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He rolled down the window and cocked an eyebrow.
“Why aren’t you inside?”
“Why aren’t you?” he countered, letting his gaze drop to my attire. I wasn’t wearing anything scandalous. At least that he could see.
In deference to the cool October night—and the fact that I was wearing a tiny halter dress that barely contained my tits and my other bits—I had on a short belted trenchcoat, patterned tights, and knee-high boots. The only way I’d made it out of the house without getting the third degree was because Mia had been occupied playing some video game with Fox. Jenna was cheering both of them on.
That was Jen. Never liked to pick sides.
Eventually, Mia would look up and realize she hadn’t paid much attention to my hurried “gotta go, see ya, bye!” and I’d get a text, asking if I’d be home tonight. Which, of course, I would be, because where else would I go?
Not to Gio’s, though he was eyeing me like a steak that had been grilled to perfection, and he couldn’t wait to dig in.
“What are you wearing?” His voice sounded like sanded glass, all gritty and rough.
“This is called a coat.” I held up my foot. “These are known as boots.”
“You better have fucking underwear on under there, or we’re going to have a problem.”
I couldn’t help the shiver that went through me. Absolutely couldn’t. But I managed not to do anything but smile. “Good thing you won’t know either way, now will you?”
“You’re going to dance tonight.”
Glancing away, I crossed my arms. Up the street, a cluster of guys were huddling near the entrance of the bodega. That made me shiver too, for a whole other reason.
I hated that I was afraid now. That I’d put myself in a position to be harmed. That I was doing it again, out of duty or spite or stubbornness. Or just plain stupidity.
“Carly.”
His gentle tone brought my gaze back to his. But I didn’t speak.
He let out a breath and slowly, carefully, wrapped his long, blunt-tipped fingers around the wheel. Looking at those hands made me ache. They were capable of such violence, and such beauty when they to
uched me. And I hated not knowing if I’d ever have them on me again.
I shouldn’t want them to be. He’d been up for attempted murder, for God’s sake. Mia had dealt with his people, and whatever had occurred wasn’t good. He was hiding things, and he operated in a world that had already proved extremely dangerous.
Yet I still yearned.
“Get in the truck,” he said finally. “I’ll drive you and take you home afterward.”
“It’s not necessary—”
His quiet stare silenced me and made me tighten my belt before I opened the door and climbed inside.
“Thank you,” I said after a moment. I’d been raised to have manners, and even if I didn’t need a chaperone, I had to admit I wasn’t eager to walk back through those doors alone.
Or at all.
He drove to the club silently, barely sparing me a glance. I kept fussing at everything—my seatbelt, the hem of my dress, my hair. I’d done it in a messy updo, and the curls were tickling my neck.
“Relax.” He reached over to still my hand when I again reached for my dress. “I won’t let anyone near you.”
The part of me that was like Mia bristled. I was supposed to be able to take care of myself. But the other night I’d failed spectacularly.
I shut my eyes and turned my hand over in his, gripping his fingers. I expected him to pull away, to curse that I was being pigheaded and he needed to save me from myself.
Instead, he just held on, as I did, as he drove us through the darkened, busy streets. New York never slept, and since last Friday night, I didn’t either. Sunday night, I’d crashed, but every night after, I’d laid awake to watch the numbers count down until dawn.
