Chapter 21
Rico disappears through the waterfall, but his presence lingers like a stain. I remain standing, calculating angles and possibilities while my blood cools from boiling to merely simmering. Five fucking years of silence, and now this?
This isn’t about business. This is personal. The question is why now, why here, after five years of peace?
He manufactured this entire scenario, used the family emergency protocol to draw me here, knowing I’d have no choice but to respond.
But for what?
I peer through a gap in the falling water, scanning the perimeter of the pool, counting exits and cataloging faces. Four of Rico’s men by the bar. Two more by the gate. Dom and Ricky nowhere in sight. Not ideal.
“You’re OK,” I tell Emmaleen absently. But I don’t look at her. Only notice her nodding from my peripheral vision.
She’s perched on the ledge, water dripping from her hair, that white T-shirt pressed tight against her hard nipples. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated in the blue glow of strategically placed lights in the grotto. She’s trying to look calm, but her pulse hammers visibly at her throat.
Rico rattled her.
I sit back down on the submerged bench and pull her into my lap, her thighs straddling mine again. “Where were we?”
She settles against me, but there’s a new rigidity in her spine, a hesitation in her movements. Her teeth begin to chatter. Her mind is elsewhere, racing through whatever threat assessment women make when they realize they’re in over their head.
“You’re OK,” I tell her again. This time softer.
Then I kiss her neck, sliding my hands up under the wet shirt to circle her nipples with my thumbs.
Her body responds—goosebumps rising on her skin, a small involuntary arch in her back and a shrug of her shoulders—but her mind remains disconnected, processing Rico.
“I like your freckles,” I say, tracing the constellation across her cheekbones.
She shakes her head a little, finally looking me in the eyes. “What?”
“They look like someone flicked you with a paintbrush.”
Her smile is slow, but a small laugh follows. “What?”
“I’m trying to be reassuring, Emmaleen. And take your mind off my asshole cousin.
Don’t worry about him. We’re leaving tomorrow morning, and you’ll never see him again.
I like your hair, too,” I say, threading my fingers into the wet strands.
“It’s kinda wild. Like you. You’re a little bit wild. But not in a bad way.”
Her face screws up as she processes what’s happening. But her focus is firmly on me again, which was the point.
“If you were mine, though,” I continue, watching her reaction carefully, “I’d make some changes.”
She practically snorts. “Changes? That’s not how it works, Giovanni.”
“In my world, it does. I’d change everything about you.”
“Why? It would be fake.”
“No. That’s not how it works. Not always. Sometimes people get stuck in a rut.”
“You think…” She laughs. “You think I’m in a rut? Dude, you have no idea now unrutty I am.”
“Unrutty. As in… out of balance? I’m not a word collector like you, so I’m not familiar with the term.”
“It’s just…” She sighs, then looks over her shoulder.
“Hey,” I say, turning her face back to me. “He’s gone. We’re leaving in the morning. You’ll never see him again.”
She doesn’t believe me.
Hell, I’m not sure I believe me either.
“Rut. A groove or a track that is well-traveled. So the opposite of that is…” I falter. Distracted by her eyes. They’re green. Mine are green too—an amazing true green you only find in a rainforest. But hers are very pale. Sun bleached. Like they were made in the desert.
“Irregular,” she says. Finishing my sentence. “Messy. Chaos.”
“That’s what your life is like right now? I mean, before I came into it?”
She nods. “But don’t ask me about it. I’ll just lie.”
“Why?” I ask, one hand sliding down her back to press her closer. “Why would you lie about it?”
“Because I don’t want you to know.”
“You don’t want me to know you? You don’t want me to know your situation? Which?”
“Both.” She sighs, her shoulders dropping the tension. Finally. “I don’t like pity.”
I’m confused. “What does pity have to do with anything?”
“That’s what you would feel if you knew me.”
“Why?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, Emmaleen,” I laugh, “that’s just not how it works. As soon as I get back to the pool house, I’ll do a background check on you and then I’ll know everything. So you might as well just tell me what’s going on.”
“No.” Her face hardens. It’s a very firm no. “You can check my background if you want. There’s no smoking gun there.” She looks away, her words drifting off. “Nothing official to find.”
Nothing official.
Interesting. “Do you come from circus people?”
Her frown breaks, but she doesn’t look at me. “You’re stupid.”
“No, you don’t come from circus people. You’re a poet. A word collector. You wield words like weapons.”
Except when you’re scared, I don’t add. Then you just go silent.
“You worked at a coffee house. But none of that is relevant to your current situation, so—”
Suddenly, she turns, pressing her lips to mine with an intensity that startles me. The kiss isn’t tentative or questioning—it’s decisive, almost defiant. I hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected her to make the first move ever.
It’s an instant, electric turn on. The unexpectedness of her initiative sends a jolt straight through me, igniting something primal and urgent.
But it’s not real.
It’s deflection, so I break away. Turning my head until I’m out of reach.
“What… what are you doing?” she stammers.
I think for a moment. Then look at her again. “I get it. I’m playing with you. And I like when you play back. But not like that.”
“Not like what?” She’s defensive now.
We stare at each other—our two very different worlds suddenly colliding, just like our unnervingly divergent green eyes.
“Time to go,” I say, getting up and taking her hand so I can bring her with me.
She says nothing as we leave the privacy of the grotto.
Once outside of its protective curtain, it’s painfully clear that the party has devolved into pure debauchery. Bodies writhe on every surface, the air thick with smoke and the scent of weed and sex.
Rico has found his fun for the night and has a blonde woman bent over the couch, fucking her from behind as he slaps her thigh.
I lead Emmaleen out of the pool without a word and we walk in silence back toward the pool house, through the wisteria tunnel where purple blooms hang heavy in the evening air.
Another verse in the poem hits me with startling clarity. The cadence of words rises from some buried place—not just remembered, but felt.
“Our tree of life is strong and full
Of leafage verdant, beautiful
With blossoms in their prime
For love, like fair wisteria flowers
Brings, with full hands, to us and ours
A second blossom-time.”
Emmaleen stops abruptly, her body tensing as she tilts her face up to mine.
In the filtered moonlight through the wisteria blossoms, I’m caught off guard by the flash of anger behind those desert green eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice tight with something that sounds dangerously close to betrayal.
“What do you mean?” I keep my tone measured, though something uncomfortable shifts in my chest.
She shakes her head, a strand of damp hair clinging to her flushed cheek. “I don’t want to hear your poems, Giovanni. It’s a game, remember? It’s just a fucking game.”
Before I can respond, she rips her hand out of mine and turns away, her bare feet silent on the crushed stone path as she strides toward the pool house.
For the first time in years, I find myself without a calculated response, standing motionless beneath the canopy of purple blooms, an unfamiliar sensation spreading through me that feels suspiciously like regret.
I watch her back retreat down the path, angry at the distance opening between us. She’s storming away like I’ve wronged her somehow—for what? Reciting poetry?
Not a single person in my life would believe Giovanni Bavga quotes poetry to women. Yet here I am, standing like an idiot under wisteria blossoms with fragments of verse still caught in my throat.
I follow at a measured pace. No need to chase. The door to the pool house is locked with a code. She has nowhere to go.
She is predictably waiting when I reach her. Arms wrapped tightly around herself. Shivering, though the night air still carries the day’s heat. Her eyes avoid mine as I approach, fixing somewhere over my left shoulder.
I press the code into the keypad and push the door open with more force than necessary. I wave her through without a word.
She walks past me, leaving a trail of pool water on the concrete floor. The bathroom door closes with a decisive click, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock engaging.
A moment later, the shower starts.
I strip out of my wet swim trunks, leaving them in a heap on the floor, then pull on a pair of gray sweats and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The shower continues running.
What the hell is her problem? I was reciting my grandmother’s favorite poem, not proposing marriage.
My mind circles back to her words. That’s what you would feel if you knew me. Pity.
What exactly am I missing?
I glance at the bathroom door. She’ll be in there a while.
Fuck, what do I care if she comes out and finds me checking her background? I don’t need her permission. I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pull up my background check app. The same one I use on everyone who enters my orbit. Typically before they even arrive.
One day. That’s how long she’s been in my life. One fucking day. And… I don’t know. Something is happening here and…
Never mind.
Never mind. The memory of me rewinding footage from this morning. Emmaleen trying to explain to my car that she’s… what?
Look, Car. I understand that you’re better than me and I don’t deserve to drive you, but this was an assignment. I need to succeed. So if you could just...
What was she going to say? If the car could just… help her out a little?
Why? What kind of chaos is she living through right now?
I enter what I know: Emmaleen Rourke. Not much to go on, but it should be enough. There are plenty of Rourkes in the system, but only one Emmaleen.
I enter my password and wait while the database compiles her information. The shower continues running in the background as I scroll through the results.
Born in Cleveland. Raised in a middle-class suburb. Parents were academics—father a literature professor at Case Western, mother a librarian at the university. Both deceased. Car accident when she was nineteen.
No criminal record. No outstanding warrants. No bankruptcies.
Dropped out of her English Literature program at Case Western after her parents died. The inheritance wasn’t substantial—just enough to cover funeral expenses and part of her tuition before running out.
Two semesters at a community college followed. She really did win a scholarship from a coffee house.
But no degree. What is that? Three and a half years of college. One missing semester?
Who quits college with one semester left? Especially someone as bright as Emmaleen Rourke. She went to Case Western, for fuck’s sake. Surely, there was some way to finish that final semester?
So it was a choice.
Why?
Then something unexpected catches my eye. A social media section.
@BookishEmma_leen
I raise an eyebrow. Seventy-five thousand followers? Little Miss Take was Instagram famous.
For some reason, this delights me.
I click through to the analytics. Her account specialized in literary reviews, dark romance novels, and classic literature.
She had a particular talent for drawing parallels between the two, photographing books in unusual locations around Cleveland.
Professional quality shots that built a dedicated following.
But the account was deleted—no, deactivated—just over a year ago. Which means she kept it but doesn’t want anyone to know about it. The database includes the handle but not the content. It’s gone.
I set the phone down on my chest, staring at the ceiling.
Who the hell is this woman?
Not the desperate, cornered creature I thought I was dealing with.
Not just some random server who happened to catch my eye.
The shower stops. I pick up my phone again, closing the background check app before she emerges. Whatever her story is, I want her to tell me herself. I want to see what she chooses to reveal and what she hides.
The bathroom door remains closed. I can hear her moving around inside.
Seventy-five thousand followers. Then nothing. Complete disappearance from public view. Now she’s in my pool house, naked in my bathroom with no clothes to put on, playing a game of demerits and rewards for a chance to change her life.
Why?
What happened in that deleted year?