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He pulls out the gift. Flips over the tag and glances up at me. “This is for me?”
“Yeah but—”
“Fromyou?”
My cheeks grow hot. “No, from baby Jesus himself,” I snap back. “It’s nothing though, just a stupid little—”
“Why are you trying to hide it? Is it going to blow up when I open it?”
I glare at him. “No, but I wish I’d thought of that.”
He tears off the paper and holds my gift up to the light. A pair of puke-green socks covered in four-leaf clovers. When his gaze comes to mine, I can’t read the expression behind it, and it makes me feel even more uncomfortable.
“They’re just socks,” I mutter, shifting my weight from foot-to-foot. “Lucky socks, maybe. I know you probably get a rash from justlookingat polyester, and I know I’ve probably made you hate four-leaf-clovers, but…”
My explanation melts off. The gesture is sweet, and it hangs in the air just as sickly. Truth is, I bought them from a dollar store on the high street when rowing in one of those waves of dread. I thought maybe if he has lucky socks, like I have a lucky necklace, it might stop me ruining his life anymore.
I realize I just said that aloud.
He stares at me. It’s soloudoutside, with the rain beating on the windows like we’ve done something to piss it off, but in this bedroom, you could hear a pin drop.
Rafe places the socks on the bedside table. “Come here.”
This time the command isn’t lit up with lust, and I’m compelled to obey it. Numb, I crawl onto the bed and lie in the crook of his arm. He props himself up on his elbow and stares down at me, blocking all the light above him.
“You think these lucky socks will work?” he murmurs, running a finger over the pendant of my necklace.
“Maybe,” I whisper, choked.Hopefully.
He flicks a glance at my eyes. Searches them. “When did you buy your necklace?”
“I didn’t; it was given to me.”
“By your mama?”
I laugh.Yeah, right.“Someone’s mama, probably. But not mine.”
“Why did she give it to you?”
Our eyes lock and he stares at me patiently. I squirm under his body heat, not wanting to bring up that memory, not on Christmas day. Notnow.But when I go to sit up, Rafe pushes me back down, holding me on the bed with his hand on my hip.
“Tell me.”
I focus on the patterned ceiling and sigh. “No offense, but men in casinos are assholes.” He doesn’t laugh but waits for me to continue. “Growing up at the Visconti Grand, all the patrons thought I was lucky.”
Now, he smirks. “Nico told me you used to charge them a dollar to blow on their dice.” His knuckle skims my cheek. “Why don’t I remember you?”
Instead of making a joke about how fucking old he is, I swallow and keep going. I know if I stop, I’ll never get it out. “I didn’t charge at first. I used to be a lucky charm for free, until one night, one of the regulars hoisted me onto his lap at the roulette wheel. He was drunk; I could smell the whiskey on his breath.” I glare at him. “Another reason I fucking hate whiskey. Anyway, he was being reckless. Bet everything he had on black, and because I’d always been so lucky for him before, he thought he couldn’t lose.” I swallow. “My mama was the croupier for that table that night. He’d convinced her to let me blow on the ball and even drop it onto the wheel, although it was completely against the Grand’s rules. It spun and spun and as it slowed, I remember his grip on my hip growing heavier.”
My stare slides up to Rafe’s. His jaw ticks, and in the shadows he looks demonic. “What did it land on,” he asks calmly, though not calm at all.
“Zero” I whisper. We stare at each other, and I let out a shaky breath. Fuck, I hate this memory. I’ve never told it to anyone, not even the hotline. If Rafe wasn’t so warm, if his arm under my head wasn’t so solid, I wouldn’t be telling him either. “I knew I was in trouble; I could feel it. I jumped off his lap and ran out into the alleyway. Seconds later, he followed me out.” My laugh is bitter and tastes of self-deprecation. “He was the first man to trap me in an alley; Martin O’Hare was the second.”
“And he’ll be the fucking last,” Rafe growls, raking a hand through his hair, glaring out at the storm.
I bring his attention back to me by stroking the head of his serpent tattoo. “It was then I learned that when you can no longer serve a man, they turn their back on you. Or worse, they turnonyou. He was angry and wanted to teach me a lesson. His hands tried to go places they should never go on a ten-year-old’s body. You know, up my dress…”
The emotion clotting my throat cuts my story short. Rafe breathes out, dropping his forehead to mine. “Fuck, Pen.”
