Page 13 of Made in Love and Blood

It was hard to think about the kinds of things that caused emotional pain when the physical overtook it all and purged what she couldn’t. Her father didn’t like that she did it.

All of five-foot-four-inches, and a hundred-fifteen pounds soaking wet, she didn’t need the exercise. She could easily run ten miles on the soccer field and then come home, scream it out with Sal or Carina about something or other, and double her distance before exhaustion found her sleeping somewhere other than her bed.

Her dad had a right to be concerned but he just didn’t get it. She could control the running, the anger...and all the rest. It felt like winning something even if her body paid the price when she finished. Lucky for her, in an ironically sad way, he wasn’t there to prevent the inevitable.

She ran until she puked. Nothing new to see here.

Everything swinging like a wrecking ball inside of Frankie came to a head at the farthest end of the property. A few feet away from the stone wall that separated the rear of the estate from the guest side, the cookies and cream didn’t taste nearly the same coming back out as it had going in. Maybe that was part of the punishment she forced upon herself, too.

The last bit of vomit fell to the ground, and she kept an unsteady hand on her bent knee while using the other to wipe away what remained of the proof as to what she’d done yet again. It took a bit longer before she could stumble the few steps needed to reach the nearby water hose set up along the pathway leading to the gate doors made of thick wood, and just as high as the stone fence, separating the rear of the guest property.

Frankie made quick work of washing away the evidence of her sins on the grass. The last bits of vomit and saliva disappeared into the darkness as an unfamiliar voice resounded from somewhere up above.

“Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

She spun around so fast, the surroundings blurred even after she’d come to a stop. Aiming the nozzle of the water hose in the direction of the new voice, it took her a moment to discern the sardonic chuckle coming from the figure overhead.

There he sat, back against a pillar, legs stretched out across the top of the stone fence, ankles hooked. A lit cigarette played between two fingers, and he flicked the ash in her direction, unbothered.

Not even the lack of light from the settling night sky could hide those green eyes of his driving hard into her down below. Occasionally, she could see those eyes in her dreams, and the rest that had been left unsaid between them haunted her.

“What the fuck do you think that’s going to do?” he asked, nodding at the nozzle.

This wasn’t real. It didn’t feel real.

The buzzing sensation racing over Frankie’s skin only added to the rapid pulse in her veins and the hard pants of breath she couldn’t seem to catch.

“It’s Francesca, right?” he asked.

“Frankie,” she corrected automatically. “I’m only Francesca when somebody’s yelling usually.”

He chuckled at the comment.

“Frankie, right.” He pointed at the next pillar of stone along the fence line, and she followed the gesture to find Stella perched like a stone angel. The cat reached over a meter high when she stood up on her hind legs and stretched. In that moment, the white cat simply eyed the newcomer with a fluffy tail that flicked back and forth as if she found prey. “Is that yours?”

“Yeah. Stella.”

“Didn’t know cats got that big.”

Frankie went about returning the hose and nozzle, explaining while she did, “She’s a Maine Coon. Some are bigger.”

“I bet she keeps down the pests,” he muttered, his attention flicking between the cat and her.

“All kinds.”

Nico nodded and took another drag off his cigarette. “I don’t think she likes me.”

“She doesn’t like anyone. It’s part of her deal. You earn the right to pet her.”

“Ah, I get it. Standard female behavior.”

Nine years had only served to harden and age Nico Russo’s features into that of a devastatingly handsome young man. How old was he now—nineteen? Could that be considered a man? He sure looked like one in black jeans and a black cotton tee. Dark, dishevelled hair fell over his eyes as he tipped his head to the side like he was staring even harder at her. Searching for something.

What could he see?

“So, are you good?”

She blinked. “What?”