Chapter Twenty-One Tom
Chapter Twenty-One
Tom
I watched from across the street as a private town car pulled in front of Enzo’s building and a leggy brunette strutted out. The driver got out, wheeling her Louis Vuitton suitcase behind her.
My hand curled tightly against the handle of my drugstore bag containing lube, organic soap, and Brookside acai dark chocolate. I’d seen the treat on Enzo’s kitchen counter every time I visited and noticed he was running low.
Katya swaggered toward the entrance, stopping momentarily to produce a small pocket mirror and reapply her lip gloss. The driver returned to the vehicle, but waited with his eyes on her through the rearview window.
It was seven forty-five in the evening, and he was supposed to meet me in a little over two hours.
She was a few days early. I wondered if Enzo was aware, and if so, what he made of it.
I got my answer less than a minute later.
Enzo’s eye-wateringly hideous, Italian-flag-emblazoned Lamborghini burst into view, double-parking in front of the building on the busy street.
He slipped out in his usual uniform of gray pencil pants, a ribbed black polo shirt, and designer sunglasses, the gorgeously murderous and charming creature that he was.
He tossed the keys to the valet, just when Katya rushed from the sidewalk to greet him.
“Surprise!” she squealed, jumping on him and lacing her legs around his waist. “You’re not mad, are you?” Katya caught her lower lip in a bite, fluttering her eyelashes seductively at his face.
He caught her effortlessly, suspending her by the ass using one hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “At you? Never. About you? Absolutely.” He carried her entire weight with one palm, radiating clean, muscular power.
A rush of heat surged through my bloodstream, and my heart thudded so loud in my ears that the city noise evaporated into nothing. As the scene in front of me unfolded, so did my mood.
Everything turned red at the sight of them.
Her. Wrapped around him. Smiling. Lowering her lashes seductively. Murmuring in his ear.
Him. Touching her. Smiling down at her. Giving her his time and his attention and his—
“Whoa! Watch out!” A cyclist slammed into me, making me tumble two steps backward. I ignored the pain in my shoulder.
Why was I feeling like this? I’d seen Matt with Iris plenty of times. It was never fun, but it was never earth-shatteringly painful, either.
It was a stupid idea, deciding to surprise Enzo ahead of our scheduled meeting.
I’d told myself all day that I could hold off until nighttime, physically prevented myself from checking his socials.
I’d made it to seven before I slipped out of work early, took a shower, and decided to run by the drugstore to stock up on what we needed.
Only Enzo wasn’t going to come to my place today.
I just knew.
“Hey, asshole, you’re in the way!” A pedestrian with a leashed poodle stepped around me, muttering obscenities and shaking his head.
Enzo and Katya were whispering to each other with stupid, happy grins, looking like the perfect couple.
The bag slipped from between my fingers, and its contents scattered to the ground.
The world kept spinning, and I stood there, fraying at the edges, watching as Enzo grabbed the suitcase from Katya, clasped the back of her neck in pure masculine possession, and did the one thing he’d never done with me—invited her into his world.
At eight thirty, I cracked open the first beer.
At nine, the third.
At five past ten, I switched to vodka. All the beer in the world couldn’t bring me to the level of numbness I needed to pull through the night.
I hadn’t drunk excessively in years. Not since my PTSD episode with Matt.
I had especially not been drunk since I’d gotten off the hallucinogenic drugs I was prescribed after said episode.
Now, at eleven thirty, I was in shitfaced territory. Completely fucking drunk for the first time since that night.
The numbness never came.
I lay on my couch, checking my phone for the millionth time that minute.
Still no messages from Enzo.
Each time I watched the blank screen, a nauseating sense of betrayal raced through me.
I knew I was spiraling when my sense of time, space, and being blurred around the edges of my existence, and I became a very small dot in a very vast and empty room.
A sudden ping jolted me upright, like a defibrillator pulse straight to my chest.
A new notification from the building security app flashed on my phone.
New visitor. 23:31. Signed under: Vincenzo Ferrante.
He was here.
Fuck. Fuck.
Stumbling to the bathroom in a frenzy, I combed my hair, washed my face, and brushed my teeth to get rid of the alcohol stench.
I stared at the mirror.
I still looked like shit.
The doorbell rang. I trekked toward the door, placing my hand on the knob. Drawing a breath, I reminded myself that it was just a twenty-six-year-old punk I was seeing, not the president.
Never mind that the kid was like herpes. He always showed up at the worst possible time.
I knew I shouldn’t open the door. I was not in control of my emotions, thoughts, or actions.
I opened it anyway, to find him freshly showered, that damn tantalizing tendril of hair, all wet and glossy, falling over his forehead.
Sockless, unlaced sneakers. Low-hanging gray sweatpants with his dick’s print showing through the fabric.
A cross pendant dangling from his throat.
A muscle shirt that showed off his delectable torso and the tattoos across his freshly washed skin.
Hair sticking out in all directions. Flushed cheeks.
A sheen of wetness glazing his face and lips.
Washed your Russian slut away so you could come get your seconds with me, have you? I wanted to bite out.
But I didn’t.
Because as much as I fucking hated him right now, I was terrified he’d leave.
“Hey, man.” He threw me a lopsided grin, his lone, fascinating dimple popping out.
“You’re late,” I strangled out, clutching the doorknob tighter.
Why was I trembling? Why couldn’t I shake the anger off? Where was the man I’d been a few weeks ago, who didn’t have good days or bad days, because every day felt exactly the same? The man whose emotions were always flatlined.
“Yeah.” He shouldered past me, bulldozing into my domain, unaware of the danger looming on the other side of the threshold. “Katya showed up early. Wanted New York pizza. I tried to text, but it wasn’t safe, you know? She was watching.”
I was back to being the shameful secret.
The unspoken mistake. The thing to hide from view.
Only this time I wasn’t unruffled by it.
“Did you fuck her?” My once-icy control was now a puddle of lukewarm water on the floor.
“Dude, what?” Enzo snorted, distracted. He dumped his keys and phone on my credenza, taking in my chillingly minimalistic apartment.
“Never mind; I don’t want to know.”
I balled my fists at my sides, willing my pulse to slow down. He’d robbed my ability to breathe, looking all dumb and adorable while doing so, clueless to the power he had over me.
It was the pent-up lust, from not plowing into him yet. Yeah. That’s all.
Desire. Potent. Simple. Manageable.
“You’re staring.” He gave me that lopsided cocky smirk of his.
I swallowed. “I’m trying not to.”
“How’s that going for you?”
“Not good.”
He tilted his head sideways. “Everything good, bro?”
“You should leave.”
Enzo looked baffled. “Leave? But I just got here.”
“I don’t trust myself around you right now.”
“Well, I trust myself to kill you if you try anything stupid. So why don’t you offer me some bee—”
“I’m highly toxic, Enzo.”
“I’m developing a tolerance,” he volleyed back, a hint of bitterness in his tone.
He still wasn’t getting it. I wasn’t eager to divulge even more information about myself, my past, and my issues, but he needed to understand that I was not fucking around this time.
“Remember I told you about my PTSD? Well, I’m having a dark spell.
I’m in a state of hyperarousal,” I clipped out, pushing the words one at a time.
The vulnerability of the them made me feel like I stripped all my clothes and a layer of my skin.
“I’m off my meds, and I’m not completely in charge of my actions right now.
I don’t have many episodes anymore. But when I do, they’re bad. Please leave.”
“I can handle you.” His whiskey eyes met mine.
“I don’t want you to see me like this.” My damn voice broke, and it took everything in me not to punch him for it. “Please, Enzo, leave.”
I needed him to get out right now. I couldn’t stomach his seeing me like this. No one ever had in the past.
No one but Matt. And I couldn’t afford a rerun of what happened to him.
“No.” He seemed to be digging his heels into the parquet, leveling his gaze with my own. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” he said softly.
Why couldn’t he leave me the fuck alone? My entire life had consisted of people who came running asking for help, but never offered any. I’d gotten used to it. Even learned to thrived on it.
I held the power. I was the protector.
Only Enzo refused to be protected.
I was shaking, desperate for my pound of flesh.
“If you don’t get out in the next minute, I’m not responsible for my actions.”
“Does it hurt to breathe?” he asked quietly.
“What?” I snarled, the rage hotly pulsating inside my veins.
How dare he be so soft? So understanding? So fucking perfect when he—he—was supposed to be the villain in this story?
“I asked if it hurts to breathe.”
I didn’t answer.
This had gotten too deep, too complicated, and I had no one but myself to blame.
He studied me for a moment, reading my answer and licking his lips. “I’m staying.”
I was on him in a flash, crowding him against the nearest wall, fingers grasping the back of his head, tugging his hair.
My mouth crashed against his, frantic, demanding, famished.
His tongue met mine, feeding me wetness and heat, meeting my strokes with the same unrelenting ferocity I served him.
He began grinding against my leg, accepting the artless, violent way I touched him without protest.