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It’s not the dealer.
It’s the shadows.
Marco.
And the way that gaze is burning, I wonder if he’s staring because I heard something I shouldn’t know or if he knows something I don’t want him to.
Twenty-Five
-Lilah-
The first time Dante snuck out without saying goodbye, I assumed it was payback for that first morning.
Payback doesn’t make for a great fantasy relationship, so I figured that was it. Two extraordinary nights of sex, and then we were even. I could handle that, I told myself as I got ready for work that afternoon. I could handle it even though when he was near, it felt like there was pure iron in my blood and he was a magnet.
I told myself that if he somehow magically bumped into me again, I would smile and insist on going home alone.
And then he showed up at my place last night and changed my mind.
Like the first and second time, it was like when he was there, my mind blanked of every single molecule of reason except for the fact that I needed him to breathe.
But then, this morning, I woke up alone again, and I was miserable.
I was miserable because I hated myself for being so damned stupid, for falling for that shit again. For letting him in, letting my heart start to believe his words about being obsessed and possessed because it’s how I have been feeling too. And maybe if we both felt the insanity, we could be committed together.
The whole day I was in a horrible mood, barely putting on my siren’s smile in the poker rooms as I took and delivered orders. Thankfully, I was able to pull it together when the gossip went down, but each time I walked through the club, my eyes scanned the room. I remembered those few times he came in, when I danced for him as he asked me silly questions, and I wondered if maybe he’d come by again.
And when the day went normal, when I walk out of the club at 10, another long night but one I could stand given I needed the distraction, I drive home still feeling miserable.
When he isn’t standing at my door with apologies and excuses, I’ll admit, my stomach churns with disappointment once again.
But as I unlock my front door, thinking I forgot to switch the lights off again, I find Dante Romano sitting at the kitchen table in my apartment, a crystal-cut glass in front of him, one shiny wing-tipped shoe on a knee and his phone in one hand.
He smiles at me, a smile you might give someone you’ve lived with for years when they walk in the door. A casual thing, a simple smile.
That’s when I scream.
I scream and drop my purse, looking around for . . . something to protect myself.
Anything. Anything at all.
“What the fuck are you doing here!?” I shout, backing into a wall, the movement jarring as I do. Dante stands, a curious smile on his lips as he does, like he finds me funny.
“Grabbed your spare before I left.”
“You what?!”
“It was hanging on your key rack. Better than waiting outside in the cold, yeah?”
“Dante, what the fuck are you doing here?!” My pulse starts to calm as I realize he’s not cornering me, not trying to murder me in cold blood.
Is he clearly a bit insane? Yes.
But it seems not the murdering brand of insane.
“Waiting for you.”
“You’re . . . waiting for me.”
