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“Of course, Mr. Cerelli.” Her usual crisp, professional tone is back, making me smile.
“Good. Thank you for taking care of that.”
“No, sir.” She says crossing to my side and taking my hand in both of hers. “Thank you. For everything.” Her eyes are bright with gratitude. Gratitude that I don’t deserve.
“I’m just glad that Grace is unharmed and will recover from all of this,” I tell her, uncomfortable with her thanks. She nods briskly, aware of my discomfort, and starts to turn back to her grandchild, but stops and turns back.
“None of this is your fault Xavier,” she says, lifting a hand and patting my cheek softly. “Goodnight, Sir. Come on Gracie, let’s get you home.” The girl smiles shyly as she slips past me and takes her grandmother’s hand, quietly allowing herself to be led from the room.
“She’s right you know?” Blake says as he follows Ellie toward the door, but I choose to ignore him. I’m going to fix this, whether they think it’s my fault or not. I need to, or I’m never going to be able to let it go.
Then I’m left alone in the silent living room. Returning to the kitchen, I pour myself several fingers of whiskey in a glass before sitting down at the table to wait for my wife. Seeing what Dominic did to Gray’s girl once was bad enough, there is no way I’m going to barge in on whatever is going on in the bedroom down the hall. I will be fine right here.
I’m sipping my second whiskey when Gray silently ent
ers and sits down across from me. I’m always shocked by how someone as big as he is can move around without a sound like that.
“Drink?” I ask him lifting up my glass. He nods, his eyes haunted, and I return to the cupboard taking out a clean glass and bringing the bottle back to the table with me. He downs the first glass in one long drink before carefully setting it down in front of him.
“Wanna talk about it?” I venture, handing him the bottle. His shoulders stiffen, and he reaches for it, pouring another.
“Not a lot to say.” He eventually replies. His eyes stay focused on the glass in his hand. I nod. I’m not going to push. That won’t accomplish anything. Everyone thinks that Gray is wild and fun-loving because that is how he wants people to see him. I know the truth. He will talk when he’s ready and not any sooner. Poking at him won’t do anything but piss him off, and he will hold it in even longer. He’s always been this way, ever since we were kids, and he figured out the real reason why he didn’t know who his father was.
We were maybe nine. It was before I was sent to boarding school before my mom died. He overheard some of Dom and my dad’s guys talking about his mom, and not in the most flattering terms. Neither of us knew what the word whore meant until we looked it up in the dusty old dictionary that sat on the bookshelf by the desk where I did my homework. He was never quite the same after that day, and we have still never discussed it.
Together we sip our drinks in the stillness that is only occasionally punctuated by the sounds of crying. Every time he hears it I can see his tension grow. If he winds himself any tighter I think he’s going to snap.
“What’s her name?” I finally ask him, needing to break the silence and to distract him from whatever thoughts of retribution are swirling around in his head. We either need to talk about it, or hit the gym, and to be honest as much as I know I’d benefit from going a few rounds in a ring, I don’t want them to be with Gray in his current state of mind. I’m good, but there is no way I could do anything but take a beating with him in this mood. I know my limits, and there is nothing small about him.
He waits so long that I don’t think he is going to tell me anything about her.
“I only know her as Nikki,” he says, then falls silent again. I wait. When the sound of muffled sobbing drifts down the hall, he mumbles a string of curses under his breath. His jaw is clenched so hard I wonder if he will break a tooth.
“How did you meet Nikki?” I ask, trying to pull his focus away from the tormented sounds. His cheeks flood with hot color. It’s the Irish in him I always tease. Reddish hair, a blush he can’t hide and a temper to match… once he got riled up.
“Not a word.” He grumbles at me, thrusting an agitated hand into his hair. I nod, waiting for him to continue.
“I met her at Dom’s club when you asked me to go there last month.” He finally says, his eyes fixated on the table between us.
“She’s a stripper?” I ask incredulously. Gray has never been one of those guys to be into strippers or hookers, which I know a lot of the girls at Dom’s club are. When he gets the urge, he hooks up, or at least I always thought so. He shrugs noncommittally, so I venture on. “Not a stripper then?” I’m not sure what other kinds of girls work for Dominic, but I’m willing to be educated.
“She doesn’t strip.” he finally answers, “She’s a cocktail waitress.”
“I didn’t know that you were interested in girls that work for Dom,” I say carefully, knowing that there has never been a girl in Dominic’s employ that wasn’t involved in sex work one way or another.
“I’m not. I don’t.” He scrubs a huge hand over his face. “Fuck! Only her.” He finally spits out as he fills his glass again.
I can’t stop my smile. I’ve never seen him like this before. “What else does she do for Dom besides serve drinks?” I know there must be something else, or Dominic would never allow her to work for him. I can’t help but wonder how he deals with that.
“When I met her, it was her first night there. All she did was serve drinks. We talked, and she went missing before I could see her again.”
“You talked?” I ask, finding that more than a little surprising, Gray hardly ever talks to women. I’m sure it has something to do with what he went through losing his mom the way he did. “You were supposed to meet her again?”
“Yeah,” He says simply.
“Did you sleep with her?” His only answer is to toss back the rest of his drink and to shake his head miserably. “Does she know who you are…to the family?” I can’t come right out and mention the rumors that Dom is his father. I’m stating the obvious, but he’s clearly got it bad for this woman. I can see so many ways that this could go bad, and he’s going to be hurt if they do.
I start to say more when the door opens down the hall and Dr. Halvorson strides into the kitchen. Wordlessly he checks cabinets until he finds a glass and sits down at the table. Gray hands him the bottle, and he doesn’t say anything until he’s drunk one and poured another.
