Page 38 of Mafia Star

“Be there at eight.”

“Sounds good.”

As she and I walk out of the building half an hour later, she whispers to me.

“I take pole dance classes instead of swimming these days. Maybe I can practice before class tomorrow night.”

Before I can say a word, she hails a cab and jogs to the curb. I’m left there standing slack jawed with my dick swinging in the wind.

Chapter Eight

Beth

So much for keeping things at the club. I’ve been replaying the car ride to the pizzeria over and over and over since yesterday afternoon. Who am I kidding? I’m like a kitten he petted once who now trails him everywhere. I want more than just hooking up at our club. I want more than just a quickie in the backseat of a car or a crazy kiss in an elevator.

Me and my dumbass mouth. I’m the one who said we had to limit it. But I said it before he could. I was worried he only wanted bootie calls, and I couldn’t bear to have that suspicion confirmed. So, I spoke before he could. Was I wrong?

Maybe.

The way he came to my rescue at Ivy. What he risked by going into the lions’ den. Did that mean anything more than he’s a chivalrous guy? I’m reading too fucking much into it. I know he wants to fuck me, which is pretty fucking flattering in and of itself. He said I’m too tempting and that he wants me more than any other woman, but is that just dirty talk? Is it just physical? After three weeks of amazing sex and getting to know each other afterwards, I want to know if the pillow talk means something. But I don’t want to find out my feelings are one-sided. Humiliating and heartbreaking. I’d rather exist in limbo than find out my feelings are unreciprocated.

“Excuse me.”

I just put my foot on the sidewalk from the last step up to my building when a guy slams into me. The sidewalk is crowded but not so congested he couldn’t move around me. I apologize, but he says nothing. He just pushes past and nearly knocks me off my feet. Luckily, I’m in flats.

“Asshole.”

I mutter it under my breath and check my purse. It’s zipped, so I know he didn’t just pickpocket me. I dig around in my slim, black portfolio briefcase. It’s old-fashioned by most standards, but I think it looks sophisticated and perfectly cliché for a New York interior designer. There’s nothing in there that he could have dropped. I’ve lived in the city since I was twenty-three. I’m adequately suspicious of strangers.

I check over my shoulder, and he’s standing at the end of the block on the phone, looking in the other direction. Marco texted me the address last night, so I head to the subway, taking the G Brooklyn-Queens Crosstown. The car is packed during rush hour, so it’s elbow to elbow.

I keep my bags pressed against my front; shoulders rounded to keep from being bumped around too badly. But when we get to my stop, I have to muscle my way through the six people in front of me. I follow in the wake of a guy much bigger than me. But I’m jostled from the back and nearly stumble over the gap between the train and the platform.

As I change directions toward the stairs, I glance back at who pushed me. My nose is practically in the guy’s chest. The temptation to shove my elbow into his gut is real. Back off, fuck sack. But I ignore him once I get onto the street. I look around to orient myself since I’m not familiar with this part of Queens. I see the cross street I need, having set my GPS before I left my place. I tap start and listen as it tells me where to go. I’m focused on that, but I’m always aware of what’s going on around me. I know that guy is still way too close. I noticed the one I followed off the car is now moving slower, so I’m catching up to him.

I turn off the audio to my navigation, not needing to announce to everyone where I’m headed. I scan the surrounding area as the hair on my nape rises. Something is fucking off. Like super off. I want to take an unexpected side street to see if I’m truly being followed, but I don’t know my way around well enough to do that. I look over at the road and see a cab letting a man out about fifty feet behind me. I dart to the curb and hail the car. I blurt the address as I watch out the window.

“That’s like a block away.”

“I know. I hurt my ankle. Thanks.”

I don’t owe him an explanation, especially since I’ll give him like a seventy-five percent tip. Actually, it’s better than that. It’s four bucks, and I shove a ten at him. I scramble out of the vehicle, looking around. The man who bumped into me in front of my place is standing two buildings over from the strip club. I look back, and the two men from the subway are waiting to cross the street.

Please let the door be unlocked. Please.

I bolt for the strip club’s front door and yank on it. Sweet Baby J. It’s locked, but a guy turns around and pushes it open.

“Ma’am?”

“Marco. Is he here yet?”

“Beth?”

I look over and see him crossing the floor from the bar. I run toward him, and he envelopes me in his arms.

“Beth?”

“Followed.”

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