Chapter 24
LORENZO
My phone rings for the third time in a row, and I silence it the same way I have the previous two times. I growl, throwing it on the coffee table in front of me. It lands next to my boot and I have to fight the urge to kick it across the room in frustration.
Why won’t she leave me alone? She’s called nearly every hour on the hour, left dozens of messages, and still keeps trying.
I let my head fall back on the couch I’ve barely moved from since getting home from Avanti days ago. At least I came here, didn’t just keep riding to destinations unknown. And this morning, I managed to ride to the coffee shop I prefer to get a strong brew.
Progress. Or giving up?
I’m not sure.
I take a sip of coffee, noting that for all the enormous effort it took to get, I’ve let it go cold and undrinkable.
There’s a loud knock at the door. I’m too numb to flinch, too empty to care. The phone rings on the table and I sigh in annoyance.
Go away.
“I can hear your phone ringing, Lorenzo, so I know you’re in there. Open up or I’ll bust this door down. You know I will,” she yells out.
The door is thin, making me reasonably certain that she could actually break through it with minimal effort if she put her ass into it with a good kick. Lord knows, she’s hard-willed and stubborn enough to try.
I get up and cross the small room before she has a chance to hurt herself. But I only open the door a few inches, just enough to stand in the tight opening. “What?” I snarl.
“Way to greet the person who’s going to fix your fuck-up, asshole,” Violet snarls right back. Hell, if anything, hers might be more intimidating than mine.
Not that I’d ever admit that to her.
“I don’t need you to fix anything, Vi. I’m fine.” I’m nowhere near fine. I haven’t slept in days, am basically pumping caffeine and whiskey through my veins, and haven’t cooked anything in days. The Chinese food delivery guy has basically been my only visitor.
Violet scoffs. “Really? Because I can smell you from here, you look like shit, and Abi isn’t doing much better.”
The mere mention of her name weakens my resolve exponentially, and I lose my grip on the door. Violet instantly takes advantage, likely having plotted that from the get-go. She bursts through the door and into my small apartment.
I sense her looking around at my place but can’t give a shit about what she thinks of it. It’s temporary, anyway. My homes always are.
“What’s wrong with Abigail?” I demand. Of everything Violet said, that’s what sticks out.
Violet’s heels click across the floor and she daintily picks up a dirty T-shirt from where I threw it yesterday. Or was it the day before? I don’t even know. She sits down on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs and looking as casual as can be now that she’s past the threshold of the door.
“Do you care?” She glares at me critically, her eyes narrowing in challenge. “Truly care? Because I’m here to help you, but not if you’re half-assing this.”
I crowd her, close enough to be threatening, but she’s a ballsy Italian woman and doesn’t react in the slightest. “What’s. Wrong. With. Abigail?” I repeat, needing her to answer me so I don’t run out the door, hop on my bike, and ride to SweetPea Boutique to lay eyes on Abigail myself.
“Honestly, you’re what’s wrong with her. For some stupid reason, she misses you.” She rolls her eyes and sounds like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.
“She does? She hasn’t called me,” I argue, but I’m so surprised that I give her space, falling back on my heels.
Giving a woman like Violet the win is never the right thing to do.
She’ll hold it over my head for the rest of my days that all it took to bowl me over was the barest hint that Abigail might . . . maybe . . . sort of want me.
“Have you called her?” Violet argues right back. She’s got fire in her veins now and is ready to call me on any shit I might spew about it being a vacation-only thing at Abigail’s request.
The truth is, I’ve called a hundred times but never hit Send.
I’ve driven by SweetPea daily, and yesterday, I hit a low point and started Googling for images of her.
Seeing her done up with fancy hair and makeup at socialite events hadn’t made me feel better, though.
I like the beachy Abigail who was bare-faced, open-hearted, and . . . mine.
Violet takes my non-answer as a no. She scowls and gets up, strutting for the door.
“Wait!” I beg.
She freezes with her hand on the knob but doesn’t come back. The glance over her shoulder says this had better be good.
I’ve never been a coward, so I dig deep to find some bravery and tell Violet the truth, praying that she really will help me.
“I’ve been killing myself to stay away from her because I thought that’s what she wanted.
I should be halfway across the country .
. . or in another country by now. But I couldn’t leave her.
I’m on the edge of a fine line of ex and stalker at this point, but I just .
. . miss her, can’t be without her.” My voice is deep, rough with emotion at the admission of what the last few days have been like.
Violet spins in place and points a pink nail at me. “That’s what I want to hear.”
“You want to hear that I’m destroyed? That I’m fucking falling apart without her?
That I can’t cook, can’t sleep, can’t do anything without wondering what she’s doing every minute of the day?
” I shout, my hands flailing through the air dramatically.
I’m Italian. It’s what we do. “Fine, there you go.” I grab my chest through my T-shirt.
“That’s all I’ve got laid bare. Do with it what you will. ”
She click-clacks her way back across my floor and pats my cheek too hard, somewhere between affection and assault. “I will. I’m going to help you.”
“You are?” I’m relieved, hopeful for the first time in days.
“Yep. For her, not for you, so remember that.” But she’s smiling openly as though I passed some significant test. Or maybe that I failed the test of being away from Abigail and that pleases her. Who knows with Violet?
“First things first, you need to do something about that.” She motions from my head down to my toes, making a face of disgust. “Do I need to call Archie?”
I shake my head. “I can shower and shave myself, Vi.”
I park my Ducati in the private parking garage, already sensing the security guard heading my way. I pull my helmet off, hooking it over the handlebar to run my hands through my hair. Freshly washed it on my own, thank you very much, Violet.
“You can’t park here,” the security guard tells me, thinking I give a shit about his supposed authority. I know what he sees when he looks at me—dirty motorbike rider, hair too unkempt, jeans too holey, shirt too off-the-rack, and attitude too fuck-off.
But I am who I am. Abi never seemed to mind my roughness, though I was more ‘board shorts and flip flops’ in Aruba than biker.
“I was invited,” I tell the guard, making no sudden moves—to leave or to obey.
He sneers in disbelief. “By whom?”
“Violet Andrews. She’s my cousin.”
I can see the color drain from the guard’s face.
Apparently, my cousin’s name means something significant to him.
I imagine Violet’s told him off a time or two, probably at fingerpoint.
“Hold, please,” he says, less fierce than he was initially, but his eyes stay locked on me as though I’m some major threat even though I’m chilling on my bike with my arms relaxed at my sides.
He messes with the radio at his shoulder, which crackles in response.
“Ten-four,” he says to whoever’s on the other end of the radio. To me, he’s now casual and at ease. “You’re good, man. Have a great night.” He offers me a wave and continues on his patrol route around the garage while whistling a tune I’m unfamiliar with.
I can’t help but chuckle a bit at Deputy Do-Good thinking he was going to stop me from getting upstairs to my Abigail. But he has delayed me long enough. I jam the button for the elevator, willing it to hurry.
The elevator eventually lets me out on the top floor, and I approach Violet’s penthouse apartment, ready to break through the door.
It’s not until this very moment that I wish I hadn’t arrived with empty hands. Riding the bike, I couldn’t bring a bottle of wine or flowers and arrive with them in anything other than shambles, but I feel unprepared for what’s on the other side of the door.
Is Abigail waiting for me eagerly? Or angrily? Should I grovel or shove her up against the nearest flat surface and remind her how well we fit together?
I won’t know until I see her, so I knock.
Ross opens the door, his jaw tight and his eyes hard, and instead of letting me in, he comes out into the hallway, pushing me back with a palm on my chest. Instinctually, I want to swat his hand away, but I deserve this if Violet was telling the truth.
Ross needs to defend his sister, vet me, and question my intentions.
“Why are you here?” he spits out.
“You already know. This whole round two is unnecessary.” I might understand his right to do this, but that doesn’t mean I have to play along. “Violet interrogated me thoroughly and is, quite honestly, scarier than you. I passed her test, and we both know that’s good enough.”
He growls at my brutal honesty because he’s well aware that I’m right and equally because I’m not giving him the challenge he wants.
For all his suit and tie persona, Ross Andrews would throw down with me at the slightest provocation.
I respect that, his utter willingness to bleed, both himself and others, for his family. I’m the same way.
“Hurt her and I will torture you,” he grits out.
“Not kill me?” I ask with a fuck-off smirk.
He moves another inch closer, so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. “No, torture is pain, the second by second agony through your entire soul. Death will be what you beg for.”