So.
Much.
Money.
It’s not my money. Not Tomas’ money, either. He doesn’t even care about it. It’s Italian gangster money.
But it would make such a difference for Mom and Dad. And if gangster money can do some good, it might as well be for good people like my parents, right?
Mom has worked at that damn supermarket since I was ten. She makes next to nothing. Poor Dad has spent the last thirty years hauling concrete, working in the heat of summer and the coldest of Massachusetts winters. This money could change their lives. It would let them through until I can open my own firm and make sure they’re lounging poolside in a senior community in Florida. They deserve it.
Every month, when I don’t have to pay student loan payments, I think of Dad and how he agonized over me not getting to go to my university of choice because of the cost. How embarrassed he was when some uncle of his left behind an inheritance no one knew about.
I didn’t understand it then, but taking that money hurt Dad’s pride. It made him feel like he couldn’t support his family. But I never looked at it that way. Dad used the money for my education when he could’ve used to buy them a new house or to make their lives easier.
I owe my folks. I could help them out, right here, right now. All I have to do is grab the bag and run.
I’m so busy picturing Mom socializing with her new friends while Dad’s out golfing at the club that I jump when the kitchen smoke alarm sounds.
“Shit!” The toaster is smoking. The kitchen is hazy and Tomas has a smirk on his face that I want to smack off it.
“That’s what money does. Distracts you.” He uses a kitchen towel from the counter to fan the smoke away while I deal with the burnt toast.
His comment grates. Because, before today, I was the one who got to claim the moral high road. He’s a gangster. A murderer. A bad, bad man. I was the victim.
But now he’s caught me eyeing the duffle bag full of cash. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, and Tommy has always known how to read me. He knows I was thinking of snatching the bag and running for the hills. I’m as bad as he is. The fact that he caught me makes it worse.
Bastard.
I stare at him. Scowl is probably a better word. “You’re judging me? That’s rich.”
His eyes go wide. “Something you want to say?” His voice is low and deep. Controlled anger. I clench my fist because his control infuriates me, and I’m giving him this one free pass from getting punched. He won’t get another.
“Yeah.” I’ve been carrying this shit around for years and I haven’t said anything because I don’t want to feel the things that admitting what he did to me will make me feel. But if I don’t get it out, I’m either going to explode or lower myself to his level and kill him in his sleep. “You left me to go become a criminal. You chose committing murder over a life with me. Over all the plans we made.”
He glowers. “We were in high school, Corrie, and I’d just lost my mom. I didn’t know what to do. I was eighteen.” I would’ve walked through fire to help him through all of it. But he never gave me the chance.
“So you ran away? From me?” That’s the part I’ve never managed to get over, no matter the tears I cry or the memories I convince myself can’t be real.
“I went to find my dad.” His anger is louder now, less controlled. His eyes flash and he braces his hands behind him on the counter. Probably to keep from punching a wall.
As ridiculous as it is to say, I know he won’t hit me. He might kill for a living, but every once in a while, I see traces of the boy I loved, the one who kissed me so sweetly the other night, then held me instead of taking advantage of my vulnerability after a nightmare.
The one who once loved me.
“And he turned you into a killer. A fucking murderer.” He lowers his eyes, but I’m not quite done with him yet. “Tell me, Tommy, is being a murderer everything you thought it would be? Is it better than being with me?”
I’m crying now. Vibrating with anger.
“Loving you made me weak.”
The words hurt. I blanch. “You weren’t weak until you decided to take up a life of crime. Love made you tough enough to take on Jeff Murphy when he was so mean to me at the homecoming dance junior year.”
Oh, what a night that was. Jeff, an offensive tackle on the football team, outweighed Tomas by an easy hundred pounds, but Tomas didn’t back down. He defended me.
I go on, “You chose this. You. Chose. This.” And then I only have one thing left to say. “If you loved me at all, you wouldn’t have left me the way you did.”
I don’t care about the eggs or toast or bacon. I can’t be in the same room with him anymore. I’ve opened the dam, and I need to get away. It’s his place though, so I don’t have anywhere to go except to his bedroom.
His footsteps behind me aren’t a deterrent. When I’m inside, I whirl and slam into his chest. “Leave me alone!”
But it’s hard to sound any kind of convincing when he’s using his arms to steady me, and I’m pressed against his torso.
When he curls his finger under my chin to tilt my head up.
When he kisses me softly with one hand still under my chin and the other tangled in my hair.
The kiss lasts forever and yet ends way too soon. I want to tell him to stop and I want to beg him to keep going. Because I can’t decide how to act, I don’t. This is what is supposed to happen between us.
He walks me backward to the edge of the bed then settles me down, his mouth still melded to mine, one arm wrapped under my back.
I’m leaving in two days. I can’t wait to get back to my life, back to my job, to pretend that this entire nightmare episode never even happened. And I’m glad to ignore the little voice in my head telling me this is a mistake.
Right here and now, though, I want this. Him. I’ll miss him later if I have to, but right now I want his lips on my throat, his hand caressing my stomach and anywhere else he can or will reach. If we stop today, he’s going to have to be the one who stops.
I can’t. I don’t know how.
I slip my hand under his shirt, let my fingers glide over his spine, and enjoy the luxurious feel of his skin. He’s exquisite. Perfect. Delicious. He drags his mouth up my throat and kisses me again as he slips the straps to my tank top down my arms.
His mouth moves over mine, caressing with his lips, teasing with his tongue, and I moan.
I can’t feel enough of him or taste enough of his kisses and when he drags his lips down my throat to my collarbone, I want more. More kisses, more touches, more of his body pressed against me, his skin touching mine.
I tug the hem of his shirt up and he pulls away long enough to yank it over his head then gazes down at me with wild eyes and swollen lips.
“If you want to stop …”
I pull him back down. If that isn’t answer enough, there isn’t going to be one. My hands explore as he lowers his head and takes one taut nipple into his mouth. I arch my back and hold him against me.
The nostalgia is nice, but he’s different. More man than boy. More experienced. I would probably be jealous if I had the capacity to think deeper about it, but the things he’s doing with his mouth and his hands overshadow everything else. When he moves to the other nipple and slides his hands down my stomach, I’m ready. Panting, even.