Chapter 5 – Nicole
Best Sista Eva: Promise you don’t hate me?
I sighed. My fingers tapped on the digital letters.
Me: I could never hate you.
Me: But I expect a very, VERY large present under the tree come xmas morning.
Her response bubbled in a moment later.
Best Sista Eva: Done & done!
I clicked my screen off and slapped my phone face down on the island. The Tex-Mex feast was spread over the counter, ready to be finished when she walked through the door. There was no point indulging in the queso and tequila now. Maybe later I would feel like it, but this was our thing.
“I don’t hate you,” I promised.
But the ache in my chest wouldn’t go away as I packed up the dinner and put it in the fridge.
Amanda was just like Dad, married to her job.
She was going places. The law firm would be crazy not to offer her a permanent position after the stint she was pulling as a junior associate.
She was working late tonight to finish the briefs, then getting up early to go work all day tomorrow and Sunday to make sure the case laws were in order for Monday’s meeting.
“No, thank you,” I muttered.
I wasn’t above pulling long hours, but no job was worth my life.
Looking around the empty kitchen, I debated what to do with the rest of my Friday night.
If she was in my same shoes, my bubbly, outgoing sister would grab a group of friends and hit the clubs.
I didn’t tolerate fake girlfriends well enough to drink and dance with them.
The few close friendships I nurtured were all an ocean away.
We bonded over things like books and movies.
“There’s an idea.” I drummed my freshly painted fingers against the marble countertop. I didn’t have to be in a group setting to go out. I could take myself.
Running upstairs, I changed into jeans and a hoodie. The toe of my sock snagged against the hole in the carpet.
I winced.
He-who-shall-not-be-thought-about came rushing back into my mind.
If it really was him, what the hell was he doing robbing my dad?
Our parents had been friends once upon a time.
I tugged the dragon rider hoodie over my head, pausing to rub my scalp.
Sixteen stitches left a blemish that my stepmother was always telling me should be seen by a plastic surgeon.
I kept the scar, always smiling when I thought of the badge of honor.
My battle wound was a reminder of the friendship that should have stood the test of time.
I missed that boy.
“It probably wasn’t even him,” I grumbled, jogging back downstairs.
That was the debate that kept me occupied the last few days. Boston was home to a melting pot of cultures. There were plenty of people called Cristiano residing in just this area alone—something I’d googled after a couple glasses of wine.
It was highly unlikely that my thief was the Cristiano I used to know.
“He’s not your thief,” I bit out, snatching my phone and ordering a ride share.
My body laughed in response, growing too warm under the thick layer that said, ‘Save a dragon, ride a wing-leader.’
And if it was the boy I used to know, no good could come of the fact that he’d chosen my father’s house to rob.
I rubbed my forehead and searched for movie times while I waited for the car to pick me up.
Cristiano Messina was not a law-abiding citizen.
A burglar didn’t even come close to his level.
The Messina family was the darkest of the dark, the worst of the worst. Cristiano would have grown up like his father, becoming a Made Man.
They were the kind of family mine wouldn’t be caught dead speaking to in public.
Which was exactly why I hoped the masked man wasn’t that Cristiano.
And on the slight possibility he was, that was why I never reported the break-in.
I rubbed my forehead. There could be no link between the Messinas and the Lorings—but not because it would spell disaster for my father’s career.
It would damn the boy I would have done anything to protect.
***
Silver Patron and artificial butter were not a good combination. I should have gotten the tray of nachos, but looking at the neon orange cheese sauce, I thought of the beautiful queso waiting in the fridge to be heated and couldn’t do it, but the popcorn was also a mistake.
I tossed another handful into my mouth as I climbed the steps to my seat. The rest of the flask, tucked safely in my bra, was going straight into the Coca-Cola, where the syrupy fizz would temper the delicious sting of the tequila. Maybe the mixed drink would blend better with my movie snackies.
As the previews began to stream over the jumbotron, the last guests filed into the already packed theater.
I’d bought the seats next to me just so I didn’t have to sit next to anyone.
The group of tweens squealing at the end of the row justified that decision.
If they kept that up, though, it was going to be a long movie.
Something prickled at the back of my neck that had nothing to do with the possessed nun in the movie trailer coming out for Valentine’s Day. I swept a look around the dark theater. There were three rows behind me, and I itched my back, twisting to cast a glance up.
In the rows of people, a figure wearing a Patriots cap with his matching hoodie pulled over it caught my immediate attention.
I didn’t think he could see from how low the brim was pulled.
But something about his posture made me do a double take.
He was in the farthest seat, at the end of the row, basically at the other end from me.
He stared straight ahead, and from this distance, I couldn’t make out his features.
It was his energy.
I shifted my shoulders and turned to watch as the Christmas Nightmare began to unfold on the screen. After a few sips of my contraband cocktail, I risked another look. The sports fan was staring straight ahead. Which wasn’t unusual. Everyone else was too—except for me.
The movie played out. The tweens screamed every thirty seconds, and half the theater joined in on occasion.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling. It was a magnetism, drawing me to look back.
I wasn’t able to focus on the film. Yes, it was a predictable horror film, and I already knew Krampus was going to win in the end.
But enjoying how he bested the holly-jolly family was why I’d come to the movie in the first place.
When the end credits played over the screen, I shot to my feet. I was going to leave by the opposite door, purposely passing the man who seemed to be sitting alone. Just one look would be enough. The moment my curiosity was sated, I could leave happily.
“Nicole! Is that you?” a lady in the row directly under me called out.
My attention snagged, I wobbled a little, catching myself on the rail that divided the seats. Oh, good grief.
Of all the people, and all the places, why did she have to be here?
Worse…Bobbie Jefferson wasn’t alone.
Smiling like he was still the golden boy quarterback from Thilton Preparatory, Donny the Third gazed up at me from his mother’s side. I suddenly wished I was sober.
Or that I’d drunk twice as much.
“Hi!” I waved weakly. “Good to see you. How have you been, Mrs. Jefferson?”
The socialite began to jabber at me. I snuck a peek to the side, looking up at the top rows that were filing out. Through the passing people, I could have sworn the baseball cap was pointed in my direction. That he was looking directly at me.
A shiver rattled down my spine.
You don’t know that person. It’s just the spooky feeling from the movie.
But I wanted to be sure that whatever I was feeling wasn’t real. That the sizzle of energy was my own creation, and that there was no vibe messing with my fuzzy head.
“And you must come to our Christmas party!” Bobbie nearly shrieked.
I blinked at the socialite. “Can’t make it. I’m busy that day.”
She didn’t realize what I’d said, but Donny did.
“Mom didn’t say when, Nicole,” he said smoothly.
Same old golden boy, with a voice that would make a pop icon jealous.
I might have had a crush on him, which led to the poor choice of dating him senior year, but now, looking back at a decade ago, I felt absolutely nothing. Donny was polished and expensive in his fitted sweater, designer jeans, and loafers. Everything about him was wrong.
“It’s next Saturday night,” Donny coaxed. “If you’re free, you should come.”
“I have plans with my family,” I said, careful not to lie. If Amanda got her butt into town, it was the truth.
“Your dad would be there if he could,” Donny insisted. “So, you should make an appearance.”
Fucking no. If Donny wanted me to come, that was not the way to do it.
“Lovely to see you, Mrs. Jefferson,” I said quickly, cutting off whatever she was about to add to the conversation. “But my Lyft is here.”
The socialite gasped. “Where’s your driver, darling?”
“Don’t have one,” I quipped, rushing past. “I like to live on the edge.”
Which was exactly why I hightailed it to the end of the row, scampering down after the Patriot’s fan. He turned the corner and disappeared into the men’s room before I could race to catch his face.
Now I was well and truly stuck. If I stayed to satisfy my stupid curiosity, it was likely that I would be caught by the posh mama and her little prince charming, who would gallantly offer me a ride in their town car.
Screw that. No strange gut feeling that was probably paranoia mixed with booze and shitty popcorn was worth that torment.
I headed through the exit, summoning a rideshare for the fast food place across the street just to be clear of the theater doors while I waited for it to arrive.
***
The human body should be considered the highest form of art. It could heal itself with little aid, make miraculous recoveries, and even have heightened senses. Humans didn’t listen to their instincts the same way other animals did, but then again, few of us lived in survival situations.