I think I see her stiffen, but then she’s pulling on the jacket. “Call me a cab,” she says. “I think we’re done here, don’t you?”
I bite back a response, thinking that I have never been more right about someone. She is fire; she is snow.
And then, she is gone.
3
Hazel
Three days. Three long days, and yet that jerk Carlo is still on my mind. I still don’t know why I did what I did with him. To be perfectly honest, I don’t want to know—mostly because I don’t want to spend a single nanosecond more thinking about it. Or about him. Or about nightclubs, or Italians, or handsome strangers in expensive suits.
My thoughts of Carlo are as persistent as the bastard himself, though. I find myself wondering idly about him whenever my brain wanders. That name, De Maggio … I’ve heard that before, attached to some less-than-savory rumors. I have no desire to enter his nasty world. I lost myself for a few blistering moments, but that’s over now. I won’t be going back.
So I decide to let him go. Heck, I decided that right after I left the club.
But that begs the question: why, then, am I wearing the jacket he gave me as I chop vegetables for my soup? I’m even using a cookbook, something I rarely do. I usually rely on gut instinct. But right now, I’m downright distracted. I’ve heard of phantom-limb syndrome before, but never phantom-dick syndrome. It’s like I can still feel him inside of me. I love it. And I hate it.
I curse when, in my distraction, I over-salt the soup. Now, it’ll taste like a sweaty sock. It doesn’t take Martha freaking Stewart to know that’s not exactly the palate pleaser we’re going for.
I decide the jacket is to blame. I tear it off and hurl it into the corner, and then go into the bedroom and walk over to the crummy little treadmill I keep shoved in a corner.
I sort of feel like a gladiator as I pull on my shoes, except my Nikes are a little jazzier than leather sandals. But the sentiment is the same. This is where I go to war—against myself. I run until my legs are sore and screaming at me to stop. If my legs could talk, I’m pretty sure they’d make Gordon Ramsay look like a choirboy. I run as though demons are biting at my heels, as though my past is swirling around the room like a tornado.
If I run, I don’t have to think.
That’s how it usually works, at least. How it’s supposed to work.
But right now, I keep seeing him. That face. That length between his legs. For the first few moments, I wasn’t been sure if I was going to be able to take him. Then I remember the release between my thighs, flooding warmth, and I’m so distracted I almost fall off the treadmill.
I hop onto the side panels. I really need to get myself together. This is getting wildly out of hand.
I force myself to finish the run, sprinting so loudly toward the end that, if anyone’s taking an afternoon nap, they’re sure as hell awake now.
When I’m done, I go into the shower and stare at myself in the mirror. Red-faced, wide-eyed, slightly shocked … yep, exactly how I looked after Carlo’s shaved monkey of a goon dropped me off at my car.
I shake my head as I climb into the shower, leaving my clothes a sweaty pile on the bathroom floor. The water licks down my body, beading and clinging on my nipples. I try not to, I really, really do, but the hotter it gets, the more my mind floats away, like a hot-air balloon.
I’m back in the club, music thumping, Carlo pumping, rock-hard abs pressed against my back as he leans over, biting softly on my shoulder …
I stroke my clit. Massage my lips. I slip my finger inside and caress delicately.
It doesn’t take long before I’m bringing myself to a quick and frustrated climax.
Do I feel any better?
Not even a little bit.
I climb out of the shower and drop onto the bed, drip-drying, towel wrapped lazily around my torso. I’ll have to get ready for class soon. I haven’t missed one yet, and I don’t plan to. Maybe it’s not my passion in life, but as a part-time cash gig, it sure beats waitressing or scrubbing dirty toilets in motel rooms.
But for a moment, I just lie here. De Maggio … I know who he is, what he does. Enough to know I should run. Maybe I would even go so far as to skip town, if it wasn’t for my students.
For the time being, I decide that’s overkill. But I give myself a stern warning look in the mirror by the front door when I’m dressed for class and make a solemn promise to my reflection.
No more Carlo De Maggio.
I know something is different the second I walk into the rec center. Or maybe “different” is an understatement. This is downright strange, like I’ve walked into an alternate reality. The Italians are now seated at the front of class like the nerdy kids in high school, notebooks—since when do they have notebooks?—open on the tables in front of them. Pencils at the ready.
Lucille gives me a significant look as I take my place at the front.
“I’m sorry I’m late, everyone,” I say, shrugging off my handbag. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
To my disbelief, the Italians start scribbling this down, clearly thinking it’s part of the class. And, I notice, the cigar-smoking bastard is conspicuously absent. I’m torn between wanting to thank Carlo for bringing some order to my class and slapping him for presuming to get involved.
This is Carlo’s doing; I know that without having to ask. After all, who else could get these burly men in line?
“Is everybody ready to start?”
“Born ready, girl.” Lucille smiles. “But we got some sad news. Go on, tell her. Don’t be shy.”
Sofiya smiles at me shyly, despite Lucille’s encouragement. She launches into a speech she has clearly practiced many times. “I am leaving for the Ukraine very soon. Tomorrow. And I wanted to say thank you, Miss Hazel. You have helped me a lot and I have lots of thanks for you.” Her smile broadens. She touches her bangs—whether to smooth them away or cover her face, I’m not sure. “I have made you something.”
From under the table, she produces a knitted sweater in all the colors of the rainbow.
“All the different peoples,” she explains, “are all the different colors.” She stands awkwardly when she’s finished. She did so great, though. I’d tell her that, but I’m afraid my voice would crack.
I’m honestly touched, and dangerously close to shedding a tear. I take the sweater, then walk around the table, crushing her in a hug.
“I will miss you,” I whisper. “You better take care of yourself.”
The other students laugh as I tear off the hoodie I’m wearing and pull the sweater on. I feel like a moody teenager; the arms are just a little too long, coming up around my fingers.
“Okay,” I say. The Italians keep scribbling. “Let’s get started.”
The class is the best we’ve had in a long time, mostly because the Italian crew is completely silent. I nearly lose it when one man, a notable nick of a scar under his lip, raises his hand to ask to use the bathroom. I just shake my head in disbelief, and then have to turn it into a nod to let him know it’s okay. Max and Johnny, toward the end, talk in mostly unbroken English about their favorite soccer teams. Lucille regales us with stories about her sprawling family.