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I do as he asks, tossing it onto the bed. He runs his hands over my belly, cupping one breast in each hand, squeezing, rubbing, tasting. I moan in response and lift my hands to run them through his ink-black hair, tugging at it. With his desire-laden eyes, he watches me and guides my body down to straddle him. I remain up on my knees so he can position himself beneath me. His fingers are hot, scorching me. He runs them along my skin before sliding my panties to the side, allowing him to enter me. As he fills me, my head falls back from the pleasure, and we get lost in each other.
A couple of hours later, I’m dressed and gathering my things to leave. I work the bar at Massimo’s family restaurant in the Financial District, which he owns with his brother, Rocco, and sister, Stella.
Trattoria Lorenzo Restaurant & Bar is located in the heart of the city and is known for its authentic Italian food, with a full bar to complement it. Last year it won the “Best of Boston” award because the chef hails from Italy, and the signature drinks are the best in the city—but maybe I’m a little biased. When the offices start emptying, the bar is full, buzzing with conversation, great music, and flowing drinks.
“Call me later,” I tell him as I’m lacing up my boots. I stand and turn toward the door, ready to leave. Massimo rises from his place on the couch and struts across the living room until he’s inches from me. I prop my glasses onto my head, and he embraces me, softly kissing my temples.
“I love you,” he whispers, resting his forehead on mine.
I lift my eyes to meet his, green to dark brown, his six-foot-three frame towering over my five-foot-eleven one. “I love you too, more than you’ll ever know,” I respond. As I say the words, tears well in my eyes, and a tear trickles down my right cheek.
“Hey, what’s the matter? Why the tears?” he asks, lifting his hands to frame my face, his thumb touching the beauty mark that graces my left cheek, drying the tear away.
“You know how I get with road trips since Benny’s accident, anxious and nervous,” I say while nodding my head to avoid his eyes as the lie slips from my lips.Fuck, this is so hard.For all the times I thought about this moment, now that it’s here and he’s staring down at me, it’s not like anything I’d imagined. It’s a million times worse.
He murmurs, “Lena, look at me.” His fingers force me to look up. “You always get anxious but tears? That’s new,” he adds in a curious tone.
“I’m just gonna miss you is all.” My eyes flitter down away from his as I whisper the words.Fuck, he’s gonna notice I’m being evasive.
I take a deep breath and lift my eyes, connecting with his again. With more confidence and a smile, I say, “I’ll be fine. You’ll be home before I know it, and then I’ll think back at how stupid I’m being. Call me later?” I ask while snuggling into his arms, pressing my nose to his neck to take in his scent, hiding my eyes from his.
He pulls back from me, his hands cupping my face again, and stares at me for a few seconds, his eyes assessing mine. “Okay. I will, babe. Now go, before you’re late.” He swipes his lips to mine. I hug him, squeezing him tight one last time before leaving the apartment. I close the door behind me, tears dripping from my eyes as I descend the stairs.
As usual, the lunch rush has the bar full, and it keeps me busy. Today, I am thankful for the full house, the loud voices, and the chatty customers because it keeps my mind from thinking about what I am about to do. I’m dragging today, not my usual upbeat self, who’s on the ball while working the bar. Although I wish I had spent the day at home with Massimo, taking in every last minute with him, it’s better that I’m at work. With me here, he doesn’t suspect anything is amiss.
There are a few familiar faces I see scattered across the bar and in the dining room. Most men wear suits and ties; women wear their business suits or dresses. The lunch crowd is quite different than the happy hour or dinner crowd. Customers at lunch are usually more formal with each other—negotiating business deals over homemade tagliatelle alla boscaiola. On occasion, you get a couple who wants to sit in a back corner to hide away from prying eyes. Makes you wonder what they’re up to. The patrons that stand out the most are the tourists sprinkled into the business crowd. They often walk over from the Old State House or the Custom House Tower, Boston’s original skyscraper, both a few blocks away. The tourists stick out like sore thumbs. They dress in their comfy sneakers, don backpacks or fanny packs, carry folded-up maps, and usually have a camera hanging from their necks.
“Lena, I still need two glasses of Chardonnay and a ginger ale for table six,” Beth, one of the waitresses, calls out from the end of the bar.
“Be right there,” I call back. She must be annoyed with me today; it’s the third time I’ve made her wait. I’ve been in a daze all shift, slow getting orders out and in attending to customers. I haven’t been able to focus on anything.
The rest of the lunch rush passes in a blur, and once it’s quiet with only two customers remaining, I begin cleaning up when Shannon, the other bartender, arrives. She’s a Southie girl, thick Boston accent, long flaming red hair, and milky white skin.
“Hi, Shannon. What’s up, girl?” I ask as she’s tying the apron around her waist.
“Same shit, different day, Lena. You know how it is,” she responds in a flat tone with a scrunched nose.
“Can you cover my lunch shift tomorrow?” I ask her. “I have to go to the doctor and forgot to take the day off,” I tell her as I’m loading dirty glasses into the dishwasher behind the bar.
“Sure, I can use the extra cash. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, just my annual checkup with the gynecologist. Exciting, I know. Thanks, Shannon,” I say, grinning at her before I finish cleaning up.
The end of the shift drags. I’m anxious to leave, get home, and start packing. I keep glancing at the clock on the computer only to see the minutes crawling. It feels like time has stood still when all I want is to leave.
My phone vibrates in my apron pocket, and when I grab it, I see Massimo’s name across the cracked screen. I hurry to the end of the bar to get some privacy when I press the green answer button, placing the phone to my ear. “Hi,” I answer in a hushed voice.
“Hey, babe, how’s work?” he asks.
“Super busy as usual, you know how Thursdays are.”
“Yeah, I feel you. Don’t miss it, not gonna lie.”
“I wish you were feeling me; I could use a little of your loving right about now,” I murmur into the phone in a soft voice, closing my eyes to memories of earlier that morning. I hear him grunt and take a deep breath in response.
“Lena,” he declares in a stern, raspy tone. I know he’s not alone, which means he won’t say what’s on his mind.
“Massimo,” I begin, but his name hangs on the tip of my tongue. There are so many things I want to tell him; my mind races with thoughts. Instead, I swallow the words, and “Have a safe drive” falls from my lips.
