Book 2 - Missing Pieces Series
Diego
*excerpt provided is from a work-in-progress and is subject to further editing and content revisions. The final published version may differ.*
I’m not a jealous person. Not at all. So I don’t know why my date, not girlfriend, Valeria Ross talking to my childhood friend Matteo is driving me up a wall.
To my right, my sister Martina, fingers curled around my bicep and brown curls bouncing, is yapping about one thing or other.
To my left, my other sister Carmen, ashy blonde straightened hair brushing her shoulders, smirks.
Carmen’s gaze flicks from my date and Matteo to me while her mocking smile widens.
I can’t stand the joke she’s concocting, so I cue up the next song.
Why did I think bringing Valeria to a wedding I was DJ’ing for was a good idea?
“She said she won’t dance with you. Hilarious,” Carmen says.
Martina stops her chatter and focuses her gaze on them. “Oh.” Her eyebrows crease. “I didn’t realize…” She licks her lips, avoiding my eyes. “She’s been telling everybody you two aren’t a thing, just—friends.”
Having no patience for Martina today, I focus my gaze back on them. Valeria likes to go by Val. She can say there’s nothing between us, but I know damn well when she’s with me and only me, she loses that composure she takes such pride in guarding.
Tonight her hair is down, smooth waves the color of dark espresso, brushing a few inches past her bare shoulders.
The dress is blood-red and tight through the bodice, studded with tiny stones that catch the light every time she moves, flashing like the amber-gold of her eyes.
It pushes everything up just enough to make me swallow because I can’t look away.
Which I’d be able to if Matteo wasn’t leaning in so close.
He isn’t just close, though. He dips to whisper in her ear, his mouth near her skin, and Val shivers enough that goosebumps chase down her throat and disappear into the neckline of that dress.
Still. Not jealous. But if he doesn’t step the fuck back from my date, I’m going to lose my composure first.
“Oh, we’re not a thing.” I cut Martina off. “But we’re going to be.”
Carmen laughs with a taunting edge next to me. “Good luck with that. She’s pissed at you.”
I cock my head, considering it. “Nah, Val doesn’t get mad. She cuts you out.”
Martina leans over and glances at Carmen, eyes slightly wider. She flicks her eyes to Val, who for just a second, looked my way. Not even long enough for me to catch her eyes.
“Diego, that woman’s pissed at you.”
I huff at my sisters. “Pissed or not. I’m working on it.”
They exchange glances again, and I can’t deal with them anymore. “You mind letting me focus so I can do my job?” I say, looking for a different style of music than my usual deep bass and sultry rhythms.
Carmen cocks her hip and bumps mine. “I thought you could do this in your sleep. It’s your only appeal.”
“Funny, sis.” I feign a chuckle.
“Don’t try too hard, Diego,” she adds. “It makes you look desperate. It’s not sexy.”
“Yuck,” Martina says, grimacing. “Sexy and Diego don’t belong in the same sentence.”
I snort. It’s lovely to have such supportive sisters. “Go away.” I shove Martina off with my left hand.
Finally alone, I scroll through my set list and pull up the song I’ve been saving all night for the right moment.
Even though the album’s over a decade old, Val has different songs across her playlists more than once.
She played this over our calls back when she lived in Italy.
Time difference would make our talks late night chats for her, lunch dates for me.
The post-punk revival notes of her favorite band became the soundtrack of us to me.
Remembering how she’d tease me about the bass helping drown my nonsense out.
She still always picked up the phone. Every time.
Now she’s leaning into Matteo so she can hear him over the speakers, and when she turns her face to him, her lips brush against his cheek.
I don’t do pining. I won’t watch some other guy make his move while I stand behind a table.
I’ve seen how that played out for my friend and I don’t have it in me to wait fifteen plus years to be a thing.
I drag “Starry Night” into the queue, bump it to next, and cross the dance floor.
Matteo’s laughing at something she must have said. He’s about to put his hand on the crook of her elbow when I clap him on the shoulder.
“Hey, man, can you do me a favor and go check on Andrzej? Someone gave him tequila instead of vodka and he’s a shot away from making an even bigger ass out of himself.”
Matteo smirks and pats my back. “You can’t handle it?”
“I’d rather you be the hero.”
He hesitates, glances at Val, then chuckles and steps away.
The second he’s gone, I close in and pull Val’s hand into mine, dragging her before we miss the beginning of the song.
Val falls into step with me, a bit reluctant. She tugs at our hands and lifts them, arching an unimpressed brow. “What’s this about?”
“We’re going to dance,” I say.
Her steps slow a bit. “I think you forgot to ask.”
“If I ask, you’ll say no. We’re dancing.”
We stop at the edge of the dance area. She squints up at me like I’m a problem she’s deciding whether to solve or ignore. “I don’t dance.”
“That’s alright. You let me hold you. I’ll do the swaying.”
Her mouth twitches. “I’ve seen you. You do more than swaying.”
I snicker. “Damn right I do.” I step in front of her and lift our still-linked hands to my chest, giving her space and the choice to tell me to fuck off. When she doesn’t move, I soften my voice. “C’mon. You know I can be gentle.”
She opens her mouth, sass already sharpening the line between her brows—
—and the first low guitar notes of our song roll through the speakers. The melodic acoustic notes of the strings carry over, the bass and drum highlighting the rhythm of the indie track. Perfect timing.
“Diego—”
I don’t grab her or pull her into me. I wait until the chord loop repeats and she exhales like I’m exhausting.
Then, she leans into me, her other hand behind my neck, and mine on her hip.
A bit hesitant, her fingers barely gripping at me, but in my arms anyway—willingly.
I hold her toward me before she can change her mind, and rock us side to side, our cheeks a hairsbreadth away.
We’re almost the same height, so my lips brush over her jaw.
The skin on her neck breaks into goose bumps with every fan of my breath.
And if Matteo can breathe all over her, so can I.
Humming the hopeful words of finding safety and understanding in love, beyond the constraint of time, no matter the uncertainties life brings.
With each word, her edges sharpen with determination, spine straightening and shoulders squaring under my curved palms. She can’t fool me though, I know I’m Valeria Ross’s weakness, and the speed of her heartbeat against my chest gives me a surge of confidence.
Her chuckle vibrates straight through me every inch we’re pressed together. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m an excellent singer,” I murmur into the hollow of her neck, letting the warmth of my exhales brush the shell of her ear.
She snickers, fingers tightening slightly at the back of my neck. “The lyrics, Diego.”
I lean back just enough to see her face, our foreheads nearly bumping. The lights sweep gold and violet over her skin, catching in her lashes. “Why would you think I don’t mean those?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She presses her lips together. “Because it’s a song, and you talk so much you can’t possibly mean everything you say and I don’t know—” She huffs out a breath. “Actually, yes, I do. And you know exactly why.”
My grip on her hip tightens before I can stop it.
The sway stutters. “Not that again,” I mutter, sagging forward until my forehead almost rests on her shoulder.
For a second I just breathe her in—rose perfume and champagne.
“Can’t we let that go? We dissected it to death.
Your way. Charts, theories, and all that therapist shit about my emotional wound.
” The bass thrums through the floor, syncing with my pulse.
“It all comes down to me having a big fucking mouth,” I say.
“Can’t we just… loosen up? See where the night takes us? ”
Her hand slides from my neck to my shoulder, not pushing me away, or pulling me closer either. The movement is loaded with her intention to hold me in place with clinical precision. Literally and metaphorically.
“I’m here to support them,” she says quietly.
I follow her gaze. Across the floor, Eric’s big head is impossible to miss, dragging Amanda through the crowd with purpose.
They’re both childhood friends of mine. We’re all part of this big group since all our parents were friends.
Eric’s my best friend and he looks like he’s about to lose with how deep his furrow’s gotten, and Amanda looks…
confused. I feel a tug of responsibility towards them, inching almost to get to them.
No, I tell myself. Their only way forward is through.
“They’re fine,” I say. “Eric’s a big boy. We gotta let him do his thing.”
Around us, couples rotate slowly and lazyly. Someone cheers near the bar. Glasses clink. The song builds toward the last chorus.
She studies me like she’s solving an equation. “Careful, Diego,” she says. Her thumb traces once, absentminded, along the collar of my shirt. “You’re coming off a bit cold.”
The final chord rings out. Guitar fading. Drums dying. Just feedback and air before the next song, not a slow one, bleeds into the room.
God. Fucking. Damn it.