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The planes of his face harden with no trace of that cocky smile or syrupy laugh. “I am a bad person, Romy. Because I kill? No. Killing is so entwined into my DNA that I can’t imagine life without it.” He ducks lower, brushing his nose against mine. He’s so close now that I can feel the vibration in his voice. “I’m a bad person because I enjoy hurting people. Even those who don’t deserve it.” Briefly, he looks up at the metal frame of the umbrella and rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s a sick part of my brain that needs constant feeding,” he adds quietly.
Shielding myself from the intensity of his gaze, I turn my attention to his chest, rubbing my fingers over the ribbing of his sweater. Underneath, his heart thumps slow and steady. When I’m brave enough to ask the question tumbling around in my brain, I force myself to meet his eye.
“Last night, you said that when you hurt, you hurt others. Just like when I hurt, I want to be hurt harder. What is it that makes you hurt?”
My mind goes to the girl in the Polaroid. To his dead father. What I really want to know is what goes on behind that cruel smile and easy laugh.
The answer doesn’t come. Instead, that smile lights up his gorgeous face. “What makes me hurt? Eating your fucking cooking.”
Without another word, he collapses the umbrella and tugs me through a door before a drop of rain can fall on my head. I blink under the harsh white light and scan my surroundings.
Plastic red chairs are tucked under sticky tables. Black and white photos of plump, olive-skinned men grinning line the walls.
My eyes land on a guy in the corner, shoveling a slice of pizza in his mouth. I look at his gray sweatpants and Hilfiger hoodie, then down at my bare legs and ridiculously high heels. I feel like Rachel in the first episode of Friends, when she bursts into Central Perk in her wedding dress.
“This is where we’re eating?” I hiss out the side of my mouth as a man who looks like a carbon copy of the dudes in the photographs practically falls over his feet to shake Donnacha’s hand. “You told me we’re going somewhere fancy.”
“No,” Donnacha replies with a mischievous grin, “I told you to dress fancy.” He steals a lustful glance at my chest. “What can I say? I like it when you try to impress me.”
Heat rises in my cheeks as he peels off my leather jacket and hands it to the guy who’s leading us to a table. “Your favorite seat, Mr. Quinn,” he booms in an Italian accent, “always reserved for you.”
We slide into a plastic booth at the back, and I glare at the laminated menu, ignoring the amusement dancing on Donnacha’s features.
“What is this place, anyway?”
“Best pizza joint in town, that’s what it is.” I arch an eyebrow as a woman two tables over slurps on a plastic straw.
Donnacha cocks his head. “Aw, come on. I didn’t have you down as a snob.”
I straighten my spine, almost laughing at the irony of anyone thinking a girl dragged up in the pustosh’ can be anything near snobby.
“I’m not! This place looks great. But I would have come in my sweats if you’d have given me any warning.”
He laughs, watching me closely as I pretend to study the menu. When the server hustles to our table, he claps Donnacha on the back and says, “I know what you’re getting, Mr. Quinn. And for this precious lady?”
“Uh…” I let the menu flutter to the table and wave my hand around, a little too manically. “Whatever you suggest.”
“Very well,” he murmurs, scribbling something on his notepad. “I’ll put you down for today’s special—”
Donnacha cuts him off. “Wait,” he says, eyes trained on me like lasers. “Give us a few moments, Sergio.”
He dissolves from the conversation, leaving me to endure Donnacha’s scrutiny on my own.
“Romy.” He slides the menu toward me and points at the top dish. “What does that say?”
A sickly feeling climbs up my neck like creeping ivy. “Um…” The letters bend and sway, nothing more than edges and curves made from blank ink. Hieroglyphics would make more sense.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes widening as he scrubs his beard. He leans over the table so the slurping woman won’t hear his revelation. “You can’t read.”
“I—”
“It makes so much sense,” he garbles to himself. “You didn’t realize you’d signed marriage papers because you didn’t have a fucking clue what they said. You watch that annoying bitch on that Cooking Channel because you can’t read any of the recipes Aisling gave you.” He turns his attention back to me, incredulous. “You’re twenty-four, Romy. Why can’t you read?”
I can feel the heat radiating from my face. It’s impossible to feel any semblance of cool. “I can read…”
I trail off when I realize I can’t finish my sentence without opening myself up to a barrage of questioning.
I can read; I just can’t read English.
