Hanging in the Stars: A Mafia Romance (Dark Romeo Book 3) Page 24

  I wonder if I’ll ever be able to smell roses again without thinking of Caden. Even if it was someone else giving me those roses. He didn’t lie when he said he would ruin me for all other men.

  After four months of our own version of togetherness, what do I know about Caden Thaine?

  I know that he loves architecture – Baroque and modern but not art deco. I know he can’t sing to save his life. I know he drinks single-malt scotch neat and shakes his head with sadness at anyone who taints the scotch with coke.

  I know that he doesn’t believe in God. But he believes in the existence of evil. I know, just like me, he has seen pain in his past that would make the pages of a horror novel bleed. I know, just like me, he is always looking over his shoulder, and sometimes he flinches at shadows.

  I know when he touches me his palms are large and rough and calloused. I wonder if he does woodworking or carpentry. He definitely works with his hands. I know that his body seated behind me on his motorbike is hard and strong. Maybe this is just from the gym. Maybe it’s not.

  He’s an enigma. On one hand he has the charm and conversation of a well-bred gentleman. He has more money than I could ever fathom, evident by the fact that part of my wardrobe is worth more money than my yearly salary working at the bar. But his hands and his body are rough and thick and well used. He is my enigma. I wouldn’t have him any other way.

  I don’t care about the dresses or the money or the nice places he takes me. Some of my favorite dates have been where he has spent nothing on me and it is just him and me, hidden from the world.

  Tonight’s shift at work just seems to drag. By the time the customers leave it is close to 1 a.m. I’m wiping tables and Jeff is behind the counter counting the till when Dixie and Robert, the chef, bust out of the kitchen together singing in an ear-splitting, off-key tone. It takes me a moment to realize the song is Happy Birthday to You. Dixie is out front carrying a small chocolate cake with a single lit candle. Behind her Robert carries a tray of small plates and a knife. I frown when I realize they are headed towards me.

  I stare in bewilderment as the cake is placed down in front of me. By now, Jeff has joined in too. The three of them end their birthday serenade in a long melodramatic wail. I wonder if Dix is already drunk.

  “But… it’s not my birthday,” I say when their voices finally fade.

  Dixie slaps my arm. “That’s because you won’t tell me when your God damn birthday is, hon. Jesus, I can’t believe how young you look, you’re already hiding your age.”

  I blink, still confused.

  She continues, “Everybody needs a birthday celebration, and I figure if you won’t tell me when it is, then today is as good a day as any to celebrate it.” She grins.

  I stare at their three faces, then at the small cake and candle. How long has it been since I’ve had a birthday cake? How long has it been since I’ve had anyone to celebrate it with? I clench my jaw to stop the prickle behind my lids. “Maybe there’s a reason I don’t celebrate my birthday.”

  Dixie’s face drops. Robert frowns. I hear Jeff admonish me under his breath.

  Shit. I’m a complete bitch. My anger dissolves under the heat of shame at my outburst. Dixie didn’t deserve it. And I don’t deserve this cake.

  “Shit,” I mumble, staring at the table. I can’t even look at her at the moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I’m just…” …a messed up excuse for a human being.

  She smiles and steps closer to me so she can hook her arm into mine. “Well, if you can’t be a moody cow on your birthday, when can you be?” She winks at me and I can’t help but crack a smile. She is too easy to forgive me. “So…” she beams her pink-lipsticked smile at me, “blow out the God dang candle then so we can eat this sucker. Robert came in early especially to bake it for ya.”

  I stare at the flickering candlelight on top of the homemade cake. This is dangerous. I can’t let myself believe that this is real, that their friendship is real. I can’t get attached. It wouldn’t be good for me and it wouldn’t be good for them.

  But there’s nothing much I can do except go along with this fake celebration. I lean down towards the candle and inhale.

  “Don’t forget to make a wish,” she says.

  I wish I didn’t have to be so alone.

  I catch Jeff’s eyes.

  “You can wish for me,” he says, “don’t fight it.”

  The breath I inhaled huffs out my nostrils and I can’t help but laugh. He nods, looking pleased.

  “Jeff.” Dix admonishes him with a slap to the back of the head.

  I inhale again. And exhale, blowing out my candle. During that exhale, I let myself hope.

  Dixie makes me sit while Robert begins to cut the cake. She won’t let me help serve or anything. “It’s your birthday,” she keeps saying. “Relax.”

  Jeff disappears into the back for a moment. He reappears, clearly hiding something behind his back. He sits in the seat opposite me with a sheepish look on his face and his hands move quickly under the table.

  I peer at him curiously. “What’s up?”

  “Just a little something for you.” He pulls up an A4 envelope from under the table and pushes it across to me.

  For me? I reach out and pull it towards me with the tips of my fingers, smiling. Until I see my fake name lettered across the front. My fake name. To go with this fake life. And this fake birthday celebration. It reminds me that it doesn’t matter how much I want to let myself be friends with these people, I can’t. Because it’s all a lie.

  “It’s your birthday present,” he says.

  “You shouldn’t have.” My voice sounds dull. I notice Dixie pausing as she fusses over the cake slices. Even Robert’s eyes are on me. God, I feel like such a shit.

  Jeff shrugs. “Whatever. If you don’t like it just pretend you do and you can throw it away later, ‘kay?”

  I stare at Jeff now slumped back in his chair, arms crossed. I recognize the vulnerability that he hides under the smirk. I hear the desperate need in his voice for me to like what he has given me, shrugged over with a mask of “I don’t care”. I know these things because I’m looking at him as if I’m looking in a mirror.

  Suddenly I don’t feel so alone.

  I stand up and walk over to Jeff. He watches me, suspicion clearly in his eyes. I lean down from behind him, wrap one arm around him and squeeze. “Thanks, Jeff. I love it already no matter what it is because you gave it to me.”

  I hear him in my ear, “You so want me.”

  I push him away and slap his arm but only half seriously. I sit back down in my seat and am pleased to see his demeanor has changed in a snap. He’s grinning at me and bouncing lightly in his chair. “Open it, open it.”

  “Alright already.” I open the flap and peer inside. It’s just a single piece of paper. I slip two fingers in the envelope to grip the paper and notice it’s thicker than normal paper. I pull it out.

  It’s a sketch of the four of us − Jeff, Dixie, Robert and me, our faces done in pencil. It is frickin’ brilliant. He has shadowed the sketch so well it pops out from the page. Along the bottom of the page he has written, “Your family away from home”. A small sob chokes me and I strain not to let it out.

  “I love it,” I breathe.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  I do. But I can’t keep it. I have to throw it away as soon as I get home. I can’t get attached.

  I can pretend, can’t I, just for the moment that I am part of this family?

  I force a smile to my face.

  Robert hands around the small slices of cake on little white plates with black and white dotted party napkins. I cut into my slice of cake with my fork and pop the first piece into my mouth. It’s moist and rich with a dark chocolate cream filling and a matching layer of icing. He has even added piped icing around the base and top edge of the cake and placed several pink marzipan roses with pale green leaves across the top. I wonder at how this giant of a man was able
to produce such a delicate and pretty cake. The bar becomes silent for the moment except for little moans of culinary pleasure.

  “Thank you, Robert,” I mouth to him when I catch his eye. He nods back.

  Robert is a big man with a soft voice and skin as dark as night. He’s soft-spoken and loyal to Dixie, always guarding her like a bear. I often catch the edge of ink against his skin around his arm when his sleeves shift up. I know it’s jail ink. I have seen jail ink before. I wonder what he did time for. I wonder how he came to meet Dixie. I know not to ask. I just know that I feel an odd sense of comfort with Robert around. We both have a past, a story. Again, I feel less alone.

  Everyone finishes their cake in no time.

  “Well, my honeys,” Dixie says, jumping up from her seat. “You know what we need to do now?” She makes her way to the bar.

  “Go home to bed?” I offer.

  Jeff nods his head enthusiastically at me.

  I roll my eyes at him. “Our own beds, Jeff.”

  He shrugs. “One day you’ll stop being so scared to admit what we have.”

  I shake my head and turn my attention back to the bar behind which Dixie has disappeared. What is that woman doing?

  “Dixie?” I call out. “What is it that we need to do now?”

  Her head of flame shoots up from behind the bar like it was just fed a blast of oxygen. “Shots!”

  I groan.

  She returns to the table with a bottle of whiskey and four shot glasses on a tray. When she picks up the unopened bottle, I catch the label.

  I gasp. “Dix, that’s an 18-year-old Macallan. You can’t open that. Not for me. It’s too much.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “So… your man is a scotch drinker, hey?”

  I feel my cheeks flush. “Why do you say that?”

  She grins at me. “I notice that’s not a denial. Honey, when you first got here, you didn’t know your single malts from your blended. Hell, you didn’t know your rums from your whiskies. Now you’re familiar with high-end scotch brands?” She raises an eyebrow at me.

  Rats. Under all that hair is one hell of a brain. Nothing gets past her.

  I sigh. “Okay, so maybe he drinks whiskey. Macallan is one of his favorites.”

  Dixie points the lid of the scotch bottle at me in triumph. “I knew you had a man. Didn’t I say she had a man, Robbie?” she nudges the big guy.

  “Yes, ya did, Dixie. Yes, ya did.” Robert speaks in his low rolling tone.

  “And he drinks Macallan, Robbie. That’s my kinda man.” She turns to me. “So when we gonna meet him?”

  I cringe. This is exactly why I didn’t want anyone to know about Cade.

  “I don’t know when. He’s away a lot. On business.”

  “I think you’re making excuses,” she sings.

  I keep my mouth shut. Thankfully Dixie becomes focused when she starts pouring. The lady’s smart as hell, but for some reason, she simply can’t concentrate on two things at once.

  “Now I know you don’t really drink,” she says. “But you absolutely cannot refuse a birthday shot. Your birthday shot.”

  I sigh. It’s pointless to argue with her. I take the glass from her fingers and she squeals with glee.

  “Here’s to you, honey. Happy birthday, however old you may be. May your days be filled with happiness and love, and your nights filled with lots and lots of hot sex!”

  I laugh and we clink and we drink.

  I taste a flare of dried fruit and a hint of cinnamon before the soft burning takes over on the way down. I make a face.

  Dixie starts pouring another round, but I put my hand over my glass. No. Not more than one. She and I stare at each other for a second. She seems to understand. She nods and moves the bottle over the next glass.

  I stare at the bottle and the glasses and at us sitting around this table performing a well-worm social ritual of friendship. My stomach tightens. Don’t get too attached to these people. Don’t do it. It’ll only make it harder when you have to leave.

  “I should go home,” I say.

  “Stay, honey. You don’t have to drink, but just stay and chat. You can just have water. Jeff, get her a glass of water.”

  Jeff jumps to his feet and runs behind the bar.

  “Thank you, but I should go.”

  “But it’s your birthday celebration. Stay. Eat. Drink.”

  I fight the urge to remind her that it isn’t my birthday.

  Jeff returns with my water and places it in front of me with a flourish. He slings his arm around my shoulders. “Please stay?” he croons. “It won’t be the same without you.”

  “But it’s getting late,” I say lamely.

  Robert catches my eye. “I’ll walk you home when you’re ready to go. Don’t you worry about that. I’ll get you home safe no matter the hour.”

  I stare back at the three pairs of pleading eyes staring at me. I know I shouldn’t say yes. I know I shouldn’t let my guard down and get close to them.

  I’m usually comforted by feeling anonymous and cut off from the life that goes on around me. Tonight something tugs inside me. The warmth that these three people have bathed me in has reignited a long-forgotten want. I want friends. I want to feel like I matter. The only way I have this is when I am with Caden, but he isn’t here. And the bastard won’t even give me a way to contact him.

  I’m selfish. So I give in and say yes, eliciting a round of cheers, and hope I won’t end up regretting it.

  When I get home later I kick off my shoes and dump my bag on the bed. Carefully, I take out Jeff’s drawing of us. I smile. He really does have talent. I hope he gets the chance to do something with it.

  I know I should throw it away. I can’t allow myself this attachment to this picture. Even small things can tie you to a place. When I put my hand to the paper to crumple it up, my fingers shake but they don’t close. I can’t do it.

  I pick up the paper and open the top drawer by my bed. Inside are all the notes that Caden has ever sent to me as well as unopened greeting cards that I have collected for the poems written inside. Maybe I can keep it for a while. Just a while.

  The next morning I find a letter in my mailbox on my way back from a quick trip to the corner store. A note? So soon after I just saw him? I’m so surprised, I tear it open as I climb the steps to my apartment.

  Shaftesbury Hotel, Tonight 6pm, Suite 413.

  I frown as I unlock my door, juggling the note, the empty envelope and the bottle of milk in my other hand. Tonight? He means for me to meet him tonight?

  Inside my apartment the small radio I left on before I headed out is blaring the news, distracting me; a young girl was found murdered last night, shot in the forehead execution style. I flinch and rush to shut the radio off. No news. I can’t listen to the news.

  I turn back to the note Caden left me. Usually the note arranges the meeting for several days later. He has never sent me a note to meet him that night. An odd feeling creeps over me. I push it away and try to just be happy that I get to see him so soon. I head off to have a shower and get ready for my lunch shift at work. But this uneasy feeling won’t wash off.

  Later that evening I’m walking into the lobby of the Shaftesbury Hotel downtown. It’s one of those grand luxury hotel chains that made its name in the roaring eighties, their significance diminishing with the rise of the middle class and popularity of the boutique-style hotels. The lobby is grand and gilded in a way that seems almost dated now. Too much mahogany and gold everywhere. Still, the concierge is friendly when I enter the lobby, and he directs me towards the mirror-paneled lifts with a nod.

  Suite 413 is on the fourth floor. The lift door opens onto a wide corridor paneled in more mahogany and trimmed with delicate Victorian light fittings. I knock on suite 413, an odd sense of nerves mingling with the usual rush of anticipation in my veins.

  The door opens and Caden appears. The first thing I notice is the flash of relief across his face before he lunges for me. He grabs me and pull
s me to him without saying a word. His mouth finds mine. His kiss is firm and intense and his tongue dips hungrily into me. It feels… desperate. Like this might be the last time we see each other and he is trying to suck every last drop of happiness that he can from my lips before it’s too late.

  Oh God. Something isn’t right.

  I pull away. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  I know he’s lying. He latches his mouth onto mine and silences me.

  I’m pulled into the suite and the door slams behind me. Caden won’t tear his mouth from mine or his hands. His hands are everywhere and they are grabby and needy and frantic. All his usual composure – his control, his desire to draw things out – are gone. Left behind is just this… this raw need.

  Before I can comprehend what is happening, my dress has been unzipped and yanked off me. He pushes me up against the wall hard. Almost too hard. He slams forward into me, trapping me. My breath is stolen from the force. He pushes his face into my neck, forcing my head to tilt back, and begins to bite and suck so hard that I can feel the flesh underneath his mouth bruising. He forces a hand in between my back and the wall, and my bra is stripped from me.

  I push him back from my neck so I can see him. I notice his eyes. Undiluted and wild, he can barely hold my gaze. There’s a pleading, insistent begging. He needs this. Whatever has happened, he doesn’t need me interrogating him; he needs me to make it better.

  He pulls the red silk tie I’ve only just noticed from around his neck. He crosses my hands over my head and begins to bind my forearms together. As he raises his arms I smell a hint of must and sweat. I study him closely as he binds me. What else have I missed?

  I notice the bags under his eyes and the stubble across his jaw. He’s tired. He has barely slept. Perhaps he hasn’t slept at all. He definitely has gone a day or two without shaving. I want to kiss his face and his eyes and his jaw, but I don’t move. He looks so stern that I’m scared to show him this tenderness at this moment. My eyes lower. I notice his button-up shirt is wrinkled. His shirts are never wrinkled.