“Dani,” Ricky says out the side of his mouth, eyes focused on the road. “Do you mind?”
“What?”
“The window.”
“Oh.” I realize that I’ve been scratching the window in a nails-on-chalkboard-type situation. I was so lost in thought, I didn’t even realize. “Are we almost there?”
“Yeah, Dani. Shit. I’m working here.”
Ricky cuts down a backroad and, turning off the sirens, pulls up outside an upper-class apartment building. We run to the top floor where there’s a trust-fund-looking girl with blonde hair and a pretty smile. Or at least it would be pretty, if she wasn’t slack-jawed and more grimacing than grinning.
As I administer the naloxone, I spot a plastic drug baggie next to where the girl fell. And on the front:
The logo of a big ape and the words “King Kong.”
The same as the one I found in the cupboard under the bar at Angelo’s apartment.
I stare at it for a moment, and then shake my head, focusing on the task at hand. The girl recovers quickly and then refuses transport, no matter how we advise her that she needs to be checked out at the hospital. Frustrating as it is, you can’t do anything when people make those decisions.
When we climb back into the ambulance, I say, “Did you see that? King Kong? What is that?”
“This new ketamine-type drug that’s been hitting the street recently,” he answers. “Strong stuff, Dani, real strong. Purer than the shit that’s normally on the streets, so people don’t really know how much to take. I bet those other two ODs we went to tonight were Kong, too, only these idiots didn’t think to hide the baggie.”
“Oh,” I say, a pit opening in my belly. “Fuck.”
Ricky looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “What?” he asks. “You seen some of this stuff lying around Wyatt’s dorm or something? Because, seriously, he’s been good as far as I can tell. Hasn’t been partying much at all.”
“No, it’s nothing,” I lie. I’m thinking about that box I found, wondering if I can really be in love with the man contributing to this epidemic. Painful, confused emotions move through me like fire. I just don’t know what to do. “Who’s selling this stuff?”
Ricky snorts. “No idea. Some people say it’s the mafia, but who knows? People say all kinds of crazy shit. The last time I got mine, it was from my pill guy, so really it’s anybody’s guess.”
I swallow. The mafia. It all slots into place: Angelo’s violent nature, his casual air of command, Carlo’s Godfather-esque demeanor.
I need to talk to Angelo, stat.
I get back to Angelo’s early in the morning. The sun hasn’t even risen yet. I feel tired and sort of numb. I guess the numbness comes from being angry but then having to push that anger down to do my job. Try doing that for six hours and feel anything other than blurgh.
I strip off my clothes in my bedroom, take a quick shower, and then change into my PJs, fighting the urge to collapse into bed. I need to confirm that I’m not going crazy first.
I go to the living room. Walk over to the bar. Take a deep breath, close my eyes, yank open the cabinet.
I’m expecting my worst nightmare when I open my eyes. Confirmation. Proof that I’m married to the devil himself.
But it’s empty.
The King Kong isn’t there anymore. Where the box was—or where I thought it was, at least—there’s just a bunch of kitchen towels. When I close the cupboard, I see that Angelo is standing over the bar, watching me closely. He has an almost pained expression on his face. I read him, sensing that he knows what I know, but also that he hates himself for even caring.
“So you’re spying on me now?” I blurt. “Either that, or you’re an alcoholic and you’re getting a drink at six in the morning. Huh?”
He flinches at my sudden outburst, but I don’t care. “Is something bothering you?”
I stand up, pointing at the cupboard. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“Don’t gaslight me, Angelo. Where’s the King Kong box?”
A dark look moves across his face. He strokes his hand through his jet-black hair, frowning. He’s wearing his suit and it doesn’t look like he’s slept. “Dani …” He pauses. “You can’t ask me questions like that.”
“No?” I march around the bar, standing close to him. His cologne washes over me. Absurdly, even now, some subconscious part of my mind urges me to embrace him. I beat that desire down. “Guess what I saw tonight, Angelo? Do you want to know?”
Before he can reply, I tell him about the King Kong baggie. And about how I found a box labeled King Kong under his bar.
“You’re in the mafia,” I hiss. “And you’re a drug dealer. And I hate you.”
I slap him across the face as the anger surges through me. It annoys me even more when he just takes the slap, not even trying to duck or block it. He just stares at me. So much confused emotion moves across his expression, I wonder if I’m looking into a mirror. He looks like how I feel.
“Tell me the truth, Angelo.”
When I make to slap him again, he catches my wrist and shoves me up against the bar, trapping me. I bite his lip, hard, and then the bite turns into a kiss. I’m not sure who starts it—and I’m still livid with him—but then our bodies take over and we fall into the same old thing that never feels old.
The only constant is how bad we both want it.
We kiss angrily, our hands seizing and tearing and groping.
He grabs my ass so hard, I know I’m going to be marked with his handprint. I reach down and grab his dick firmly, and then more than firmly. He winces and I grab it even harder, stroking. He thrusts against me and grinds against my hand.
“Is this what you want?” I rasp harshly, rubbing even harder. “You want to fuck me when I’m pissed at you, huh? You’re disgusting, Angelo.”
He growls wordlessly, wrestling me over to the couch. Both of us are caught up in it. From the bar, my cell phone is vibrating, but I ignore it. Dimly, I tell myself that I can carry on the argument when we’re done. I feel guilty for giving into the lust. But I can’t stop. Our anger turns too easily into passion.
He tosses me onto the couch. I spring up right away, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him back. He sits down heavily and I immediately pull down my PJ bottoms. “I want this quick,” I tell him. “And don’t fucking look at me.”
“That’s fine by me. But you better hurry up before I change my mind.” He pulls his engorged cock out of his pants.
Both of us are moving quickly, me because I want to get this started before I come to my senses, and Angelo for probably the same reason. I slide down his length and carve jagged lines down his muscled abs with my fingernails. I draw blood, but I don’t care.
He spanks me so hard I collapse forward, having to grab onto his shoulders to stop from falling all the way. I’m bouncing angrily, biting his neck with furious, gnashing teeth as he massages my bruised, aching ass. It feels so good, that mixture, that I feel my pussy pulsing and getting tight.
I grind my hips into his. I want to hurt him—to come at the expense of his pain. The couch fabric sticks to my sweaty skin as I ride for my life.