Page 10 of Beautiful & Dirty

“You want one of us to come collect you?” Giulio asks.

“No,” I bark out. I don’t mean to, but I’m so angry that I can’t control myself. It’s rare that I feel that way, and it’s not because I’m just finding out what I’ve always suspected about Flavia; that she would betray me as soon as she got the chance.

I lose control of myself because I realize this on the day where I meet a woman who reminds me of everything I had to give up to gain the power I’ve fought for, and what I’ve had to sacrifice over and over again to keep it. It’s ironic, but certainly not a coincidence; I don’t believe in those.

“Get her to the country house, and I’ll be there tonight,” I say. “I have some business I need to attend to first.”

“Sure thing, boss,” they say in unison.

“Don’t be gentle,” I add, unclenching my fists and rolling my neck.

I stay in my chair as they file out the back door leading to an alley that makes it easy to get people — conscious and otherwise — in and out of the building without attracting too much attention. I sit in seething silence long after they’re gone, thinking, stewing, and then finally settling on a determined plan. I don’t smell the metallic industrially clean scent anymore, but I want to. I don’t want to feel dead inside or have to push down my feelings any more than I have. I don’t want to live in this world where I can’t trust anyone or anything, not even myself. I want to know what it feels like to laugh out loud, shocked and gleeful. I want to feel soft skin on my lips and know what purity and cunt taste like on my tongue. I want to hear Shae gasp my full name into my ear as I fuck her and leave my fingerprints on her skin, even if they’ll fade.

And only then do I rise from my seat, hard and aching and ready.

* * *

If Steve were here, he’d have already admonished me at least once for… something. Maybe because I’m eating the pizza with my hands, or my elbows are on the table, or I’m moaning too loudly because of how perfect this pizza is and someone at another table might hear. If Steve had been here, I would have corrected myself to please him because it’s what I do, but the thought of it makes my stomach clench now.

How had I never realized how critical he was of me? And why had I always capitulated? Who might I have been without his cutting corrections? Who do I want to be?

The questions invade my mind, and I feel terrible. I slump in my chair and chew slowly, contemplating, feeling sick to my stomach. And even that’s terrible, because I realize that this is how I normally feel when I’m with Steve. This is how he’s made me feel nearly every day of our relationship, and I got used to it. I shrank and apologized and contorted myself into someone he still didn’t like, but that I didn’t like either. I’ve become a shell of a person to please him, and even when he’s not near me, it’s his unhappy voice in my head ruining my day. But today, I refuse to listen.

I force myself to shake off even the thought of him. It takes all of my strength, but it’s worth it. If I can bend over backward to make everyone else around me feel safe and comfortable, I should be able to do that for myself just this once. I deserve it, and so I channel Zoe and will it to be so. I eat the rest of my pizza and finish that last glass of wine with a smile on my face.

I slump in my chair, full and a bit drunk, but happy. How long since I’ve been able to say that?

“Was everything good?” the waitress asks as she begins to collect the empty plates from my table.

I chuckle. “Very good. Too good. I feel like I need to be rolled out of here.”

She smiles at me. It’s the same smile I use when I’m waitressing, friendly but not too friendly. “Would you like dessert?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Oh, God, no. I don’t think I could eat anything else.”

“Not even with me?” another voice asks.

I look around the waitress, and there he is. He’s taken off his apron, and he’s fucking beautiful, even more beautiful than before. His slacks are perfectly tailored, and his white shirt is pristine, tucked into a belt that probably costs more money than I bring in for tips in a month. His hair is just slightly tousled, almost like he was running his fingers through it. I wonder about that and about the way the frown lines between his eyes seem deeper. He’s only been gone half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, but he looks as if he’s gone to war and come back to me. That last part is my sentimental brain talking.

The waitress collects the dishes and scurries away. Salvatore doesn’t move to sit across from me again.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He smiles. It’s rueful, haunted. He looks like a completely different man than before, but my body likes this version of him just the same.

“No,” he tells me in a whisper.

I want to know everything. I want to ask this man everything about his time away from me and his entire life. I… want him, every part of him, I suddenly realize. In seven years, I’ve only ever looked at Steve, and I never felt this possessive need before. But when this older man with bright gray hair and the sexiest salt and pepper beard I’ve ever seen looks at me with tired, red-rimmed eyes, I realize that I want him to tell me his entire life story while I suck the life out of his dick.

“Is it your wife?” I ask, the way he asked me about Steve. I’d seen his wedding ring earlier and ignored it because flirting is innocent, and I wanted him to flirt with me and devour me with his eyes more than I wanted to respect that piece of gold on his left hand and my own moral compass.

“It is,” he says.

“Women can be terrible.”

His mouth curves into a weary smile as he walks toward me. When he leans over my chair, he places one hand on the table and the other on the back of my chair.

“Are you allowed to say that?” he asks me.

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