Chapter 52
fifty-two
I’ll kill Graham.
It won’t be that hard. A little erotic asphyxiation, maybe. I could get on top, ride his face, and pretend not to hear him drowning in my?—
“Excuse me.”
I dodge a woman in an oversized coat and almost run into a man holding two armfuls of roses. Carajo . It’s bad enough I’m being forced to meet Graham’s father, the criminal. Even worse that I have to be nice to him. But Graham has apparently decided to delay the whole ordeal by showing up late for our coveted reservation. The weekend before Valentine’s Day.
How he even managed to get a table in the first place is beyond me. I’ve heard of this famous restaurant multiple times, but the press didn’t do it justice. Inside, modern ambiance mixes with the mouthwatering aroma of browning butter. My stomach rumbles while I shift on my feet, gazing hopefully at the door again.
Where is he?
Glancing down at the outfit Graham purchased, I smooth my palms over the nude pencil skirt. I have no clue how the pinchao somehow found something the exact color of my skin without actually having me with him, but the piece truly is flattering. At the very least, I look good.
Another man walks in. For a second, I swear it’s Graham—but then I see the extra girth around his middle, the lines bracketing his thinner lips, the way his hairline recedes.
It has to be the older Mr. Everett, though. The resemblance is too strong to be a coincidence.
“Sir?” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Juliet Rivera, Graham’s… girlfriend.”
Recognition sparks in his eyes. They’re dark, just like my favorite pair. And, also like Graham’s, they move over my body in a way that feels altogether indecent.
“My, my,” he chuckles, holding my hand for a second too long. “I see for once my son didn’t exaggerate. You are very hot.”
Clearly, my boyfriend neglected to mention my penchant for smacking men who objectify me. “Did he say that?”
Now I really will kill him. And not in the fun way I planned before. Painfully.
Mr. Everett has a charming grin, not unlike his son’s. “I may be paraphrasing,” he admits. He gestures toward the hostess stand. “Shall we? Graham is probably stuck in traffic.”
Anxiety knots my guts as I follow him to our table and arrange myself in my seat. I’m prepared to sit through a meal with Graham and his asshole father, but dealing with him one-on-one makes me feel sick.
Mr. Everett orders a double scotch and I get a glass of rosé, wanting to keep my wits about me. I also request a single-malt for Graham.
“So,” Mr. Everett says, eyeing me across the tabletop. “How did you two meet?”
I glance at the door again, desperately willing him to appear one last time before I give the answer Graham and I discussed. “At a bar in SoHo,” I lie, then add some truth for good measure. “It’s sort of hard not to notice him.”
Mr. Everett opens his mouth to reply, but cuts himself off. His eyes follow some movement behind me and he smiles, standing.
Graham. Thank God.
I swivel to shoot him a severe save-me-now look, but the second I see his face, everything inside me lurches. My spine stiffens. I clutch my purse in my hand, ready to leap up.
Lord knows I make Graham plenty angry, but I’ve never seen him enraged . His eyes narrow into slits while they track his dad. He sails through the crowd, intent on his mark.
I witness the entire scene unfold in slow motion. The way Graham’s hands clench into balls before he rounds the table. The moment he cocks his fist back. His arm snapping out to cut cleanly across his father’s face. The sick crunch of cartilage cracking.
Mr. Everett goes straight to the floor. The entire restaurant falls utterly silent. Graham stands over his dad, glaring down.
“You sick son of a bitch,” he growls. “I will bury you .”
Without looking away, he extends his other hand to me. Bewildered, I grab his fingers and let him whisk me into his side.
Fifteen seconds later, we’re on the sidewalk. He drops me as if I’ve burned him and starts to pace, running both hands through his hair.
“What the fuck did I just do?” he mutters. “Jesus Christ.”
I feel like he stole my line. Panicked by the scene he just caused, I spring into action, raising my arm to hail a cab. “We should go. Now.”
Graham nods but doesn’t speak. Seething, he follows me into the taxi and slams his door. “Lower East Side. The Ludlow.”
I turn to give him a baffled scowl, demanding, “What the hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?”
His jaw snaps audibly. “We’ll discuss it at home.”
Pissed by his attitude, his actions, and my own confusion, I cross my arms and huff. “First, I don’t live at The Ludlow so it isn’t my ‘home.’ Second, I’m starving. I skipped lunch today because Dominic gave me attitude. So, third, maybe I don’t want to go to your apartment right now.”
Grinding his teeth, Graham regards me with hot, black eyes. “Then why are you here ?”
I sit up straight, leaning closer to his face. “ Why am I here ?” I shriek. “ You asked me to come. I didn’t even want to meet your father! I only agreed to attend dinner for you . I sat there and let that disgusting excuse for a man eye-fuck me for you . I just fled the scene of an assault without my favorite coat for you . I am here for you! ”
He stares, not blinking. Gradually, the color drains away from his face. I watch the column of his throat work over a hard swallow. “Tell him to pull over,” he murmurs, hoarse. “Now.”
Mutinous, I glare at him. His skin goes from white to sallow. “I feel sick,” he whispers, stone-still. “Please.”
Sloughing out a curse word, I bend forward and ask the cabbie to stop the car. Ordinarily, Graham has a wad of cash out before our cars ever stop. This time, when I look over, he’s jumping out.
“ Loco hijo de puta .”
Muttering to myself in Spanish, I extricate my own wallet and pay five dollars for the two-minute ride. Then I step onto the pavement just in time to witness Graham spew into the gutter.