The Kiss
ESTELLE
The brandy burns my throat, and I try not to cough with Carlos watching me. He had said something about steadying my nerves and poured me half a glass. No ice.
“Feel better?” he asks.
My body feels hot.
“Strong,” I say hoarsely.
He sits in the other plush leather chair, facing me, leaning an elbow on the arm. Every movement I make is being observed.
I release a long breath and down the last of the brandy.
“More?”
I shake my head, mouth still full of the burning drink.
“Now tell me about that asshole. I want his name."
“Karl Smith. Apparently, he’s in with The Vipers, which is why we didn’t call the police.”
His brows furrow.
“I’ll handle it,” he says. “I have influence with the gang’s leader.”
I blink a few times, processing what he just said. My limbs start to feel heavy from the alcohol.
“How—what will you do?” I stutter.
His eyes lower slowly to land on my mouth.
“You don’t need the details.”
Silence stretches between us, and there are so many things I want to say to him, but I settle on just one.
“You left.”
He drags his eyes back up to meet mine.
“No. I was here.”
I bite my lower lip. “No, I mean after that night. You just left,” I whisper.
“You kissed me,” he says.
I stare at his lips, remembering how they felt pressed against mine.
And the low groan he released.
“I did. I shouldn’t have?”
“You don’t know what it means to me,” he says softly. “I don’t kiss.”
I can’t keep the surprise off my face.
“Ever?”
He shakes his head. “Not unless I want to own someone.”
My fingers slide across the brim of the smooth crystal glass.
“When’s the last time you kissed someone, then?”
I look up gingerly, trying to gauge his reaction to my question. Carlos remains as motionless as a statue.
“Never.”
The word hangs heavy in the air for a long moment.
“I don’t believe you,” I say. “You must have kissed people you fell in love with. At least.”
That gets me a reaction. He leans forward, resting his arms on his legs, as his eyes pierce me.
“I fuck. I don’t fall.”
The words are slow, measured, every word enunciated as though he wants them branded in my mind.
“So, no kissing then,” I say. “Got it.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“What are you saying?” I ask.
He stands up suddenly. One moment I'm looking across at him and the next I’m looking up. His hands grip either side of the chair’s arms, caging me, then he lowers himself until our faces are an inch apart.
“I want to kiss you, Estelle,” he says, the words more of a promise than a wish.
My mind goes blank, and I remember what he said.
Not unless I want to own someone.
When I speak, my voice is too small. “You can’t own me, Carlos.”
“I already do, Estelle,” he breathes out.
His mouth crashes into mine, hard and insistent, seeking and branding. My body is pushed backwards, and I yield. For a man who claims he doesn’t kiss, he’s doing a damn good job of it.
Our tongues meet, and we both groan. Carlos tests my resistance and finds that I have none—not to him, not in this moment.
He owns my tongue, my shudders of pleasure, my urgent demands for more with my mouth.
He kisses me until I’m breathless.
Hot.
Needy.
Owned.
“Carlos,” I groan when he sucks my bottom lip and nips.
When he pulls back, I’m a mess.
My hands are gripping the front of his suit like a lifeline. For the first time since meeting him, I see with satisfaction that his emotionless mask has disappeared.
He swallows hard.
“I will take care of Karl,” he says, then straightens himself. “Wait for my message before you leave tonight.”
And just like that, he turns and walks out of the study.
----
My hands sink into the dough, kneading it again, and again. Then I punch it—first with one fist, then with both at the same time.
“Infuriating man,” I hiss low.
I feel Ross’ stare on me, probably wondering why I’m going twelve rounds with pizza dough.
I turn it over a few times before reaching for the rolling pin to flatten and smooth it until the circular shape takes form. Maybe I should be shocked that Carlos doesn’t order out, not even pizza, unless he’s eating at a restaurant—but I’m not.
There’s a fine line between paranoia and caution, and I have a feeling the grim reaper doesn’t always know the difference.
I add the tomato sauce I made from scratch, fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, mushrooms, and finally, sliced artichokes.
My phone rings just as I slide the pizza in the clay oven.
I see the name and answer quickly.
“Elsa?”
“Yeah, it’s me. There’s someone at the door. He told me to call you and say Carlos sent him, so I know I can open the door," she says then pauses. "Well?"
My fingers start drumming on the counter. “Well, what?”
“Who’s Carlos?”
“He’s my boss. He said he would help us,” I finish lamely.
I know she will want details, but she won’t get any from me.
“Okay,” she says, drawing out the word. “So, I can open the door?”
“Yes, but I want to stay on the phone.”
I hear the locks clicking and the door opening.
“Yes?” Elsa says to the person at the door.
“I brought your things.” It's a man with a gruff voice. “Tell Estelle Big Jimmy got Carlos’ message, and he is promising to keep a leash on Karl. Our people will be patrolling the neighborhood, too, as an act of good faith.”
“Um, okay,” Elsa says.
The door closes, and I hear the locks again.
“Did you get that?” she asks me.
“Yes, I got it.”
A long pause.
“That’s it?”
I breathe out loudly. “What do you want me to say?”
“Well, for starters, who’s Carlos, and why is a gang leader following his instructions?”
My fingers drum faster on the counter.
“I can’t tell you.”
Another long pause.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I ask, shocked.
“Who you bang is your business, sis,” she says.
“I’m not—this isn’t—”
“Uh-uh. See you later.”
She ends the call, and I stand there too shocked for words. What am I supposed to tell her later?
Nothing.
I have to let her believe whatever she wants. No correcting her. No hints. No defending myself, even if she thinks I’m the whore of Babylon.
The encrypted phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s done. You end at 5.
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