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“Dad,” I gulp, “Lawrence,” I sniff. I never thought a day like this would come, where I'd rather be home with them than partying with friends.
“Are you alright?” my father whispers into the phone.
“We heard Benedetto has you, is he there?” Lawrence joins in the whispering.
“He is…” I clear my throat, “yes,” I whisper like he cannot hear me.
“Don't trust him, don't trust whatever he tells you,” my father warns and I can picture the crinkles on his forehead deepening like it does whenever he is trying to make a strong point.
“Run Rose, whatever chance you get, run and never turn back till you get to a safe place,” Lawrence rushes his words, I can almost feel the veins on his neck straining and his onyx eyes bulging as he talks.
I want to go home. It's when the worse times come that you realize you had it better.
“Don't, I repeat,” my father grits, “trust whatever he…”
Benedetto ends the call and tosses my phone on the dashboard.
“I'm going to throw up,” I dry heave and wrap my hands tightly around my nauseous stomach.
The buzz from the club and the now looming danger are driving me sick to my brain. I can't stomach any of it anymore. I can't deal with it without letting some out of my system.
“Don't you dare throw up in my car,” he unbuttons the collar button of his black t-shirt.
“I can't hold it back,” another dry heave.
He drives to the side of the road that is scarce of cars and hits the brake abruptly. He undoes his seatbelt and climbs out of the car.
The only things in sight are the street lights and the occasional cars that sprint past us. Other than that, this environment looks lifeless. Which is exactly how I feel.
I undo my seatbelt, then open the door of the passenger seat at the same time he rounds the car to help me with the door.
I drop my purse on the seat, climb out with shaky legs, and gulp in the clean air, taking as much of it as I can into my lungs.
“Be quick,” he dips one hand in the back pocket of his jeans.
I can see him now, thanks to the street light.
Waves of temple-length coffee brown hair that has a golden sheen because of the warm street lights. Studded earrings on both ears. A furrow of brows in a permanent grumpy scowl. Dreamy honey brown eyes, with thick kohl lashes around. High cheekbones looking tight from how hard he is clenching his lips, sunken cheeks, and full lips.
“It's not coming,” I tear my eyes away from him and dip my head to look at the floor instead.
“I don't know what you are thinking, but I'm trying to protect you,” he closes the distance and I stumble back, wishing I could melt into the car.
“How so?”
“Romano will kill you if he sets his eyes on you, and there's no place in New York City that you can hide that he won't find you,” he places both hands on the car, by the sides of my head, keeping me trapped.
“And why would you want to protect me? He is your cousin,” it doesn't make any sense. Not Romano wanting to kill me, that makes a lot of sense. But every other thing about Benedetto wanting to protect me makes no sense.
My father and Lawrence are right. He is dangerous. And almost had me for a bit, making me think he wants to protect me. But I'm seeing past his words, although they sound convincing.
“Killing you is tempting, especially when you won't keep your thoughts to yourself, and keep your mouth shut,” he scoffs.
“Let me go, I'd rather face Romano’s fury than your so-called protection,” I don't mean that, but I just do not want to not be associated with him at this point because of how shrunken he makes me feel, physically and emotionally.
“You're missing the point,” he moves away and opens the door for me.
“What is the point?” I throw both hands in the air, “I don't feel safe with you,” I feel tears dance around my eyes, making my vision watery.
