Page 70 of Riding the Edge

“Answer the fucking question.”

“No, I called, but she didn’t answer.”

The call goes to voicemail and I disconnect it before shoving it back into my pocket.

“We never had this conversation,” I warn, pointing a finger to him. “You get the money, you pay her. Until then, I don’t want your hands on her and I don’t care how innocent your intentions may be, I don’t want you making passes at her.”

“A little early to be staking a claim,” he retorts. “Word of advice, if you’re looking to be a hero, you’re wasting your time.”

“I didn’t ask for your advice,” I growl.

“I’m feeling generous,” he says, pausing for a beat. “If want to keep her, don’t try to take care of her. She’ll only run.”

I knew there was truth to his words, but I didn’t want to hear it. Leaving him in the bathroom, I made my way back to my boys.

“Family time is over,” I announce.

“Thank Christ,” Enzo mutters, dropping the bowling ball. “This was weird.”

Ignoring him, I hand Frankie my phone.

“You know how to text?” I question.

“Of course I do,” he says, glancing at the contact on the screen. Lifting his head, he raises an eyebrow and laughs. “You want me to text your girlfriend?”

“You’re grounded.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“What’s your point?”

“You’ve never grounded me before.”

“Yeah, well, it’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks,” I mutter, tipping my chin. “Text her.”

“What do want to me to say?”

“Tell her if she doesn’t answer the fucking phone, I’m going there and if she doesn’t open the door, I’ll tear it the fuck off the hinges.”

“Yeah, you sure that’s what you want me to text her?”

“Listen to Casanova,” Enzo quips. “He’s a bona fide expert in love.”

The two brothers continue to bicker as my eyes dart towards the restrooms. Lenny emerges and as our eyes meet, his words ring in my head. A second later he tips his chin and walks away. Turning to my kids, I run my fingers through my hair.

“Enough,” I bark, pointing a finger at Frankie. “Just ask her if she’s okay.”

“Lame,” Enzo comments as Frankie composes the message.

“Done,” he says, handing me back my phone. “You really like her, don’t you?”

If that’s not a loaded question, I don’t know what it is.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I do.”

I like her a fuck of a lot.

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