Page 23 of Dangerous Devotion

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, thank God!” he says, setting the tray aside and kissing me. “Because I’m no expert but I don’t think scrambled eggs are supposed to slosh around the plate like that.”

“To be fair, my dad is usually still sleeping and I just grab a bowl of cereal,” I admit.

It gets harder every day not to give in to the feelings I have for him. It’s like I rely on a hastily constructed dam made of toothpicks and chewing gum to hold back the torrent of emotions that grow stronger by the day. I didn’t think I was the falling in love type, much less the kind of girl who goes for bad boys. Morally gray book boyfriends aside, I never wanted the excitement of a dangerous lifestyle.

I never dreamt of falling asleep on silk sheets or having a boyfriend who gives me diamond earrings to wear to dinner. When I refuse to accept them—it’s too much, it’s not the kind of thing I would ever need-- he just kisses me and tells me to wear them for him. He likes seeing me in them. So, I wear them. And I don’t even consider pawning them to pay off my father’s debts. I have no doubt that they’d cover what he owed and then some, with their perfectly blue-white gleam.

But I know it would hurt him if I tried to sell them. It’s a dangerous game for me, or it feels that way. Because sometimes it occurs to me that he would cover the whole debt if I asked him to, or that he already has, and I just don’t know it. I know he isn’t comfortable with me owing him anything, that he never wants this to be like that.

Somehow it isn’t like that. Because I know I could level him with a word. As much as I fight to hold back how I feel, to keep from letting him know because any sensible person realizes this is doomed, he doesn’t hide his feelings very well. It’s like the wall he built in a hurry wasn’t even made of toothpicks—more like a stack of fast-food napkins and watery glue.

I’m constantly aware that I can’t do this forever. All it will take is one close call with a bullet or a blade and I’ll panic and disappear from his life. I don’t have the nerves of steel I’d need to be with a man whose life is in constant peril, no matter how many times he tells me he works in an office now.

I know the truth. Both sides of it. The part that realizes I love him, and the part that knows there’s going to be hell to pay if I stay with him.

Reality hits me like a ton of bricks on a Tuesday morning. My first thought is we never should’ve gotten fish tacos from DoorDash at one in the morning, they were probably old.

Jack sleeping soundly, an arm thrown across his eyes to block any light. If the tacos were bad, he’d be sick too, I think, as the last bit of logic fails me and panic has me writhing in its grip.

I shouldn’t be astonished when I wake up dizzy and sick to my stomach when the sky is still barely turning to gray. I stagger into the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet in time to vomit as violently as I can ever remember. I’m retching and coughing, too afraid to crawl feebly to the sink to rinse my mouth. I know before I even buy a test what this is. It’s what always happens to careless girls. I go from being headstrong, free and happy to the classic cautionary tale.

I rock back on my heels and try to get my head to stop swimming.

I’d groan in disappointment at myself, at my reckless abandon and its natural consequences if I wasn’t afraid making any more noise would wake Jack. The guy I fell for, who happens to lead the most dangerous lifestyle known to the modern world. He employs hit men. I stitch up injured thugs in the back of a bar on a plastic tablecloth, the paper gown and latex gloves a comforting illusion that what I’m doing is in any way legitimately medical in nature.

I had a fun, romantic fling with a man who cannot possibly be interested in becoming a father. If he were, he’d marry some rich society bride, uniting their wealthy crime families or something like that. I’m undereducated, unemployed except on a cash-only basis stitching up stab wounds in a bar, and I don’t think my family tree would impress anyone.

The only branch I have left of it is the cause of all my problems except this. This is all my own irresponsibility. I’d beat myself up some more, but I have to puke again. By the time I get to rinse out my mouth, I’ve sweated through my t-shirt and surrendered to the dizziness. I lie down on the cool tile floor.

I no longer care if he finds me like this. I’m too sick to worry about his reaction to the news, or to come up with some believable lie. I find myself hoping I’ll just pass out from dehydration and blur into oblivion for a few hours. It’s the only option that sounds appealing at all.

The inside of my mouth is the flavor of rancid fur. Unbidden, as I blink my eyes open, I think of the dill pickle we once shared and feel bile rise in my throat. This is not going to be one of those gentle pregnancies where an apple-cheeked wholesome girl finds herself in a family way, discovering her condition via cute cravings for bacon and peanut butter. No, I’ve got the Exorcist style morning sickness, my complexion gray and pallid, sweaty—not at all like the healthy pink cheeks of those cute pregnant girls I’ve seen on campus before.

One more obstacle between me and nursing school. Not only my father’s compounding debts but my own misstep. The only thing that could possibly make this worse is telling Jack Marino that I’m knocked up.

12

JACK

I’m late getting to Bettino’s. Something came up at work, is how I’ll explain it to Serena. Concerning myself with what to tell her or anyone else, the desire to protect her is its own worry. I won’t tell her that the problem at work was a second cousin we caught trying to roll over on the entire Marino organization to save his own ass because he got caught embezzling from his father-in-law’s company. That’s what he thought was a smart decision—steal from the wife’s family, betray his own.

Fact is, he doesn’t know enough to do any damage—he was never more than a distant cousin my dad never trusted enough to hire.

I gave him a choice, man to man. He decided to turn himself in to the cops on embezzlement. His wife has wisely filed for divorce and custody of their kids. He knows to serve his time, keep his head down and my name out of his mouth. My dad would have shot him in the head gleefully in front of a room full of assembled family and friends to make an example. I make my own examples.

He’s too weak to harm me or mine. He’s no threat and is headed to the state penitentiary on a plea deal that’ll put him away for ten years minimum. His kids’ll be teenagers and want nothing to do with him by the time he gets out. That’s punishment enough to my mind.

I enter through the back office as usual. Instead of going straight through to the bar, I pause, see Serena sitting in the guest chair in front of the desk where I’ve watched her clean and repair wounds using the surface as a makeshift operating table. She sits on her hands, feet on the floor. She isn’t curled up, doesn’t lounge in the chair or light up with the playful smile I look forward to.

I feel my pulse speed up, a chill that is something like worry settling over my shoulders. I want to kneel beside her, take her hands, demand to know what’s wrong. Don’t be dramatic—I scold myself—just wait and see. I’ve never had trouble keeping quiet before when the situation calls for it. Now I’m spending more time forcing my questions back than I am listening.

With a sigh that makes her shoulders sag, she finally decides to tell me what’s bothering her.

“I got a note in my box today, you know the one we have to keep our aprons and crap.”

Serena removes one hand from beneath her thigh to bring out a yellow square sticky note. I take it and scan the words.

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