A Little Too Much

Chapter Five

WHEN I GET home, Brett has already left for rehearsal. Since my normal outlet is gone, I decide to work up a sweat by cleaning. I need something mindless to keep me occupied until show time. I scrub three months’ worth of soap scum off the shower, give the kitchen floor its annual mopping, wash the overflowing mound of dishes in the kitchen sink, and wipe down every surface in the place.

Brett comes in just as I’m finishing the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

I duck into the fridge, which I probably should have cleaned in my frenzy. “There’s leftover Chinese takeout and . . . whatever this is,” I say pulling a styrofoam take-out box off the shelf and opening it. My face pinches against the rancid smell. “Ugh! No . . . you definitely don’t want that.” I say, pitching the moldy Mexican leftovers in the trash. “We have eggs. I could do a cheese omelet.”

I love to cook, but our refrigerator is pretty sparse because I’m at the bar most nights and Brett’s happy with takeout. Plus, the cooking is great, and the eating is great, but the cleaning up afterward blows.

Brett comes up behind me and cups my ass in his palms. “You keep pointing this thing in my face you’ll be eating me for dinner.”

“As appealing at that sounds, I’m drinking tonight, so I’ll need a little more than that to keep me vertical.”

He glides a hand between my legs. “Who you going out with?”

I brush his hand away and reach for the Chinese containers. “Jess. It’s her birthday.” I spin, kicking the fridge door closed. “You want to come?”

I only ask ’cause I know he’ll say no.

“Not really, babe. I’ve got poker at Rob’s tonight. Probably won’t be home till late.”

Which really means he won’t be home at all tonight. He usually stumbles in from his poker nights around sunrise, stinking of cigars and whisky.

I just shrug. That’s the great thing about our relationship. I don’t have to pretend I’m upset. No fake, “Jeez, hon, that’s too bad. We’ll miss you.” He knows I don’t really give a shit.

I take the Chinese containers to the microwave and heat up the contents, then dump the mu shu and chow mein onto plates.

“I heard about another audition you should go to,” he says as I bring the plates to the couch. “It’s not a musical, but it’s got a pretty big cast, so it’s worth a shot.”

I hand him his plate and drop onto the couch next to him. “If it’s not a musical, they probably won’t even want to see me.”

“If you want it, I’ll get you the audition,” he says through a mouthful of noodles. “There’s no dancing, so all you have to do is look hot and deliver your lines.”

I just look at him. Why is he helping me so much all of a sudden? After a second, he looks up and sees me staring.

“I’ll get you the audition,” he says, a little irritated, like I’m a bitch for questioning him.

I twirl my fork in my noodles and a few spill off the edge of the plate onto my lap. “Damn.” I look for somewhere to set my plate and end up putting it on the seat next to me. “Why don’t we have a coffee table?”

He shrugs and picks noodles off my lap. “Just never got one, I guess. Plus they take up space.”

“I want one.”

He quirks a half smile. “Go for it.”

When we’re done eating, I head to the shower and I’m a little relieved when Brett doesn’t follow me. I’m feeling uncharacteristically unhorny. Too busy plotting, I guess.

I’m going to be the hottest thing Alessandro’s ever laid eyes on. He regrets me? I’m going to make him regret the day he gave me up.

I slip on a sheer black thong then rifle through my closet, knowing exactly the outfit: a tight-fitting silver halter that is nearly transparent, and a tiny ruffled black skirt that barely covers my ass. I’ve got the perfect shoes too. Five-inch platforms that make my legs look totally lickable.

I want Alessandro to want to lick me.

Once I’m dressed, I smudge on some blush, draw on eyeliner, and brush on mascara. There’s no freaking way Alessandro’s going to be able to resist.

WHEN JESS AND I get to the club, we skip the line and the bouncer lets us in without a cover. I tug off my jacket, leaving it on the back of a chair near the door, and look for Alessandro. Jess and I are half an hour late, and there’s no way Mr. Uptight would be anything but punctual. I finally see him leaning against the bar talking to a pair of brunettes, one of whom is bursting out of her low-cut tank.

And, damn, he’s hot.

His hair is combed back and he’s got the sexiest case of five-o’clock shadow I’ve ever seen. He’s in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up and one tail loose over faded jeans that fit him in a way that makes me want to rip them off.

I pull Jess onto the dance floor and bounce to the pulsing dance beat. We writhe around each other and by the end of the song, I’m slick with sweat. When I look over at Alessandro, I see the brunettes are gone and he’s watching me from the bar with rapt interest.

Bait taken. Time to lure him in.

The song changes over to one of my favorites. I close my eyes and let my body pulse with the rhythm as Dev sings about wandering hands and a sex drive that’s push to start. All the muscles in my belly contract when I feel long, strong hands on my shoulders. Showtime.

I’m going to make him want me so hard, he won’t know what hit him when I shut him down.

I open my eyes and there Alessandro is, his smoldering gaze raking over my body. I raise my arms slowly overhead as I move to the music, giving him an up-close-and-personal look at the girls, daring him to touch me. With this top and no bra, they’re a pretty spectacular sight, if I do say so myself.

Jess grins and shimmies off to dance with a mixed group near us—probably the people she invited. I recognize a few of them from auditions.

Alessandro leans in and I catch his scent—some tangy, spicy cologne that seems to hardwire my nose to my groin. “That was quite the show,” he says, his voice thick and rough.

You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

I put on my fuck-me smile and swing my hips to the music. He shocks the hell out of me when he lays his hands on my waist and starts to move with me. I spin in his arms so he’s behind me and grasp his wrists, feeling the strength in his forearms. God, he’s got great arms. I glide his hands over my ass, down the backs of my thighs, to the bottom edge of my tiny skirt. His hands are sure and firm against my skin and he doesn’t resist me.

Heat pulses through me as I close my eyes and roll my hips in a circle. I glide his hands slowly up my backside, bringing my short skirt with them and leaving his fingers on bare skin, then press myself into him. He doesn’t miss a beat, moving his hips with mine to the rhythm. I grind a circle against him and damn if he doesn’t play along. For a guy who was inches from becoming a priest, he’s pretty damn bold. I loop my arms behind me, around his neck, and press my whole back into his whole front, and I swear I feel a low groan in his chest as his head tips back. His hands slide up my sides and stop on my rib cage below my breasts.

And damn if I don’t want them to keep going. I think my plan might be backfiring, because everywhere he touches me, I’m on fire.

I turn to face him and the look in his eye, hungry and raw, makes my heart beat faster. I run my hands over his strong forearms as his hands glide around me, pulling me tight to his body, one knee sliding between mine. His face is in my hair, his hot breath sending goose bumps skittering over my skin despite the fact that that I feel like we’re standing five inches from the sun. We dance just like that, plastered against each other, his hand on my back, his fingers brushing the bare skin at the waist of my skirt, and I lose track of everything except the pounding of the music and the heat of his body.

This was a very bad plan.

I wanted him to want me. I wanted to hurt him.

But just as I feel myself starting to question whether I might actually follow through, I feel a rumble in his chest and a low growl escapes his throat. I barely hear it over the deafening music, but the next second, he’s pushing me away like I’ve burned him. His eyes are closed and his jaw is ground tight and he just stands there, still as stone for a few long heartbeats. He doesn’t even breathe.

“I have to go,” he finally grinds out.

“What?” I say, incredulous. “Why?”

He opens his eyes and takes another deep breath before answering. “Because coming here was a mistake.”

I’m so stunned that I can’t even move for a second as he turns and stalks off the dance floor. I was supposed to make him want me. I was supposed to shut him down. How did my plan get so totally turned on its head? How is it I’m the one standing here aching where I shouldn’t? How is it him shutting me down?

Jess is a few feet away, dancing slow with a cute redhead with pouty lips. I tap her shoulder. “Sorry, Jess, but I’ve got to go.”

The redhead runs her fingers down the open back of Jess’s dress and clings a little more tightly, and I get the distinct feeling Jess wasn’t leaving here with me tonight anyway. “Will you be okay getting home?” she asks.

“I’m good. Call me tomorrow?”

“Okay,” she says as the redhead nuzzles her neck.

I storm off the dance floor and grab my jacket, following Alessandro out the door. He’s already almost half a block up.

“Just keep walking, asshole!” I yell at his back.

He doesn’t turn around. The only indication he heard me is the way his purposeful stride stalls for a beat before he does exactly what I told him to do.

I lean back against the building and tip my head up, staring at the overcast sky, waiting for my heart rate to slow to the noncoronary inducing range. But when I push off the building, I see Alessandro striding back toward me, looking like he’s on a mission. He’s almost on top of me before I know it.

“What do you want from me, Hilary?”

There’s an angry edge to his words that makes me furious. He has no right to be pissed at me. “I want you to go back to Rome or Corsica or wherever the hell you came from and leave me alone.”

His jaw tightens and something passes over his face as he works to contain whatever it is that he wants to say.

“Why the hell did you come back here anyway?” I spit.

He throws his hands in the air and spins, pacing away from me in the direction he came. But then he turns back and looks at me with hard charcoal eyes. “I don’t know! I don’t know why I do anything anymore! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to make this right,” he says, flinging his arm between us. “I don’t know how to fix any of it.”

He finishes his rant by dropping his chin to his chest and rubbing his forehead, and that’s when I realize it’s not me he’s pissed at. He’s angry with himself. Very angry, based on the way his face twisted in disgust as he said that.

I catch myself feeling sorry that I yelled at him, but then I stop. I’m not going to feel sorry for him. After everything, he’s got no right to my sympathy. “Just go home, Alessandro,” I say, turning for the subway.

I hoof it up Ludlow Street as fast as I can in my killer heels . . . which isn’t all that fast. I hate that I’m wearing them. I hate that I’m wearing this whole outfit. What was I even thinking? This was such a stupid plan.

Despite my vow not to look back, I do as I round the corner onto Broome, toward the Grand Street station, and see Alessandro following behind, half a block back. I start walking faster, but I’ve only gotten to the end of the first building when someone says, “Hey!” from very close by.

I turn and see a pair of white kids, maybe eighteen or nineteen, hanging in a dark doorway. One of them has his hoodie up, shadowing his face, a lit cigarette pinched between his thumb and finger, all dark and brooding. The other one is a tall, blond, grinning fool.

The blond kid steps out of the doorway. His eyes rake over me and I pull my jacket closed. “You looking for a good time?”

I am so not in the mood for this. “I am so far out of your league, honey, that you wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with me.”

The one with the cigarette glares at me, but the blond laughs. “I’m sure we could think of a thing or two.”

“Not in this lifetime.” I start moving again, but the kid with the cigarette springs like a snake and grabs me. I start to scream, but I fall off my heels as he spins me against the door in the alcove and pins me with his body. He slaps a hand over my mouth and holds his cigarette ash up to my face, just an inch from my cheek. “You scream again, you fucking whore, and I’ll take your fucking eye,” he hisses.

“Dude!” the blond kid says. “Chill. She’ll do it.” He looks at me, his eyes wide and pleading. “We’ve got money. How much do you charge?”

They think I’m a hooker. Perfect.

With the other kid’s hand over my mouth, it’s not like I’m going to answer. I just glare at him.

“You’re going to want to let the girl go.”

I can’t see Alessandro, but there’s no mistaking the voice. The attention of the kid holding me snaps to his friend, who’s staring, wide-eyed, at where I’m sure Alessandro is standing, just around the corner of the alcove, out of my line of sight.

“Dude,” the blond kid says again to his friend without taking his eyes off Alessandro. “Let her go.”

He doesn’t. He presses the cigarette closer to my eye. “You’re going to want to mind your own fucking business, man.”

Alessandro steps into view, just a few feet from the blond kid, and, if looks could kill, the kid holding me would be vaporized. His face is dark and tight, his laser gaze trained on the kid with the cigarette. His hands twitch at his sides and he’s got that half-crazy look Lorenzo always had, like he’s coiled tight, ready to snap.

The blond splits a glance between Alessandro and his buddy, then takes off at a sprint. The dark-haired kid’s grip on me loosens as he watches his friend bolt. The momentary distraction is all I need. I bring my knee up hard into his crotch and he cries out and falls to his hands and knees, holding his junk. It only takes him a second to find his feet and he staggers off.

Alessandro steps into the alcove, the rage in his dark gaze giving way to panic. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I spit. “I had things under control, you know? I didn’t need you to save me. I’ve never needed you to save me.”

He winces and I close my eyes against the unwelcome memory.

Alessandro holding me. Wiping my tears.

“I’ve never needed you,” I repeat, disgusted by the tears I feel pricking the backs of my eyes. I am not going to cry in front of him—or anyone—ever again.

He picks up my shoes and lays them on the sidewalk at my feet. “Let me take you home.”

I step into them and start walking, ignoring him as best I can. But I don’t stop him when he keeps stride with me.

I know I told Alessandro I didn’t need him, but I’m not sure it’s true. That whole thing shook me up—though I’ll never admit it to him. My heart is racing, and adrenaline is still pouring into my bloodstream. I force myself not to shake, or blow out a nervous breath, or show any signs of weakness as we walk the three blocks to the subway. We wait in silence for the D train, then climb on. It’s not until I stand to make the transfer at Columbus Circle twenty minutes later that I think to ask. “Where do you live?”

He follows me off the train onto the platform. “West Village.”

“You’re going the wrong way.”

The hint of a smile flits over lips that I’m just now realizing are full and red and perfect. “I know.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know you’re safely home.”

I just stand here on the platform, staring at him, as the train whooshes past and disappears into the tunnel.

“Why?”

His eyes narrow with his confusion. “I just—”

“No. I mean . . . why all of it?” I say, flicking my wrist at him. “Why did you find me? Why did you agree to come out tonight? Why are you even bothering with me?”

He catches his lips between his teeth, thinking. Finally, he blows out a breath and scratches the back of his head. “You meant something to me, Hilary. You were important to me once. I just needed to know you were okay. I needed to see for myself.” He shakes his head. “You were never supposed to know I was here.”

God, I wish I didn’t know he was here. I narrow my eyes at him and spin for the stairs, feeling all my anger bubbling up and spilling over. How could he possibly think he could know how broken I am just by looking? I’ve spent eight years learning to hide it. “And am I? Do I have your stamp of approval?”

He stops me with a hand on my arm. “That’s not what I meant.” His voice is soft, and when I spin to face him, the look in his eye tugs at my heart—sends me eight years into my past. Tears press at the backs of my eyes again, and damn him.

“I’m going to catch the one,” I say, waving an arm up the concourse toward my train. “You should head back.”

His eyes scan me again, lingering over my legs. He bites the corner of his lower lip and looks up at my face. “I’d like to see you again sometime when we can talk.”

“You always wanted to talk,” I grumble opening my bag and rooting through it for a piece of gum. When I find one and look up at him, his expression is tight. Guarded.

He reaches up to scratch the back of his head . . . again. One of his childhood tells. So they’re not all gone. “There are a lot of things that need to be said.”

“When?”

His eyes flick over me again. “Let me buy you lunch. What’s your favorite restaurant?”

He wants to take me out? No one’s taken me out for a really long time. “Luigi’s.”

He nods. “I’ll meet you there at one.”

He keeps stride with me as we walk to my platform and my anger starts to ebb a little. When we get there, I look at him. “Thanks.”

His eyes widen a little, surprised, I guess, after my snippiness. “For what?”

I gesture vaguely at the platform. “This.”

His face darkens as his lips press into a line. “Don’t thank me, Hilary.”

The train comes and I climb on. The doors close and I watch Alessandro disappear as the train whisks me away. I settle into a seat near the door and lean my head back into the wall panel, closing my eyes.

I remember how everything changed for me with Alessandro. He was the first person in years who seemed to really care about me. He never hurt me. He kissed me on the mouth and he touched me so gently. He was sweet and tender . . . and I started to trust him. Then I started to need him.

And then he left.

I feel the sucking wound in my chest open up again as if it was just yesterday. As if I haven’t spent the last eight years forcing myself to forget it and move on.

But I have moved on. And I can never go back.