32. Chapter 32
I’m in a half-doze, splayed out on top of Reaper, feeling like I’ve spent the last hour under the expert hands of a Swedish masseuse.
Reaper is on his back, one arm resting lightly on the back of my thigh, his hand running up and down.
“This is good,” I murmur.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry about all that stuff before. Lots of dry spells in between boyfriends. And so I guess… I thought.”
He slaps my bottom. “Stop talking about other men. Pretend you’re Jesus’s mom.”
I chuckle softly.
He takes a deep satisfied breath. “Tell me about the tofu.”
“Hmmm?” I say.
“The tofu. You said it was like tofu.”
My brain kicks in. “Oh yeah. I wrote a poem.”
“Really,” he says as he raises his head and meets my eyes. “You make the best fucking calzones in America, and you’re a poet too. I hit the motherlode.”
“I know,” I tease. “It’s like a double whammy. Triple if you count my mediocre college grades.”
He grins at me.
The silence lingers as I trace the tattoo on his chest with my fingers. “You really wanna hear the poem?”
“I wanna hear the poem,” he says.
I wrote it years ago, seriously. Shortly after breaking up with boyfriend number two, who was so tepid it was likely dating Reverend Luther, the pastor of my parish. I’d tell Reaper the background, but he’s made it clear talking about other men in bed is off limits. And technically, we are still in bed.
I think about how it goes. Rehearse it in my head. “Okay. Here it is.”
“Dear Tofu?—”
He lifts his head and turns his face to me. “Really, that’s how it starts?”
“Don’t interrupt. It’s modelled after a Dear John letter.’
“Ah,” he says as he relaxes. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Dear Tofu,
It’s you, not me. Offense intended.
I find you bland,
your demeanor boring.
Your lack of taste.
Your pasty skin.
Naked, you disgust me.
I tried! God help me, I tried.
Dressed you up, sexed you up.
Pressed the piss out of you.
Tried heat and oil.
Tried adding spice, sexy talk,
twerking even.
Licked you, sniffed you, bit you.
The more time I spend with you,
The more I realize that
Oral isn’t your strong suit.
And me? Sometimes I can’t swallow.
Don’t get me wrong.
I don’t completely hate you,
but you are no longer allowed in my home.
We’ll talk sometime.
In a restaurant, perhaps.
Over miso soup.”
“Jesus,” Reaper says, chuckling under his breath. “And your pop thinks you’re a good Catholic girl.”
“Hey! I am a good Catholic girl.”
He rolls on top of me, pressing his body into mine. “You’re good, I’ll give you that.”
An hour later, I’m showered and dressed. When I join Reaper on the deck, he’s talking on the phone. He sees me and his eyes light up. Damn, it feels good to have a man look at me like that. And not just any man. Reaper.
Pops isn’t going to like my relationship with Reaper, but he’ll come around. Especially when Reaper starts paying the protection money for the bakery.
My mom hmmms. Your pops holds grudges. Remember when Uncle Sal made a pass at me?
I do remember. I was young but it was traumatic. Pops pounded him into the ground and has never talked to him since. And Uncle Sal is family.
I tune my mother out as I plunk down on a cushy deck chair and casually pretend I’m not listening to the one-sided conversation.
“Yeah,” Reaper says. “I know.”
There’s a long pause and some loud talking on the other end that I can’t make out because I’m too far away. I’d move closer but Reaper would know why and then he’d glare and I’d have to glare back and the amazing moments we’ve just had would be broken.
Finally, Reaper gets a word in. “I don’t care if you think Moliter is clean. He was at the club with Lucy and paying far too much attention to X.”
He listens, then, “That’s enough,” in the coldest voice I’ve ever heard come out of him.
There’s a longish silence which makes me uncomfortable. I’m not even good a shortish silences.
Reaper breaks it. “This is about more than just the kilo of coke, Hangman. X matters; her dad matters. You get it?” His eyes flit to mine. “If Moliter isn’t involved, then great. If it’s all a coincidence, then I let it go. If it isn’t, then I’m gonna fix this with or without the Jury.”
He’s interrupted, then he interrupts the interruption. “We’ll give him the fucking benefit of the doubt, and yeah, I already know he isn’t gonna fucking use his real name, but X might recognize an anomaly and —
Interruption again, then Reapers says, his voice hostile, “Why the fuck do you care? You already made your feelings clear on her. Don’t go all protective on me now.”
By the look on Reaper’s face, Hangman is clearly agitated. Then he says, “Stop me then.”
Hangman says something, then something, and then of course, more somethings.
“Jesus fuck. We may as well bring a fucking elephant.”
Growling. Snarling. Gnashing of teeth. I’m projecting, but I already have the prez figured out.
“Sure, Prez.” Reaper hangs up abruptly.
His eyes seek mine. So serious. So flat.
Then the phone rings again.
“Red,” Reaper says tersely.
Red, the big guy. Explains the elephant reference. With his height, broadness, red hair and beard, the guy stands out like a beacon on a lighthouse.
That’s a good one, Ximina. I see Pops nodding proudly.
All my clever thoughts make me miss the rest of the conversation.
As I refocus, Reaper aggressively punches the end button, then raises his head. His dark eyes, his furrowed forehead, the lips turned downwards. All he needs to add is a snarl.
“X,” he snarls.
He steps into the room and I follow. “Well?” I try to match his expression, but if I’m honest, it kind of makes my knees go weak in that good girl, bad guy, please take me, take me now, kind of way.
“Well,” he echoes. “Your pop is at the clubhouse, but he’s pissed. Wants you there.”
My heart twists as I think of Pops. I look at this from his perspective. I’m betraying him. No doubt about it.
I keep those thoughts to myself. “And?”
“Hangman wants us there, too,” he replies. I can tell by the way his gaze settles on me that he’s wavering between what Hangman wants and what Reaper wants. I don’t want him to go all Sir Gawain on me, so I glare at him. “We’re not writing a thriller here, so could you get to the point?”
He rubs his face.
I take a breath, then realize I need to add more. Not breaths. Words. “And before you answer that, be aware that you’ll need a pry bar to get me to leave your side.”
He almost smiles. “Okay. We’re meeting Red at Hook’s. Hangman thinks we need muscle. Then we’ll head to the courier office.”
My eyes flick to his arms, then his chest, then they forget the conversation we’re having as they take a stroll over the rest of him. “We already got muscle,” I say as I smirk.
“Jesus Christ!” Reaper yanks me against him, then lowers his head. His kisses are hard, his hands roaming and I forget about current events. The world could explode and I don’t think I’d notice.
Reaper’s phone rings and we jump apart like we’ve been caught by my pops.
“What!” Reaper yells into the phone.
He listens for a moment, then, “Fuck off!”
I stare at him.
“Some fucker selling magazines,” he says as he pockets the phone and grabs me by the hand.