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After dinner, I curled up in one of Mom’s afghans and studied. I worked through two classes, then set aside the books and watched Andy Griffith with them, lasting through three episodes before I nodded off. I woke up to the smell of Dad’s brownies and struggled to sit upright. My father could cook three things, and brownies led the short list. I inhaled two and a half and a giant glass of milk, debated politics with Dad, then bagged some brownies to go and kissed them both goodbye.
I was in my car, heading home and thinking over it all, when I first thought of Dario and the chance that he was behind John and Johnny’s incident. I hadn’t told him about it, and Google didn’t show any history of it when you searched my name. Dario shouldn’t even know about it, but by the time I pulled into my driveway, I’d convinced myself it was his handiwork. I picked up my new phone, scrolled to his number, and sent him a text.
we need to talk
Maybe I was wrong. But maybe, probably, I wasn’t.
Twenty-Five
I pulled into The Majestic with a sharp squeak of tires and didn’t pay attention to the woman in yoga pants who stretched against the entrance gate, her eyes recording everything about me by the time I inserted my gate card and pulled onto the car elevator.
When I blew into the suite, Dario was waiting by the window, his cell in hand. He turned slowly, his head lifting, eyebrows raising, and I watched as he pushed the phone into his pocket.
His gaze moved over my knee-high boots and thin sweater dress and his mouth curved upward in appreciation. “You needed me?” Three simple words he managed to make into a sexual invitation.
I dropped my keys on the entry table and crossed my arms over my chest. “I went home today.”
He nodded slowly, his head tilting to the side as if remembering something. “Right. For your dad’s … birthday?”
“Yes.” I snapped out the response and moved into the kitchen, wrapping a hand around the fridge handle and yanking open the stainless-steel door. The shelves were fully stocked, tiny clear cases holding a variety of fruit, salads and sandwiches. My hackles rose at the convenience of it all.
“Want to guess what I found out?” I bent over and pulled out the drink drawer, grabbing a bottle of beer and using the edge of the counter to pop off the top.
He gave me a slow grin, the sort that burned cities and broke hearts, the sort that almost crumbled my resolve. “No idea.”
“Really?” I tilted back the beer and finished half of it. Swallowing, I scrunched up my face and tilted my head to the side. “Absolutely no idea?”
I walked over to him and walked my fingers up his chest.
He trapped my hand with his and looked down at me. “If you have a question, just ask it.”
“Cut the balls off anyone lately?” I almost said their names and what they’d done to me. But if I was wrong, this wasn’t a story I wanted to tell. And if I was right…
“Yeah.” His face hardened, but those eyes softened, a push-pull of emotion that ran my emotions through a grinder. “And I’d do it again.”
“Why?”
He shrugged and gently pulled my beer from my hand, finishing it off. He was so big, so strong. I was close enough I could feel the warmth of his body, near enough that we brushed against each other when we moved. With him, I felt untouchable. Protected. Loved.
I should have been afraid, but I only felt comfort.
“They hurt you.” He set down the empty bottle and leaned back against the counter, pulling me to him, his hands running over my hair and then curling against my back. He spread his stance and gathered me close. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
“You can’t promise me that.”
He dipped his head, his lips pressing against mine. He moved closer and his kiss grew stronger, greedier.
“Dario.” I gasped his name in between two kisses, my hands tightening on his bright blue button-up. He ignored it, his hands sliding around to grip my ass before pulling up my dress.
“Dario.” I pushed hard on his chest and he stopped, pulling away. “We have to talk about this. I didn’t tell you about what they did, you shouldn’t have…” The sentence trembled, then stopped, my emotions too clogged to finish.
“You really want to talk about it?” He stepped back and lifted his hands from my body. “Fine. I have connections in Mohave. I read the police reports. Your statement and theirs. I saw the photos.”
I closed my eyes, thinking of the photos. I’d had to strip naked. There was the flash of bulbs and the blank face of the police officer, her methodical examination done with latex gloves and quick movements that had contained little care. She hadn’t believed my story. I’d seen it in her eyes, their disinterested movements over my scrapes.
