his cell to the television just in time to see Ryan Gosling wading through the lake. “Shit,” he mutters, swiping the remote off the coffee table and stabbing the fast-forward button. “Close your eyes for five seconds.”
I do as I’m told. It’s pointless though, because we’ve been watching The Notebook on a loop for hours, so the kiss is burned into the backs of my eyelids anyway.
When it came on screen four showings ago, I let out a whimper so loud it woke Matt up from his nap beside me. He hasn’t let the scene play through since.
Keeping my eyes closed, I choke back the swell in my throat and pull the duvet I swiped from my bed over my face. “You’re such a good friend, Matty.”
He sighs. “Ah, we’re back in the feeling-sorry-for-yourself stage. You’re much more fun when you’re angry. Leaving scathing reviews on Yelp for all of Raphael’s casinos? Calling a premium sex hotline for three hours using his credit card? Great times.”
The last two weeks have been a tilt-a-whirl of emotions. On the highs, I want to burn down the planet simply because Raphael is on it, and on the lows, I want to curl up under this duvet and sob.
My plan to leave the Coast didn’t last long. I didn’t get farther than the Devil’s Cove bus station before Nico swooped me up. My guttural sobs filling his Tesla answered his question. I wanted—needed—to be distracted.
He took me to Hollow and put me to work at The Grotto, an elite casino buried deep within the cave network. It makes the Visconti Grand look like a bingo hall, and like most of the people above-ground, I never knew it existed. He sat me in his office, in front of a bank of security camera feeds, and patted me on the shoulder.
“You know every trick in the book, Little P. If you see any of our clients play dirty, you let me know.”
For the first hour, I stared past the monitors, disinterested and sullen. I believed Nico had done what desperate parents do to their annoying toddlers—dump them in front of a screen in the hope they’ll stop wailing.
But then I saw it. A roll of a wrist, a playing card sliding out from a shirt cuff and entering the player’s poker hand. My spine snapped straight, and Nico appeared over my shoulder. He rewound the footage and let out a dry chuckle.
“Good spot, Little P.”
Then he yanked on a pair of leather gloves and left the office. Only a few moments later did he appear on screen, dragging the man off his chair and out of view.
A dull thrill vibrated through me, then all night I stayed glued to the cameras, watching and waiting to catch another swindle in real time.
It was the best distraction I could have.
A week passed, my nights at The Grotto filled with CCTV and muffled screams coming from the next room over, my days spent in restless sleep at Nico’s cliff-side manor. When I rode the lows, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. But on the highs… Fuck, I was angry.
I was glad Nico’d stopped me leaving town, because fuck that. It was exactly what Rafe had wanted, and I’d rather have carved my kidneys out with a rusty spoon than give that man what he wanted. The Devil’s Coast was my home as much as it was his. I was born and raised here too. Plus, I had friends who cared about me now.
And when I began to think of my friends, I started to feel sick with guilt.
After everything he’d done for me, Matty deserved better than coming back from his trip and seeing a goodbye letter on his punny welcome mat.
He was confused and a little grossed out when I came home and gave him a teary grovel, and that’s when I found out he wasn’t the only friend worried about me.
Rory, Wren, and Tayce had apparently been blowing up my phone, the one that lay shattered on my bedroom carpet. Apparently, they’d also been hammering on my front door and swinging by the diner late at night to see if I was there.
But they are one fewer degree of separation away from Raphael, and although I feel awful, I can’t bring myself to reach out yet.
Darkness seeps through the crack in my curtains, shading the stark white walls purple. When the movie credits roll, Matt snatches up the remote before I can reach for it.
“No. No more.” He flicks through the channels and settles on a World War II documentary. “Ryan Gosling’s abs have traumatized me. I swear; I’ll never eat junk food again.”
“Fair enough.” My attention roves around the living room for something to do. It’s too late to nap; Nico will be picking me up for a shift at The Grotto in an hour. “Wanna order pizza?”
Matt sits up. “Hell yeah.”
I swipe his cell off the coffee table and twirl Rafe’s black Amex between my fingers. I order two large pizzas with all the trimmings, plus every side on the menu.
“Anything else, ma’am?” the teen on the other end of the line asks.
My eyes slide up to meet Matt’s, and the embers of fury glow red in my stomach again. “Yeah—I don’t have any cash. Can I put a tip on my card?”
Matt’s eyes light up.
“That’s very kind, ma’am. How much?”
I pause. “A thousand dollars.”
“What?”
Those embers burst into flames. “Make it two.”
When I hang up, Matt high-fives me. These petty acts of revenge are what’s keeping me sane, but he takes even more delight in them than I do. Turns out, he has his own grudge against Rafe.
On Christmas Day, Matt got drunk and confessed to him that he has a crush on Anna. Rafe told him to just text her. The worst that could happen is that she says ‘no.’
He was wrong. It turns out her replying to my friend’s heartfelt paragraph with seven laughing emojis and nothing else was the worst that could happen.
“Fuck Raphael Visconti,” Matt mutters, flopping back on the sofa and putting his feet up on the coffee table. “Fuck him, and fuck his shitty dating advice. What does he know, anyway? He couldn’t even keep you around, and you probably drop your panties for the right candy bar.”
I only gave Matt the half-baked truth when I turned up on his doorstep. I didn’t tell him about the hotline or the million dollar check, or the fact that my heart was too soft for that whole enemies-with-benefits bullshit.
I’m about to snap back with a shitty retort, when two flashes of light illuminate my curtains. My heart leaps to my throat but sinks back down to my chest just as quick.
It’ll only be Nico; he’s chronically early to everything.
I haul myself off the sofa and go to the window with the intention of beckoning him up for pizza, but when I slide the curtain open, my throat goes dry.
It’s not Nico’s Tesla, but a familiar G-Wagon. One I’ve slept in, eaten in, and fucked in. And behind the windshield is the silhouette of the man I did all those things with.
Numbness makes my limbs heavy. What the fuck is he doing here? I stare blankly at the headlights as they flash again.
“What’s going on?” Matt asks.
“It’s Rafe.”
The sofa groans under him. “Shit. Do you think he heard what I said about him?”
“What? No—”
The headlights flicker again, and this time, they don’t stop. My retinas burn and orange spots dance on the window pane. A sudden fury sweeps through me, charging my blood. I don’t care what he wants—after everything this asshole has done, does he seriously think he can rock up to my apartment, flash his lights, and I’ll trot down to greet him like a grateful puppy?
Fuck off.
I want to ask Matt if he has any kind of heavy, blunt object in his apartment that I can throw at Rafe’s windshield, but instead, I settle for flipping him off—with both hands—and dramatically drawing the curtains.
Matt watches me as I stalk back to the sofa and glare at the television. I snatch up the remote and turn up the volume.
“Cover your ears.”
“Huh? Why—oh, fuck!”
I don’t even flinch at the sound of Rafe’s horn blasting from the street below; I can barely hear it over the roaring in my ears. He can lay on it all damn night for all I care. Out of all the games we’ve played, this is one I’m certain I’ll win.
“For the love of god, make it stop,” Matt moans after a few minutes, sandwiching his head with two cushions.
Maybe Rafe can hear what Matt says about him, because we’re plunged into sudden silence. He lets out a sigh of relief, and I sigh too, but for a different reason.
“It’s not over,” I say.
The door to our apartment building flies open so violently, that the window shudders. The sound of heavy footsteps echoes from the direction of the hall, and we both turn to look at my front door.
Matt tenses. “He’s coming up?”
I’m too busy scanning the room for something pointy to reply.
“Eh,” he continues shakily. “It’s not like he’ll be able to break your door down. I tried the other week, remember? Almost broke my foot. It must be made of steel or—”
Bang.
The door flies open, and fluorescent light from the hall washes across the carpet. Unadulterated rage jolts me to my feet, but Matt has a different survival instinct: making a weird, girlish noise and pulling my duvet over his head.
And then he’s right here. Darkening my doorway. His wild eyes search the room until they clash with mine.
Gah. The sight of him tightens my lungs then makes my throat burn. It’s been two weeks since I woke up in his bloodied bed next to a million-dollar check and a cowardly confession written on a Sinners Anonymous card. And for two weeks, I’ve been a deranged mess. Alternating between sobbing, plotting his demise, and scrubbing his name off my lower back.
But here he is, in his blackest of suits with the sharpest of creases. Two weeks I’ve spent writhing in his damn trap, and all the while he’s been strolling around like he couldn’t care less that he lost the key.
Fuck him. Fuck him twenty-times over. “Get. Out.”
His attention turns down to the lump on the sofa and sparks black. One hand reaches for his gun, the other rips the duvet away.
He points the gun in Matt’s face. “Are you fucking my girl?”
Matt squeals and holds his palms up in surrender. As soon as Rafe realizes it’s just my Golden Retriever neighbor, he rolls his eyes.
He flicks the end of the gun barrel in the direction of the hall. “All right. Get out before you piss yourself.”
Matt doesn’t even glance back at me before bounding out of my apartment.
Fucking traitor.
The slam of the door reverberates around the room, then tapers off into a heavy silence.
We stare at each other for three stuttered heartbeats before I find my voice. “You have some nerve bursting in here. And I’m not your girl—”
He takes a sudden step toward me, and I lose the breath needed to finish my sentence. I’m not quick enough to dodge the hand that flies to my nape, but I wish I were, because his proximity makes my head swim. He brought the winter chill in with him, but his hand is hot and the weight of it bitterly familiar.
“Penny.” His eyes soften as they search my face. Then they slide south and harden on my collarbone. “Who gave you that necklace?”
Ah, for a split-second, I almost thought… Christ. I’m embarrassed to admit what I thought. I should know by now love isn’t like it is in the movies. Raphael Visconti didn’t pop my front door off its hinges because he suddenly realized he couldn’t live without me.
My jaw tightens, and I focus on the wall behind his head. “Let me guess; you’re still unlucky even though you shoved me out of your life, and now you’re hoping if you buy a necklace of your own, it’ll help? You know, I’m starting to think your luck had nothing to do with me, and everything with you being a massive ass—”
“The woman, Penelope. Describe her to me.”
I try to yank out of his grasp, but he only tightens his grip. There’s a desperate edge to his tone and it pricks my curiosity. I look back to him, and realize it’s mirrored in his eyes now, too. “I don’t know.”
“Think about it,” he growls.
“Dark hair, in her fifties, maybe.”
“Give me more.”
“I said I don’t know, Rafe. She looked expensive. Nice dress, high heels. Had this big rock on her finger. What’s that purple gemstone called?”
His lids flutter shut. He releases me and walks to the window. Laces his fingers behind his head and glares down at the street. “Amethyst. An amethyst wedding ring.”
The room swells with the sound of his heavy breathing.
“Who was she?” I whisper.
His shoulders tense. “My mother.”
The floor under my feet goes soft. My fingers fly to my necklace, as if making sure it’s still there.
“How…” I falter, shaking my head. “How do you know? How can you be sure?”
He lets out a huff. “I’m sure, Penny. I can see it now, as clear as anything. Fuck, I don’t know how I never connected the dots before. There’s nothing unique or special about the design, I guess. And seriously, what are the chances? But she never took it off, not even for fancy dinners and balls. She’d just layer her diamonds or her pearls over it. I remember…” He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. “I’d always untangle them for her in the car ride home.”
My heart cracks in two, right down the middle. As I take a step forward, his gaze meets my smeared reflection in the window. We stare at each other, a stillness cloaking the room.
He’s right. What are the chances? All the anger in my body has evaporated, and I’m left with this awful, hollow ache behind my solar plexus.
“That sounds like fate,” I choke out.
His laugh is humorless. “Yeah, it does.”
He turns and looks at me. Really looks at me, like he’s committing every angle of my face to memory. He breathes out, rubbing his jaw and giving his head a shake. “Fuck, Penny. Look at you.”
Dazed, I stupidly look down at my sweats and fluffy socks combo and frown. “What about me?”
When I glance up for an answer, my pulse flutters in my throat. He’s closed the gap between us, finding my hips and drawing me so close my body fuses with his. The heat of his stomach burning through my hoodie thaws the ice in my chest. And when he drops his forehead to mine, blocking out the light in the room, it unlocks memories of violent love-making and gentle massages, and fuck, the damn butterflies that always came with them.
“What was I thinking?” he murmurs, brushing his nose over mine. “How did I ever think I could let you go, Queenie?”
Before my thoughts can solidify, he grabs a fistful of my hair and brings his mouth to mine. The rough grip is at odds with his soft kiss, spinning my common sense off its axis.
He captures my bottom lip between his, tugging it slowly, like he’s savoring the taste. The move sparks a fresh flame in my lower core, and for the first time in two weeks, it isn’t anger or rage but need. All I can think as he works his tongue into my mouth and groans with approval when I let him, is that he’s kissing me.
There’s no icy rain numbing my skin and I’m not slippery with his blood, but it feels just as dramatic. My heart beat drums so loud it drowns out all my thoughts, and now I’m nothing but my senses. I’m seeing stars on the backs of my eyelids, flashes of green when I dare open them. Tasting his mint flavor, smelling his masculine scent. I don’t even realize we’ve moved until I feel the backs of my legs meet the side of the sofa.
Rafe yanks my head back and scrapes his teeth along the curve of my throat, before sucking where my pulse beats. “Come home, Queenie. Come home and let me worship you every day for the rest of your life.”
I groan, palming his chest. Maybe because his lips aren’t assaulting mine, I manage to reply with a somewhat coherent answer. “I am home.”
His palm skims down my spine and spanks my ass. “Our home,” he growls into my collarbone, planting violent kisses along it. “The yacht, baby. Hang your stolen clothes up in my closet, make your god-awful lasagnas in my oven. Light your girly candles in every room. I want all of it, all of you. Just come home.”
He drops me to the sofa and comes down on top of me. The rickety frame of my Craigslist purchase cracks under our weight. Rafe glances up at me, eyes darkening.
“Our home has sturdy sofas and doesn’t look like a smack den.”
I bring my knee up to his groin, but he catches it and roughly pushes it to the side, lowering himself between my thighs.
“Are you really cracking jokes when all I want to do is put my fist through your face?”
My words melt into a whimper as he pulls up my top and licks along the waistband of my sweats. “And all I want to do is find out if you still taste as good as I remember.” He looks up at me with a dangerous heat, pulling my waistband between his teeth like an animal. “You can put your fist through my face later.”
I almost ask, “Pinky promise?” but then his hot tongue sizzles against my clit, and, oh well, I guess I’ll just have to take his word for it.
