. I glanced at Jer and showed him the message. He shrugged like he had no clue what the issue was. To his defense, he really didn't know how scrambled my head was over this man.
Moving in slow motion, I pressed the button to call. It rang so long, I expected it to roll over to voicemail. At the last second, his gruff voice answered.
“Hey.”
“Heeeey,” I drawled, shifting to the side to collapse into the beaten down lumpy cushions of the couch. “Sooo…?”
“I'm headed to Jersey.”
“Okay?”
“For work.”
“Gotcha.”
An aggravated puff of air came through the line. “I suppose it isn't prudent to do that alone.”
“Prolly not.” I smirked to myself over his frustration.
“Fuck you.” His voice grew faded. Shit.
Before he could hang up, I yelled into the phone to get his attention. The sound of his breathing returned to normal volume. Eventually, he acknowledged me. “What?”
“I can be there in twenty.” I jerked my chin toward Jericho and pointed to my phone. He nodded with a slow spreading smirk. “Jer too.”
“Just you two.” His rumbly grumble was surprisingly endearing.
“As you wish, your Highness.”
“Fucking hate you.” The line went dead. When I pulled the phone away to look at the screen, the call had ended. I shook my head with a mutter.
“What was that about?” Jericho held out a hand and hoisted me up from the couch.
“He’s fucking annoying is what.”
“Except you're smiling.”
I pointed my phone at his face and hushed him. The fucker laughed and shook his head. I didn't have time for his bullshit, so I pushed him out of my way, grabbed my keys, and left the apartment. The reprieve was short lived. Of course it was. We were riding together to Marco’s place, after all.
“You’re still smiling,” He goaded as soon as his ass hit the passenger seat.
“No. I'm scowling. Scowling because I'm suddenly having second thoughts about our friendship.”
“Henny, you're nuts. Nuts if you think I'm going to let this go and nuts if you think I don't know what the fuck is up right now.” Jericho leaned back in the seat with a smug smile.
“Fuck. You.” I turned the radio on simply to keep the conversation from continuing.
We found Marco already waiting for us in the underground garage. Maybe I was reading into it because of the bias my illicit knowledge imbued, but he looked unwell . Not in the physical health sense of the word, but in the mental health department. Yeah, I'd done some research. Sue me. His eyes were dim with dark circles underneath. His jaw was covered in a considerable amount of scruff. There was a general sense of unease to his stance. The faraway, distracted expression was unlike his typical icy demeanor.
I stopped the SUV and lowered the window. He appeared at the driver's side and tried to glower, but the heat was lacking. “Get out.”
“Uh, no. You get in.”
“I'm driving.” Quick as lightning, he reached over the door, pressed the button to unlock it, and hauled it open. “Get out.”
“What the fuck, Marc?!”
“I'm. Driving.” He reached over my waist in an attempt to unlatch the seat belt, but I batted his hand away with an incredulous cry.
“Hen, just—” Jericho tried to intervene, but it was too late. Marco was stronger and faster than I was. The belt released and his hands fisted in my shirt. Microseconds later, I was tumbling out of the car and scrambling to keep myself upright.
All my conflicted thoughts and growing sympathy flew into the ether. Fuck this guy, with his nasty fucking attitude, hotheaded temper, and violent tendencies. Yeah, my so-called friends might be animals. He was just as bad as them, if not worse. I launched myself at him with a shout. Before I could think better of it, my fist connected with his mouth. It was a glancing blow, but carried enough force to crack a satisfying split in his lower lip.
My lack of forethought backfired hard. In the heat of the moment, I forgot two very important things: Marco had held his own for four years in prison and he'd spent the entire time since keeping his bulk up in the gym. Gut, ribs, jaw. The punches landed so fast I couldn't tell you what order they were in, but pain erupted from all three locations almost instantaneously. As if that wasn't enough, I somehow found myself pinned against the back door of the SUV by the mass of his body, held in place with a tight hand squeezing my jaw so hard, I worried he'd break it.
“I’m. Driving.” His hot breath washed over my face in heavy waves. The wild look in his eyes was a complicated mixture of anger, fear, and… holy fuck. Maybe my addled brain was reading it all wrong, but hidden amongst the turmoil of his mixed emotions, there was a noticeable hunger that explained the firmness of his dick where it pressed against my hip. Holy. Fuck.
My eyes darted all over his face as I panted to catch my breath. The trickle of blood running from the split in his lip caught and held my attention. His tongue darting out to lick it away fueled the flames of need. I silently swore as my own dick swelled behind the zipper of my jeans. Do not grind against him. Do not. Don't do it.
“Yeah, fine. You drive.” I swallowed, as difficult as it was with his grip on my throat, forcing myself to stay still. His eyes dilated further and dipped toward my chin, my lips, my throat, and back toward my eyes. He was everywhere, invading all my senses all at once with the overpowering intensity of his presence. And then, he was gone. Recoiling as if he’d been burnt, he turned on a dime and climbed into the driver’s seat before slamming the door so violently, the vehicle rocked.
I hurried to climb into the backseat before he could put the car in gear. He'd either drive away or drive over me. Both were plausible. Especially given the feral, panicked look in his eyes as he kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. Knowing that Mr. I’m-Not-Gay d’Ambrosio just had a come to Jesus moment with his dick during a fist fight, I decided to play it safe and keep my mouth shut. He had enough to battle inside his head without me mouthing off and making it worse.
The interior of the car was eerily devoid of all sound except for the engine and the sounds of our breathing. Even shifting in my seat was too loud in the vacuum of silence. Jericho turned in his seat, his gaze darting from me to Marco’s profile and back again, over and over like a neurotic tic. I fluttered my fingers subtly to shoo his attention back toward the windshield. Begrudgingly, he resituated himself to face forward.
Still, the quiet persisted. Like Jericho, Marco’s eyes kept flicking toward the rear view mirror. It took a lot of work, but I somehow managed to keep my expression unrevealing and my gaze locked on the mirror to catch every stolen glance. Sure, I wasn't about to mouth off, but I wanted him to know I knew. I needed him to know. His obvious discomfort as he squirmed in the front seat had me smothering a smirk.
After the longest and most awkward drive in the history of automobiles existing, we finally made it to New Jersey and the uncomfortably vacant shipping yard Marco was intent on visiting. I probably should have asked where we were going and why before I let him manhandle me out of the seat. Not that I let him, but that was neither here nor there.
“Since you’re both going to act like the leads in a bully romance, I guess I'll be the adult here for a second—what’s the deal, boss?” Jericho glanced toward Marco, looking wholly unimpressed with the entire situation.
“Mngh,” Marco grunted, sucking his teeth before he continued. “Welcome to the inner circle, I guess. There’s a group of men in there with a duffel bag of handguns. I have an envelope containing a hundred thousand dollars in my back pocket. Do the math.” He jerked his chin toward one of the warehouses about fifty paces away.
“Fuck me sideways,” I muttered, leaning back in my seat to push my hands through my hair.
“No, you’d like that too much.” Jer winked at me before examining the building in the distance. “So what's the game plan?”
“We get out, meet them halfway, exchange the goods. And then we bounce.” Marco turned to make eye contact directly for the first time since our scuffle. “You good with grabbing the bag? Jericho can take the flank and watch for any movement in their lackeys.”
“Shit. I guess.” I pointed at his face with an index finger. “Clean your lip up. You look like a wreck.”
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.”
His eyes snapped toward me with that same expression I was coming to expect to find. Fear. Marco d’Ambrosio was afraid of me and the things he was feeling because of me. I should have reveled in the power it gave me. Except I couldn't.
Turns out I was just as scared.