Page 19 of Mine to Tease

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Angelo says, stepping toward her with his hand extended. “Angelo Piazzo. Damon and I are old friends.” I roll my eyes at the cheesy grin plastered across his face and fight the urge to step between them. Brinkley growls as Ana awkwardly shakes his hand while keeping her chest covered. Good boy. “My, you are beautiful,” Angelo continues. Before Ana can withdraw her hand, he grips it tighter and lifts it to his lips, planting a soft kiss atop her knuckles. Alright, that’s it.

“Oh, um, thank you,” Anastasia says as I shove Angelo away from her. In his drunken state, he stumbles, catching himself against the black brick wall. She gasps and looks at me with wide eyes and parted lips. “Damon!” she quietly scolds me.

Angelo laughs. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Where words fail us, our hands say all we need to.” Angelo gives me a knowing look and a smile to communicate his approval as he collects himself. “Where are my manners? Tell me, what’s the name of the woman who’s captured our dear Damon’s heart?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know about that. We’re just…” Anastasia looks at me then. “New friends, I guess you could say.” She returns her attention to Angelo. “But my name is Anastasia. Anastasia Cross.”

“Cross,” Angelo mumbles, looking her up and down as if studying her, searching for the resemblance to her brother. Having met Aidan, I can say it’s faint, but it’s there. The red hair, the bright green eyes, the soft chin. I watch him as he puts the pieces together, and before he can say anything more, I grab Anastasia by the arm and pull her toward the door.

“Ah, Damon!” I know I’m being too rough and it kills me, but I’ve got to get her out of here before Angelo says something that ruins everything. “What’s wrong with you? That hurts!”

“I know. I’m sorry,” I say as we reach the door. Letting go of her arm, I block her from Angelo’s view and hand her Brinkley. “You should go. Go straight home before it gets too late.”

Anastasia’s brows furrow and her lips part as confusion washes over her. But quickly her confusion gives way to something else. Concern?

“Damon, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Of course it is,” I tell her.

“You’re lying to me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why does he have a gun on his hip? Why are you so afraid for me to be near him? Is he dangerous?” Great, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Anastasia’s smart. She’s just as likely to pick up on something as Angelo is likely to say something he shouldn’t.

“Not as dangerous as me. He’s nothing for you to worry about. I just…don’t want you near him when he’s drunk.” Or ever. Anastasia searches my eyes as if questioning if she can believe me, trust me. At that, I brush one of her loose curls from her face and tuck it behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on the soft skin of her neck. My gentleness helps to ease the sting of my earlier harshness as is obvious as she takes a deep breath, allowing the tension in her body to dissipate.

“Go straight home, alright? And text me when you get there.” I want to kiss her goodbye so badly. Better yet, walk her home. But I still need to deal with Angelo, and the last thing he needs to witness is our kiss. He can assume all he wants about my feelings for Anastasia, but a kiss would confirm them. If word gets out about her, about us, to anyone but especially her brother, it puts us both at risk.

It’s then that Anastasia lowers her gaze from me to the floor and takes a step back. “I actually have a few stops to make, so?—”

“Not dressed like that, you don’t,” I say, cutting her off. At that, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Though, as her lips press into a flat line rather than lifting into a smile, I can see something is still wrong. Was it the way I pulled her toward the door? Does she still suspect something is up with Angelo? Or is it something else entirely? “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask.

She adjusts her grip on Brinkley and lifts her eyes to meet mine once more. “I just need a little alone time this weekend. So, I’m going to get a bottle of wine and a new book and just enjoy some downtime. I’ll text you when I make it home, but other than that, you probably won’t hear from me.”

“Okay…are you sure that’s it? Did I do something?” I definitely did something. We haven’t spent one weekend apart in a month, and now, all of a sudden, she wants space.

“You’ve—you’ve got your friend to attend to. We can talk more next week. I, um, I’m going to go.” Ana is quiet as she leaves, wearing a look of defeat. I don’t know what I did. I could pick from a list of fuckups, I’m sure. But one thing is certain, I don’t like seeing her like this. I don’t like the way it feels, like there’s this distance between us. And with each step she takes moving farther away from me, it’s like there is a rope wrapped around my heart, threatening to rip it from my chest. The farther away she gets, the more it hurts.

As the door swings closed behind her, my lips slip into a frown and I ball my fists. Unwilling to feel this hurt any longer, I allow rage to transcend all else. I’m not angry at Anastasia. It’s Angelo who has driven this wedge between us. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I turn back to him and sock him in the jaw with my fist. He falls to the ground as his cheek splits open. Blood drips down his face.

“So, it’s really her, then? Anastasia Cross, sister of the proxy king, princess of the Irish mob. And you’re in love with her.”

“I don’t love anyone,” I tell him, despite questioning the truth of the statement. Shoving the unwanted thought from my mind, I offer him my hand. He takes it and I help him to his feet. “And it’s not that simple.”

“It never is.”

I bite the inside of my jaw and shake my head. “Let’s finish this in my office. We’ve already caused enough of a scene.”

21

As I walk through the aisles of the market next door in search of the perfect bottle of wine, I can’t help but replay my encounter with Damon and his friend Angelo, despite the entire point of this weekend at home being detachment. I’ve never seen Damon so frazzled. It was clear Angelo’s presence made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it was just my being around Angelo that did. I suppose it’s kind of Damon to not want me around a drunk man, protective even. So much so, I can forgive his rough treatment of me as he shooed me out of the parlor. And it’s not like this is the first time Damon’s been protective—from our walks through the French Quarter to him wanting me to let him know when I get home to him commenting when I wear something a little too revealing. Still, something about tonight doesn’t sit right with me. Perhaps it goes back to before Angelo even arrived. Damon said he has issues, but we were interrupted before he could elaborate. Not that he would’ve. And that is the problem.

Damon is hiding something. What? I’m not sure. Could it have something to do with his gun-wielding friend? When I asked if he was dangerous, Damon said he was not as dangerous as him. It’s obvious Damon is strong, and I’d bet money he knows how to throw a wicked punch. But I’ve never seen him with a gun, and yet Angelo’s didn’t scare him in the slightest. He didn’t hesitate to push Angelo away from me when he called me beautiful. I won’t lie, that was shocking, inappropriate, but kind of sweet. I suppose it would’ve been more concerning, more out of character for Damon not to respond to his friend’s remark at all. He’s always given off very possessive vibes. Our entire relationship is based on rules that perpetuate his possessiveness and need for control. And yet, tonight was something different entirely. It was a first glimpse into Damon’s world—not his sex life, but his actual life. And if I’m being honest, it felt less like the world of a tattoo artist and more like the world of a mobster.

Could Damon be involved with something sketchy? Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want me—or anyone, for that matter—to get too close to him. He doesn’t want me asking questions or getting caught up in whatever he’s involved in. The irony isn’t lost on me. I don’t speak about my family or my life in Boston for similar reasons. The less Damon knows about my past, the better. And yet, as thoughts of my family come to me so too does a wave of nausea.

Finally, making it to the wine aisle, I stop and adjust Brinkley in my arms as my stomach swirls. Unwanted thoughts make me feel lightheaded as my body becomes damp with sweat. I don’t want to even consider the possibility that Damon’s secret—or issues, as he phrased it—could be the same as mine—an affiliation with an organized crime syndicate. Much less, involvement with the Mafia or mob. But…could it be? No, no, that’s impossible. I place my free hand over my stomach to ease the pain and shake the thoughts from my head.

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