Page 72 of The Club

All Rafael gives me in response to my question is, “It’s complicated.”

It’s his tone that sends a stab of nasty realization through me. I stare at the side of his face as he keeps his eyes away from me.

“You two have fucked.”

“Sort of,” Rafael admits, still not looking at me. “But that’s not the only reason it’s complicated.”

A dark, awful feeling roils inside me. I know Rafael has been with a lot of men. Generally, it doesn’t bother me that much. Somehow, I see it as a long extension of the Island. I section it off into the past.

But this is different. Dante is still part of his life. This is far more personal, far more meaningful—and I’m not at all prepared to deal with it.

Frankly, it’s just one thing too many for a single morning. So I walk off. I find a banquette far enough away from Rafael to make clear that I don’t want to talk to him right now but positioned so that I can see him.

Rafael almost got killed a few minutes ago. I’m still shaking from that. I still feel like I might throw up. I’m also still freaking out about being outed. I’m pushing it back, but the panic is hovering at the edges.

And somehow overriding all of that is the biggest fucking freakout of all: the realization that, fuck, fuck, fuck, I might be in love with him.

All of this makes me want nothing more than to beat the shit out of him.

For putting himself in danger.

For lying to me.

For putting me in this position.

Most of all, for making me feel a ton of shit that I don’t have any idea how to handle.

And Istillhave no idea what the fuck is going on.

Noah goes over to Rafael and says something I can’t hear. Rafael levers himself up from the banquette. He walks off toward the elevator. He doesn’t look back.

Noah heads my way. His face is beat up, one eye swelling shut. He says, “Tell your guys to let Dante through when he arrives.”

I don’t really want to let Dante through, but I pull out my phone and send Rocco a text anyway.

“Where did Rafael go?” I ask.

“I told him to go clean up. He’ll meet us downstairs. It’s more secure. This room needs fully swept. I don’t know how long Moretti was here before I arrived.”

Swept for recording devices he means. I doubt Moretti left anything, but it’s a smart precaution, which is no surprise, given Noah’s background.

“What?” I snap. He’s looking at me.

“I’m just trying to figure shit out.”

Me and Rafael, he means. “Mind your own fucking business.”

“Rafael is my business. And so are you.”

“I’m not one of your boys,” I tell him.

He didn’t save me. We’re nothing to each other. The bitterness that wells up inside me is an unpleasant surprise. Is that what I wanted? To be saved?

Fuck that. I don’t need that.

Noah doesn’t say anything. He just looks tired. Sad.

I look away, but when he says, “Come on, let’s go downstairs,” I get up and follow.

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