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“You’re staying there. Stalker, remember?”
“Well, it might be,” I say.
“Babe. There are menus in the drawer. Ones I use and trust. If you want to order in, use one of those, and for fuck’s sake, make them leave the food on the step. I’m gonna text you the door code, all right?”
Nicolo doesn’t wait for an answer. He hangs up, and minutes later, a small string of numbers comes in.
It sets off something inside me that he gave me his code. I know he can and probably will change it, but it’s still a little tremor of excitement that rocks me.
I veg out for a while after the cereal, flicking through the channels on the TV. I’m not really in the mood to watch anything. I’m not a fan of sitting and doing nothing, but there’s also something nice to it. Just a stretch of time with nothing to do, and soon I get sucked into an old rom-com on the screen.
When it’s over, I get some more water, and sipping it, I go looking for the menus. He hung up before he could tell me exactly where, but most people kept them near the front door or in the kitchen. When I don’t find anything like a menu in the kitchen drawers, I wander into the living room and poke around.
There’s a small side table with a bowl that’s no doubt for his keys when he gets home. And the table has a drawer.
I pull open the dark wood. “Bingo!”
Grabbing the menus, I stop still.
Beneath them is something sleek and black.
A gun.
The breath whooshes from my lungs.
I’m no expert in them, and I’m not a fan, but it looks powerful. There are also a couple of clips too. I recognize it. The shape of the whole thing. This gun . . . it’s been around my home. Back in California. Our little town outside San Diego is idyllic and the kind of place where guns like this, no-nonsense ones, have no place.
But it’s the favored one of Dad’s and his men.
With shaking fingers, I pull it out, and oh, yeah, it’s that. It’s well conditioned, and I think about the size of Nicolo, that hardness to him, the fact he told me he’s in security and his suit.
Horror streaks cold and white through me, and I drop the gun back into place. The safety is on, and I’m betting it’s not loaded since the clips are there. But it’s ready to take with him.
I grip the glass tight, then carefully set it down along with the menus on the top of the table.
It’s not that late. Maybe a few hours of daylight left, and I need to go.
I don’t care what Nicolo said. I need to go.
Because what if he does the one thing I can’t stand? What if he knows my dad?
I wobble as I walk and stop at the sofa, gripping the back of the leather. On the table is a sleek computer, and I want to open it, but I’m not going to. It’s going to be locked like all computers, and besides, I’m not sure what I’ll find if I open it.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up and out. It’s not going to say ‘Mafia or Us’.
I’m not that stupid.
But it all fits. The gun, what he’s told me is his job, the way people peel out of his way . . . that hot suit.
Is he in organized crime? Or something like that?
And I make myself breathe, and the thought I didn’t want to think comes.
What if he’s working for Dad?
My humiliation would be unbearable.
Without another thought, I turn and strip off the clothes he left for me, pulling on mine.
