I nod, squeezing her just a little tighter for a moment. Is this what having a sister would have been like?
“Hey, you good?” She leans back, studying me with her liner-framed eyes. For a second I think about telling her everything. The whole fucked-up string of events that led me here. “Hazel?”
The temptation to open up is strong, but then what? Danger would come calling. Lucille wouldn’t be so keen on offering me help after that. No, I have to keep my mouth shut. I have to remember who I am.
Most of all, I have to remember what Father would do to this beautiful, innocent woman if he found out I had revealed everything.
“I’m fine.” I smile, stepping back. “Now don’t you keep that man of yours waiting.”
She eyes me suspiciously, but she seems to be able to tell I’ve put up a barrier between us. A big brick wall of emotional bluntness, one that no amount of battering is going to get through.
“If you ever wanna talk …” she says, shouldering her bag.
I nod. “Uh-huh,” I mutter. Stop being so damn nice to me!
I finish my after-class notes and then clean up the classroom. I’m still pretty pissed off about the Italians when I walk into the night, so spotting Carlo sitting across the lot in his limousine drives me over the edge. The windows are tinted, but who else would it be?
I think about just walking away. If he wants to play the stalker freak, that’s his problem. But then a hard-edged memory hits me with the force of a punch. I see it clearly, playing out in a show in the moonlight that dapples the parking lot.
“You’re nothing,” the raging, drunken man slurs, his meaty fist aimed at me. “You’re a fucking plant, y’hear me? A houseplant. And you sit there and you keep that mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you. You’re lucky I put up with you, girl, damn lucky. Go on, say somethin’!” His face close to mine, I can smell the whiskey and acid tinge of his cigars. “Say something!”
I’m ashamed that I didn’t say anything. I bowed my head, defeated, and skulked away like I was the one in the wrong. I ran, but not really, not like I’m running now. I half-ran. I didn’t even have the courage to do it properly.
But I’m not that woman anymore, I reassure myself as I stare across the lot at the limo. Not by a long shot.
I don’t give myself time to think. I just stride over to the limo and pound my fist against the glass. For a second, I wonder what I’ll do if some local celebrity is getting a blowjob back there, or if a bunch of high schoolers on their way to prom are about to bitch me out for harshing their vibe.
But then the window rolls down an inch.
The artist inside me notes that his blue-green eyes are cyan, or teal, or turquoise. They never seem to settle. He’s like a silhouette glimpsed through stained glass, always shifting, and yet his gaze solidifies as the window rolls down the rest of the way and he offers me his arrogant smirk.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“You tell me. You’re the one just begging for a restraining order.”
He laughs easily. I want to hear more. I want him to shut the hell up. I want both.
“You need to get your men in line,” I tell him. I glance up the lot. The minivan is parked and the men have laid out a rough circle on the concrete with their suit jackets. To my disbelief, they’re fist-fighting inside the ring.
“Right now?” he asks. “Or just in your class?”
“I’ll have to bar them,” I warn him. “The fat one, especially. That son of a bitch with the little scar under his lip almost started a fight today.”
“That’s not the report I heard,” he says calmly. “I heard that one of your students antagonized him and—”
“Well, you heard wrong! I’m serious, Carlo. Get them in line or that’s it.”
It’s hard to believe that this man has been inside of me. It’s hard to believe that even now, as lava pours through my veins, my gaze is tracing the fine line of his muscles through his shirt. His biceps stretch the fabric. He sees me looking and smirks again. God, I want to wipe that stupid, smug smile off his face.
I look down at my shoes, take a deep breath, then glare back at him. “I’ve told you how it’s going to go.”
I spin on my heel, pacing back toward the rec center. I still need to lock up. From further down the lot—out of view of the center—comes a meaty thwack, presumably some Italian-on-Italian violence. I hope it hurts.
I’m just about to turn the key when I feel Carlo behind me.
Damn, he really is like a shadow.
“A shadow?” he whispers.
Did I say that out loud? It’s hard to tell with my heart pounding fiercely inside my rib cage.
I turn on him. “What do you want?” I ask plainly.
The question seems to take him off guard. He flinches. I get the feeling that even he doesn’t know the answer to that.
“Seriously, like, what the hell do you want from me? Because you got it the other night, didn’t you? And now you’re just hanging around. Why? Do you want to marry me? Or is it just that you get to control everything else in your life, and you think you can control me, too?”
“You know nothing about me,” he says coldly.
“I know you think life is a chessboard and that you’re a fucking grandmaster. Back up.” I shove him in the chest. He steps back, his smile turning flat, his eyes turning ice. “I’m not one of your pawns. So get your fucking dogs in line.”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
Fine by me. I don’t wanna stick around to hear whatever smart-ass response he’s cooking up anyway. I end up retreating into the rec center, back to the safe haven of my classroom. Or at least, what used to be my safe haven. Nothing feels safe from him anymore.
I drop my bag and grip the desk. My breath is heaving. He shouldn’t have this effect on me, this stranger, this shadow.
I leap out of my skin, cartoon-style, when I turn to find him standing in the doorframe, filling it.
“Nobody talks to me like that,” he says as he prowls across the classroom. He doesn’t step around the desks. They scrape along the floor, shoved out of his way. “Nobody would dare.”
Or what? But I don’t voice the question. I know the sort of punishment men like Carlo De Maggio dole out.
He presses me against the blackboard. I let out an annoyed breath. It’s supposed to be annoyed, anyway. But there’s a desire in it I don’t fully understand, or maybe I just don’t want to.
“You’re a handful,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
Fireworks explode as our lips meet. I feel my legs shaking, my sex pulsing, my whole body pricking with goosebumps. His tongue is in my mouth, jammed deep, which with any other man would be gross and presumptuous. But I want Carlo to taste me. I want to feel the hard press of his body. His manhood is a solid rod against my belly.
I feel myself melting like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West. It’s that image that snaps me out of this. Comical. Ridiculous. I can’t succumb to him again. I’m not an idiot.
“No,” I tell him, sliding under his arm and fleeing to the other side of the classroom. “You can’t just kiss me and make what you want to happen, happen. That’s not how it works.”