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I wait. Count to ten. Twelve. Fifteen. Twenty.
A mini storm swirls inside, and I’m not exactly sure why I’m so wanting to kill, so feeling betrayed. I don’t even know him.
But I want to.
Isn’t that the issue?
And still, he doesn’t respond.
“Nicolo?”
“What?”
“I asked you a question,” I say softly, and line it with all the steel I can muster.
He’s taking a long, circuitous route. I might not know Dallas that well—yet—but this is taking a hell of a lot longer than it should getting to this place. There are houses and buildings, and changing neighborhoods as we go, mostly places I don’t know. Outside my window, other cars share the road in the gathering dark, and lights sparkle from bars and restaurants when we pass them.
With a loud, irritated sigh, I look at him. “You understand what a question is.”
And though I doubt it reaches his eyes, the corner of his mouth flickers in something resembling a smile.
Those kisses last night suddenly flare into life. I might have been flying high, but those, they stand out like a supernova.
“Nicolo?”
“Most people wouldn’t dare speak to me like you are.”
It’s not even censure in his tone, just tight amusement that slicks over something harder.
“I’m not most people.” I don’t even know where this bravery is coming from. There’s something about him that thrills, scares, and soothes. Safe. He makes me feel safe. Like I can step out of my comfort zone, throw back the covers on me and just be myself. “And please . . .” My stupid voice breaks a tiny bit. “Are you a criminal?”
“I told you,” he says in that low, smoky way, “I work security.”
He’s lying to me, and it hurts.
It permeates the air. I’m not stupid. Those looks between him and Dan . . . and, hell, not even those, the way they understood each other.
It was like my world growing up.
Anger beats low in me, rushing up over the pain, and I fist my hands, my camera and bag perched on my lap. How the hell did they both find me, anyway? That feeling of being followed? It came from both of them.
But I’m not going to say anything, not more than I have. I’m not—
“Bullshit.”
It’s like I said the word fuck to him. He hisses in the air.
“It’s not a lie, pretty Avah,” he says.
I glare at him because the rage rushes up into my sinuses, making them tight and hot, and if I don’t glare, maybe I’ll cry, and I’m not going to do that. Nicolo is what my dad is. Or something like it.
Has to be. Why would Dan just let him step all over him otherwise?
Okay, Nicolo’s a lot bigger than Dan. Maybe scarier too. Not that I find Dan scary, but plenty do, and I’m getting myself off track. “It is.”
“I am in security.”
There’s something else there, like an of sorts.
