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AMBER
“Home sweet home.” Gianni’s accent makes its way into my imagination.
I am indeed home—the tail end of the date—when questions start to form in my head.What will happen if I invite him in? Will he trump my other dates?
Will I take the plunge with this man?
My imagination may be out of sync with reality, but I need to start somewhere—perhaps finding a connection that will rekindle my trust in men.
People see Amber-Rose as ‘that Santa Maria woman’ who mends teddies and dolls—skillful, cute, innocent. It is who I am, but once upon a time, sexuality was also a big part of me. It was an emotion that took me to a beautiful place which was different from joy or happiness. And dare I say, it was a kind of gratification that completed me. Ineeded it. It’s my right as a woman that Aidan took away, and I’m on a quest to claim it back.
But a tug-of-war is raging inside me. I’m ready, then I’m not—just like my silver tank top, which I put on, only to shove back inside the closet.
Trust is where I need to start if I want my after-dark affairs back on track. Some gentle handholding may be needed to help ease me into it. But at the end of the day, I crave passion, roughness, andpain. Unlike what people think, it’s not a game—rough sex is as sacred as any intimate moment, and more. Pain doesn’t lie. It helps you separate real men from lousy lovers.
If only Aidan hadn’t betrayed that trust.
“I had a great time, thanks.” I hop off Gianni’s motorbike, returning the helmet I’ve been wearing.
The Milanese fitness trainer removes his helmet too, revealing his sharp face. “I’m sorry about the weather,” he whispers, feeling my wet collar.
California’s autumn rain poured down on us briefly just now, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Rain is always good for romance. “It’s only water,” I say, loosening my damp jacket.
“I will work hard. Maybe in six months, I will have a car.”
I’d rather date someone who rides a second-hand Japanese bike than a man in a Benz. Besides, my date has a perky ass. Riding behind him was a treat.
Slowly, he removes my jacket. “Ammazza, che bella ragazza…” Embers fly from his eyes as his hands coast to the back of my neck.
He’s about to kiss me, but I withdraw. Partly because of my garlic breath from the pizza dinner, partly because there’s something in the way that he’s holding me now. It’s not eagerness, it’s not passion. It feels like I’m being examined by a bad doctor.
“Next time?” he says.
“Yeah,” I respond shyly.
Gianni puts his helmet back on. I feel light, as if something had been taken away from me. And it’s not a piece of my heart.
My diamond necklace is gone! And so is my watch!
“Hey! Come back!” I shout as my supposed date darts out of my sight. He’s not a bad doctor—he’s a fucking thief! “Cazzo!”
Not wanting to just let him go, I sprint against the wind. People sometimes call me a cheetah, and tonight is the night I’m going to prove I’ve still got it.
My house is along an avenue that goes straight for a couple of miles. I can still see Gianni. But even a cheetah can’t outrun a motorcycle, albeit a second-hand 1990s Yamaha.
Headlights approach from behind me. “You okay, Miss?” A man who’s driving by slows down alongside me as I huff but persist in running after Gianni.
“Stop him! He’s a thief!” I point at my felonious date.
The man immediately accelerates, overtaking Gianni at what feels like warp speed. With precision and immaculate timing, the car turns at a ninety-degree angle, blocking Gianni’s path. The bastard has no other choice but to jump off his bike and let it topple over rather than crash into the car head-on.
The car’s driver, a man who moves like Stephen Amell inArrow, apprehends Gianni as the thief tries to flee. “Call the police!” he yells to me while locking my date’s hands behind his back.
I pick up my cell and dial 911.
“Nuh-uh!” the man says as Gianni attempts to ditch my necklace and watch, obviously thinking about throwing away the evidence.
“They’re on their way,” I say to the man. Then I come to Gianni. My former date grins. I curse, “Vaffanculo, Gianni! Brutto ladro!”
