The weeks that follow are the most bizarre of my life.
Nero and I are planning an actual honest-to-god bank robbery. And every minute outside of that, whenever we’re alone together, we can’t keep our hands off each other.
What started in his garage has progressed to hooking up in his car, my car, his house, my house, the beach, an elevator, the bathroom at an Irish pub, and anywhere else we happen to find ourselves.
I never imagined I could feel something like this. This kind of obsession with someone.
When I’m not with Nero, I’m thinking about him. And when I am with him, I can’t tear my eyes away from him.
Everything he does turns me on. The way his forearm flexes when he’s shifting gears. The way he runs his hand through his hair. The wicked gleam in his eye when he looks at me. The way he grabs me and yanks me into his arms the second we’re alone together.
And the sex . . . dear god, I can’t even think about it without flushing from my scalp all the way down to my toes.
It gets better and better every time.
He’s a fucking magician with his hands. You can see it in the way he touches any object—when he’s tinkering with an engine, or just messing with something out of his pocket, like a lighter or a coin. He can make a quarter dance across his knuckles and then disappear, moving the metal as fluidly as water.
And when he puts those hands on my body . . . I melt like butter on hot toast. He makes me cum again and again, sometimes five or six times before he even starts fucking me.
It’s the only thing keeping me sane. Because I now have to do all the work that comes into the shop myself, while taking care of my dad and keeping watch on Vic.
School has started back up. Vic did finish his AP summer course as promised, and he’s been buckling down with his regular schoolwork. He works three shifts a week at the Stop n’ Shop, and he tells me he’s got $600 saved up for college, plus $240 for the mixing board he’s been dreaming of buying. I don’t even think he’s been hanging out with that shithead Andrew, though I haven’t asked him about it, because I don’t want to go full Gestapo on him.
A week ago, my dad went in for surgery to remove the lump in his lung. Now he’s doing radiation treatments three times a week, to make sure there’s nothing left behind. He’s in rough shape—totally unable to get up and down the stairs without me. He doesn’t want to eat, but I make shakes for him, and Patricia brought over her soup, too.
I completely broke down during the surgery. Bawled like a baby, alone in the waiting room.
Then I felt an arm drop down around my shoulders.
It was Nero. I hadn’t told him I’d be at the hospital—he must have heard from Patricia. He sat with me for hours, just holding me like that. The scent of his skin was so warm and comforting. I should have been embarrassed to cry in front of him, but I wasn’t. Because I remembered that night on the beach when he told me about his mom, and his face was wet, too.
It’s one thing to be comforted by somebody who’s nice to everyone. It’s an entirely different thing to get care from the last person in the world you’d expect to be nurturing. I knew this was as weird for Nero as it was for me. That’s what made it mean so much more to me. That he was doing something so out of character, just for me.
When I bring my dad back home, Nero’s there again, to help get him up the stairs and into his bed. He isn’t just kind to me, he’s kind to my father. Gentle with him. Respectful. Reminding him of a time a few years back when my dad found a bumper for an old Corvette that Nero couldn’t get anywhere else.
“So I owe you a favor,” Nero says. “ ‘Cause I still have that Corvette. We should take a drive in it, when you’re feeling better.”
My dad can barely speak. He squeezes Nero’s arm, before laying back in his bed, exhausted.
Before Nero leaves, he pulls me aside and says, “I called the hospital. I told them to send the bills to me instead.”
“I don’t want you to do that!” I tell him. “In another week, I’ll have enough to cover it myself.”
Nero frowns. His face only looks more beautiful when he’s angry, but it’s also terrifying. Like an avenging angel.
“About that . . .” he says. “Schultz has been following me everywhere, like fucking gum on my shoes.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve seen him, too. He even followed me to the hospital.”
“That means he’s seen us together.”
“I know.”
“A lot.”
“I know.”
Schultz hasn’t been texting me. Which is probably an ominous sign. I know he hasn’t given up—he expects me to turn on Nero, and Levi, too.
“The day of the job, I was thinking you should lead him off somewhere. As a diversion,” Nero says. “You’ll still get your cut.”
“No way,” I shake my head. “You’re just trying to keep me out of it.”
“I’m not!” Nero insists. “We need to get rid of him somehow. If he sees the whole thing go down—”
“Then we’ll draw him off. But I’m still driving.”
I’m the getaway driver. That’s my job—and I’m doing it. I’m getting what Raymond Page owes my brother. And something else, too.
I don’t want to say it, not to Nero. But I want to prove to him that I can be part of his world. I’m not the good little girl I was in high school. I’m Old Town to the core, just like him.
“Fine,” Nero says, when he sees I’m not backing down. “That means we’ll have to change the plan . . .”
“Then change it,” I say.
He lets out a rumble of annoyance.
“It’s not that easy!”
“You never do anything the easy way—why start now?”
“GOD! You’re so stubborn.” Nero flexes and clenches his fingers, like he’d enjoy strangling me right now.
“I can do this,” I tell him.
“I know you can,” Nero sighs. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt!”
My heart does a little backflip inside my chest. Not at the idea of grievous bodily injury—at the look on Nero’s face. His white-hot fury at the idea that anyone might lay a hand on me.
“Look,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his knife. It’s the one he keeps on him at all times, sometimes doing tricks with it when he’s lost in thought, or bored.
He tries to hand it to me.
I shake my head. “I’m not stabbing anybody.”
“You might,” he says, grabbing my hand and forcibly closing my fingers around the handle. “You never know what might happen, Camille. Promise me you’ll keep this with you, everywhere you go.”
I hesitate, then slowly nod.
“Fine,” I say.
I don’t have to actually use it. Just carry it around.
Nero shows me how to open the blade and close it again. He shows me how to hold it, how to swing the knife upward, or switch grips for a downward stroke.
I try not to get distracted by the scent of his skin, and his warm fingers closed over mine.
“Remember, there’s no fair fight,” he tells me, his gray eyes as cold as steel. “You’re always going to be the smaller opponent. You have to take any chance you can get. Go for the vulnerable spots—the eyes, nose, throat, groin, knee, instep. You’ve got to be ruthless, and dirty. Or you don’t have a hope of winning.”
I swallow hard.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I tell him.
“Good, I hope not. We’re still gonna practice,” he says.
Nero folds up the knife and slips it in my pocket, his hand lingering against my thigh.
Impulsively, I pull him into my room and shut the door behind us.
“I thought you had to go take care of your dad?” he teases me.
“I’ve got five minutes more.”
I push him down on my mattress, unbuttoning his jeans.
His cock springs out, already hard. I’ve never seen it in any other state—he seems to get aroused as soon as we’re within five feet of each other.
I don’t have much to compare it with, but Nero’s cock is gorgeous, just like the rest of him: long, thick, with an upward curve. Just a little darker than the rest of his skin.
And here’s the part I’d never admit: it tastes incredible.
I slide my tongue up the length of it, from base to tip. By the time I get to the head, a little droplet of clear precum is waiting for me. I close my mouth over the head of his cock, lapping it up with the flat of my tongue.
He tastes like salt and spice.
Nero groans, and I say, “Shh! My dad will hear you.”
I take as much of his cock as I can fit into my mouth. My mouth is watering from the taste of his skin, which makes his cock slide easily in and out.
I use my lips and tongue and both hands, sliding, squeezing, licking, and sucking all at once. Nero is rolling his hips, breathing deeply and trying hard not to make any more sound. He can’t help it, though. As I speed up my pace, he puts my pillow over his head and moans into that instead, pressing it into his face with both hands.
I love that I can do this to him. Nero is the most intimidating man I know, but for these five minutes, he’s at my mercy. I can tease those groans out of him with my tongue, and I can make him explode whenever I want.
I draw it out just a little longer. Then I go to work on him, building the pace and intensity until I know he won’t be able to hold back anymore.
Sure enough, his back arches and he thrusts hard into the back of my throat. I feel his cock twitching, before he lets loose a stream of boiling cum into the back of my throat.
He sounds like he’s being tortured. The pillow can’t cover it up.
I don’t care—I love making him yell. He’s done the same to me plenty of times.
I keep my lips wrapped around his cock until I’m sure he’s done. Then I let go, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“You’re going to kill me,” Nero says, from under the pillow.
I laugh, absurdly pleased with myself.
“Now you can go,” I tell him.
He throws the pillow aside, his eyes narrowed at me.
“No fucking way,” he says. “Not until we’re even.”
He pounces on me, throwing me down on the mattress and climbing on top.
