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That last phone call shifted something between us. It was as though an unspoken pact had been formed, with some part of me expecting Nico to call every night to share the unfolding events of his life.
But he hasn’t. Not for a week now. Not since that phone call.
I tell myself it’s because his line of work is dangerous and I just need to know that he’s safe, not because I miss talking to him.
“Why would I fucking miss him? He’s just a criminal,” I mutter, swiping my brush against the blue background in a satisfying streak of bold red paint.
“He’s probably even forgotten I exist. I’m sure he’s busy gorging up on women like the damned brunette on the plane who all but devoured him with her eyes. And let’s not forget the hundreds of ‘women he fucks,’damsels in distress he rescues who eagerly fall into bed and have wild sex with the big bad mafia guy.”
Or maybe he got hurt. Like seriously hurt. A knife wound. A bullet in a vital organ. Shit. The thought of that twists my gut.
Before I can stop myself, I grab my phone and scroll again. I can’t call him—he rang me from an unknown number—I just want to see the call log again because, well, I’m pathetic.
I stop scrolling on that call from last week and stare at the call details. It was at 1:14 AM. Lasted 22 min 56 secs.
I really, really loved that phone call. He talked, and I listened. Then I told him my fears, things I’d never told anyone else, and he listened.
And I must be the biggest idiot alive, mooning over a man that, frankly, I should be ecstatic if he never shows up again. I angrily swipe away until my eyes snag on Mags. I check the time on my phone to see it’s nearly midnight. Harmony is two hours behind Chicago so it’s not too late to call Mags.
She answers almost immediately, “Took you long enough, Sparrow,” Mags accuses.
“It’s not even been a month, Mags, I protest.
“Well, I suppose I can’t blame you. If I had me a man as hot as yours, I’d be choking so good on him it’d take me a while to come up for air too—with Razor’s permission, of course.”
“Mags! Geez… first of all, eww. I think I threw up a little bit in my mouth.”
Too late, I realize that was the wrong thing to say when Mags starts to cackle. “Well, isn’t that the whole point of gagging?”
“Seriously, Mags, I’m hanging up,” I warn.
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Oh, you’re no fun at all, Sparrow. Sometimes I wonder about you.”
Even though Mags is only two years my senior, her wisdom, experience, sexual liberation, and sheer embodiment of bad bitch-ness make her seem ages ahead. And the sort of things she and Razor get up to makes me blush to my ears thinking about them.
“Anyway, Sophs, how are you? Why did you leave in such a huff with the mafia guy?”
“He’s not—”
“Shush, you think Phoenix wouldn’t look into him the moment he stepped into the clubhouse? And at Rafe’s burial, no less?”
“He was my date. I'm allowed to bring one of those.”
“Yes, but not one who shows up wearing signet rings that scream 'cult' and acts like the Prez and Veep are his men-at-arms! I don’t know if you've taken a look at the bikers in Reaper Druids MC, but those men are as scary as fuck. They make grown men piss in their pants. And make grown women simply… piss.”
“Jesus, Mags!”
She chortles, “Anyway, you know what I mean.”
It's true. My dad, at fifty-two, is two hundred pounds of solid muscle and has almost more tattoos than skin.
“So what’s the deal with him? You two were hot and heavy the night before, and the morning after, it was like the Arctic.”
I take a large sip of the red wine and then go back to peering at my easel. It started out as an abstract of calm emotions, but somehow, it’s become a cocktail of reds and yellows and a rare periwinkle blue that accurately captures Nico’s eye color. I don’t even recall mixing that shade of blue. I would blame it on the wine, except this is still my first glass.
“Mags, it’s complicated.”
“No, I think it’s pretty simple. How does he make you feel?”
