The one who steals my breath and confuses me all with a single sentence.
Chapter 3
Rocco Spinelli
The second I gave into temptation and touched Violet, I knew I was fucked beyond measure. Sure it was just a hand to her cheek, but that simple touch burned my fingertips and when I confessed that I thought she looked beautiful on that stage, she gave me a look that seared my black fucking soul. A look that made me forget whose sister she was. A look that made me want to throw her on the bed and explore every inch of her body.
I realized no one had ever looked at me the way Violet did in that moment.
Like I mattered.
Like I was enough.
Like I was wanted and not for my dick, but for whatever was buried deep inside of me. To her I wasn’t the son of man with a tarnished reputation. Nor was I the nephew of the most powerful man in all of New York. I wasn’t a soldier or someone desperate to climb the ranks of the mob. I wasn’t anything but the guy she spent a better part of her youth following around like a bug.
I’m a greedy motherfucker by nature. A selfish bastard who doesn’t think twice about taking what he wants and yet, I somehow found a sliver of self-control and turned my back to Violet. Growling, I ordered her to take a shower.
Beautiful and all, you reek of cheap perfume.
The softness in her features hardened and I felt relief flood through my veins as her guard flew up. I can handle a disgruntled Violet. I can take her smart mouth and roll with every cheap shot she aims my way because that’s what we do. We push each other’s buttons and mercilessly tease one another.
We don’t stare at one another wondering what the other tastes like.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts and without a second thought I reach for my gun. The blood rushes to my head as I stand and make my way to the door. Cock-eyed, I peer into the peephole and tuck the gun back into my pants when I realize it’s only room service.
As soon as Violet shut the door to the bathroom and I heard the water begin to run, I envisioned her naked body under the spray of the shower and downed the last of the vodka. I stared at the closed door fighting the urge to open it, knowing I wouldn’t even bother removing my clothes before I joined her in the shower. The water could rain over me, my suit could cling to me, so long as I had her body against the tiles and my mouth on every inch of her skin.
It became clear there was no way I was getting through the rest of this night without a little help from my friend Tito, so I ordered a bottle to my room. I also ordered a few things for Violet. A cheeseburger and a Shirley Temple—that should get her blood boiling. Then we can get back to normal.
Fight it out.
Taunt one another.
With any luck, I’ll pass out from alcohol poisoning and her from a food coma. We’ll wake up and go our separate ways. I’ll go back to Miami and she’ll go back to being the good ballerina. I’ll nod my head and smile when Joaquin mentions her, and I’ll forget all about those perky little tits and the way she looked at me tonight.
The guy parks the rolling cart in the center of the room, and I quickly fish a twenty out of my pocket. Pocketing the tip, he exits the hotel room just as Violet emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel.
One day a year.
That’s all I ask for.
One day to be the man my mother would’ve been proud to call her son.
But it seems like the odds are stacked against me.
Swiping a hand over my face, I mutter a curse.
“For fuck’s sake, Violet,” I grunt.
Ignoring me, she moseys into the room, dragging her fingers through her long, wet hair.
“Do I smell food?” Her eyes light up at the sight of the tray and she basically prances across the room to lift the silver plate warmer. I pluck the bottle of vodka from the ice bucket just as she moans.
Hand to God, I think she’s trying to kill me.
My fist tightens around the neck of the bottle.
“Where are your clothes?” I sneer as I flip a glass over. Making quick work of the cap, I fill my glass to the rim.
“You said I smelled like cheap perfume, so I figured my sweatsuit must stink too. I can put my blazer back on if that will make you more comfortable, but I don’t carry extra underwear in my back pocket so…”
My eyes cut to her just as she shoves a greasy French fry into her mouth. Chewing, she winks at me. The girl is playing with fucking fire and judging by the gleam in her eye, she gets off on the flames. I wonder what else gets her off. Does she even know? She’s barely fucking legal. My hand tightens around the bottle as I start to think about how many lovers she’s taken and if any of them knew what the fuck they were doing when they had her underneath them.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, tearing my eyes away from her. I stalk across the room and grab my suitcase. Tossing it on the bed, I unzip it and pull out a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts.
“Here,” I say, shoving the clothes at her. “Put this on.”
“Looks a little big.”
“Violet,” I growl.
“Fine, but don’t eat my cheeseburger.” She pauses and glances at the bottle of vodka. “Oh, who am I kidding, you’re deep into a pity party for one to care much about food.”
Ignoring her, I drop an ice cube into my glass and lift it in salute.
“Here’s to you, Bug,” I say.
May you fucking eat your burger and go the fuck to bed before I make it my mission to find out what gets you off.
She rolls her eyes and tucks my clothes under her arm, sashaying her hips as she makes her way back to the bathroom and slams the door.
Good, she’s mad.
I can handle her mad so long as she’s not wearing a fucking towel.
Taking a seat in the armchair in the corner of the room, I nurse my drink. The bathroom door opens, and I reluctantly lift my gaze to Violet. A groan escapes the back of my throat. I was better off with the towel because seeing her dressed in my basketball shorts and my treasured Jeter t-shirt is far worse. To really add salt to my wounds, she’s knotted it under her tits, revealing her toned stomach.
“If the ballet fails you, you should consider joining a nudist colony,” I tell her pointedly. She doesn’t pay me any mind as she drags the rolling table toward the bed. Plopping onto the edge, she tucks her legs under her ass and starts to go to town on the food.
“So, should we make small talk and make this even more awkward than it already is?” she asks, biting into her burger. With her mouth full, she continues, “What brings you to New York, hot-shot? You only make a visit once a…” Her voice fades as she realizes what day it is. Forcing her food down with a swallow, she whispers, “Shit. It’s your mom’s birthday, isn’t it?”
There’s no need for me to confirm. She knows and when she places the burger back on the plate, her eyes soften.
“I’m sorry, Rocco, I didn’t realize.”
I shrug my shoulders.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, setting my glass on the table next to me.
“I should’ve put two and two together, especially since Joaquin isn’t with you,” she continues.
“You make it sound like we’re a fucking couple.” It’s meant to come out as a joke, but it doesn’t really meet the mark. I’m not all that funny on a good day, much less on a day like today.