I meandered my way past the other race cars until I reached my Toyota. I opened the door, then I couldn’t resist to risk a glance over my shoulder at the man I’d left with a raging hard-on. Adamo, too, was looking my way. Even in the dim light I could tell that he hadn’t bothered closing his pants yet.
I didn’t think it would be this difficult to walk away from Adamo, from sucking his dick no less, but I’d enjoyed the play of power, had gotten high on it. If there was one thing I had trouble resisting then it was a good high. I hadn’t expected it to be like this with Adamo, but he filled me with an explosive energy only drugs or racing had done so far.
I climbed into the backseat, kicked off my boots, then threw the door shut, cloaking myself in darkness. I locked the car, reached for the Glock under the front seat and put it on my belly as I stretched out on my back. Sleeping in the car wasn’t comfortable, but sharing a tent with Dima seemed unwise after our recent argument. I didn’t even know when he’d be back, or if he’d be back at all. Maybe once things had calmed down. But I actually preferred to keep an eye on my car even at night. Many racers had a lot to lose when they didn’t make the podium. The money up for grabs meant salvation for them, a way to pay off their debtors (probably also Camorra, or maybe Bratva) or post bail for a family member. Despair made people do foolish things. I wouldn’t give them the chance to slit my tires or cut my brake hose.
I was still wide awake though, so I peered out of the window. Adamo kicked the ground before he, too, climbed into his car. He was pissed. I couldn’t help but smile. I wondered what a pissed Adamo would look like, how he’d race.
My body longed to return to him, to continue what I’d begun. My panties stuck to me with my arousal, something I hadn’t expected from giving Adamo pleasure. I wanted to be close to Adamo but at the same time his closeness shook me up.
My eyes began to droop but I held onto to consciousness for a long time until finally sleep won.
A hard knock at my window woke me. The sun was only just rising over the horizon. My fingers on my gun tightened as I tried to get my bearings. Dima’s face peered inside. Frowning, I sat up, wincing at the stiffness in my back from sleeping half sitting up on the backseat. I unlocked the car and Dima ripped open the door at once. A cold gust hit my body. This early in the morning it was really bearable out here in the desert. “What’s wrong?” I asked groggily, pushing to the edge of the seat and swinging my legs out of the car. Dima’s eyes were bloodshot and dark shadows spread under them. He looked as if he hadn’t gotten much sleep, and possibly drunk more than he was used to.
I pushed into my boots and stood.
Dima glowered, taking a step closer. He put one of his hands behind me on the roof of the car, taking up too much room. “I was there.”
“Where?” I asked, not following his train of thoughts.
“Last night.”
I flushed. I hadn’t done anything wrong and yet a part of me felt guilty. Admitting weakness wasn’t my strong suite, so I got angry instead. “You spied on me?”
Dima’s face twisted with matching anger. “You didn’t really try to hide it, did you? How could you do this?”
“Because I wanted to.”
Dima shook his head. “Will you suck every Falcone’s cock to get what you want?”
My eyes widened. I slapped him hard. “It’s none of your business. It hasn’t been for a long time. Maybe you should remember your place. You are my bodyguard, Dima. You are working for me. Remember your place, or my father will remind you.”
Dima stepped back, hurt flickering in his eyes, which I only caught because I knew him better than anyone, but his face turned ice-cold and hard instantly. “Thank you for reminding me. Don’t worry. I won’t forget it again.”
He turned around, and guilt slashed into me. Dima had been my bodyguard for seven years, first one of several but eventually the only. Before that, we’d been friends and after we’d become even closer. He’d never only been a bodyguard and I had never threatened him with my father, or put him in his place.
I was absolute shit at apologizing and admitting faults but my feet moved of their own accord. “Dima,” I said, my voice still on edge and not at all apologetic. Damn my pride. “Wait.” The apology tickled on the tip of my tongue.
Dima stopped but he didn’t turn. Tension lingered in his shoulders.
“Won’t you face me?”
“Is that an order?”
“Stop this shit! You know I didn’t mean it like that. But you have to stop shoving your nose in my personal business. If I hook up with Adamo, it isn’t your business.” I hadn’t been with anyone else since Dima and I had started dating when I was sixteen, but he and I would never be a couple again. Even when we’d been together, it had never felt right. Though, that might be something to do with my twisted self and not Dima.
He whirled around. “You should know better.”
“You’re jealous but you need to get a grip.”
“Jealous?” he whispered. “Don’t I deserve the right to a little jealousy?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“Is there a problem?” Adamo asked, appearing tall and slightly sleepy behind Dima. He was only in tight boxers, revealing muscled thighs, and an impressive upper body.
Our argument had gotten loud and woken several people who were now poking their heads out of their tents or cars.
At least, none of them spoke Russian from what I knew so they didn’t know what we’d been talking about.
“Fuck off,” Dima snarled, his face turning red. I gripped his arm to calm him down but he shook me off.
Adamo grabbed his shoulder, expression hard. “How about you take your anger somewhere else? Calm down before you return. Dinara doesn’t need your shit.”
Dima jerked free of Adamo’s hold, his body tightening in a way I knew too well. He was a martial arts fighter, had been for as long as I could remember and had even killed a couple of men with aimed kicks. There was a reason why my father trusted Dima to keep me safe.
“Dima,” I growled, but he wasn’t even listening to me. His furious gaze was focused on Adamo. “You have no business getting involved, Falcone pup. This is between Dinara and me, so why don’t you return to your bed and stop bothering me.” He finally moved as if to turn to me, probably to continue our argument but Adamo grabbed his arm again. He still looked remarkably calm, at least his face, but in his eyes, I could see a dangerous fire I’d never seen on him before, and I couldn’t deny it: I was fascinated by it.
Dima whirled on him, trying to land a punch in his face but Adamo must have anticipated the move. He sidestepped the attack and sent a punch into Dima’s left side. After that, all hell broke loose. I stumbled back a few steps to avoid becoming a casualty of their testosterone battle. The videos of Adamo’s fights I’d watched hadn’t nearly done him justice. Seeing him in action right before my eyes, seeing the sweat glittering on his forehead and abs, witnessing the lethal focus in his eyes and the determined precision of his kicks and punches was a completely different matter. It was the difference between seeing a beautiful Fabergé egg on a photo or holding it in your hand, seeing the intricate work put into it up close. Adamo wasn’t as breakable as my favorite art piece but he was a masterpiece all the same, and his art of fighting had taken just as much effort, dedication and talent. I’d always thought Adamo was a reluctant fighter, in videos it had sometimes appeared that way, but now as he exchanged punches and kicks with Dima, he looked like he’d been born to fight, as if the demand for blood and violence rang in his veins, called to him like my dark craving often did.