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“So stubborn,” she muttered, lacing their fingers together once more. “It’s better to get antibiotics, so go to the doctor. Please?”
He sighed, resigned and partly annoyed that she knew how to get to him. All it took was a fucking please. “I’ll make an appointment tomorrow, but right now I have a, uh . . . whatever this is. A date, I guess.”
A small smile curved Haven’s lips at those words.
They headed around the side of the house to avoid seeing anyone as they left, because Carmine wasn’t in the mood for their pity disguised as sympathy. He was on edge as they walked down the street, keeping his head down but acutely aware of everything going on around them. It didn’t matter what Corrado had said—he couldn’t stop his paranoia. Salvatore was still out there, somewhere, and until he was sure that was dealt with, there was no way he would be able to relax.
Carmine let go of her when they reached his house and unlocked the front door. She stepped inside, her eyes darting around curiously. It didn’t escape Carmine’s notice that she cringed at the utter mess.
“Uh, kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom and laundry room or whatever,” he said, pointing out the areas on the first floor. “The room down the hall across from the living room used to be my father’s office when I was a kid but right now it’s just full of boxes. I never bothered to unpack everything.”
“You’ve been here over a year and you still haven’t unpacked?”
“No.”
“Have you cleaned at all in that time?”
He blinked a few times, gazing at her, but didn’t bother answering that question. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
Carmine left her alone in the hallway as he headed upstairs and kicked off his shoes, tossing them into the closet before stripping out of his clothes. He put on a pair of jeans and a green long-sleeved t-shirt, slipping his Nike’s on before going into the bathroom. He wet his hair and attempted to run his fingers through it, the act making his hand viciously throb. He rooted through the cabinets and found a bottle of peroxide, the wound scorching as he poured it on his hand.
He headed back downstairs and found Haven in the living room, staring at the covered piano. She glanced back at him questioningly. “Carmine, who’s Molly?”
He froze, caught off guard.
“It’s okay if she was, uh, you know . . . it’s not a big deal.” She grimaced, her reaction at odds with her words. “I just wondered if you and her . . .”
“Molly’s not a person,” he said, shaking his head. “Molly’s a drug. I wanted to feel better and got hooked on it. It probably would’ve killed me . . . well, fuck, it almost did kill me, but I’d definitely be dead by now if Corrado hadn’t intervened.”
“He got you off of it?”
“You can say that.”
She stared at Carmine as she took in his words. ”Did it work?”
His brow furrowed. ”I told you I stopped.”
“I mean Molly,” she clarified. ”Did it make you feel better?”
He sighed as he considered the question. “It did for a while, but it wasn’t real. No matter how high I got, I never found what I was looking for. And it ended up taking from me more than it gave.”
He pulled her into a hug and she gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling. The air around them grew thick with emotion as she wrapped her arms around his waist. His heart raced, blood rushing furiously through his veins as his body tingled from her embrace. He moved forward a bit, hesitantly, gauging her reaction, and her eyes seemed to instinctively dart to his mouth. He took that as a sign and hoped like hell it wasn’t a mistake when he leaned down, aiming for her mouth.
At the last second, panic overtook Haven’s face. She pulled back, turning her head so his lips brushed against her flushed cheek. He silently cursed himself as he let go of her. Too soon.
“I, uh . . .” She picked at her fingernails, moving away from him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He glanced at his watch with a sigh. It was already a little after seven in the evening. “How about that coffee?”
She nodded, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her keys. She tossed them at Carmine with no warning, and he barely got a grasp on them before they hit the floor. He eyed them peculiarly, spotting the familiar key. “No fucking way.”
“It’s parked out front,” she said. “Thought maybe you’d like to drive.”
* * *
Carmine cruised through the streets of east Chicago, lounged back in the driver’s seat of the black Mazda. The dark interior smelled just as fresh as it had the last time he had driven it, the plush leather seat somehow still formed to his shape. North Carolina radio stations were programmed for the buttons of the stereo, the dial turned to his favorite—97.1 FM. A black tree-shaped air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and he suspected it was the same one he had put there back in Durante.
“Did you even drive this thing?” he asked, looking at the mileage . . . a few hundred miles more than he remembered it being.
