Page 37 of Sinful Like Us
Hoisting me higher on his tall build.
Oh.
My.
God?
I hold his neck, and our eyes sink into each other. As though the world falls hush around us, as though meeting the safety I’ve always craved has the power to stop time and grow impossible gardens. As though we’re Adam and Eve and whatever sinful deed we commit, we’ll commit together.
Wild pieces of my hair stick to my lips. His narrowed gaze is full of purpose and potency.
He breathes hard.
I breathe harder. “Thatcher.” I can’t leave my best friend.I can’t leave him, and I’m not ready to be dragged out of this bar like I always am when Maximoff fights.
“You’re my eyes,” Thatcher says strongly. “Watch Banks. He’s helping Farrow and Maximoff. Copy?”
“Yes.” I inhale. “I’ll be your eyes.” I scrutinize Banks. His arms are extended, and he barricades the angered bar patrons from physically confronting Maximoff and Farrow.
My pulse decelerates for the first time, and I realize it’s because I’m in Thatcher’s arms.
He takes charge and yells at Tony. “Tell your friend to mind his own fucking business! Or take him out of here!”
“My friend?!” Tony unleashes a bitter laugh. “Gio and I haven’t been friends since we were sixteen! If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even be in this shithole!”
I can practically feel Tony gesturing to the rustic green bar sign above the televisions.
The one that reads:South Philly Brew.
Thatcher has spent countless nights at this sports bar with his family. He’s told me about how his uncles would buy Banks and him beers when they were teenagers. Yes, even underage, and they’d watch football and blow off steam.
He’s rigid against me, boiling. “You grew up in this shithole like the rest of us!”
“And I made it out! Unlike you!”
I cringe, hating every little jab that Tony loves to take. South Philly is a beautiful place, and I want to turn and defend Thatcher to the death, but I made a promise to watch Banks.
Not coming to my boyfriend’s defense—it hurts like a billion blades in my stomach, but I force myself to stay pinned to his brother.
Ohh…
No.
No.
My eyes grow as a thin guy in a winter beanie stands on a chair, a plastic shopping bag in hand. What did he buy?
For what purpose?
“Gio, sit down!” Banks yells.
“Thatcher,” I warn.
He swings his head, and immediately, he lowers me to my feet, his towering height shielding me.
Zeroing in on the target, Thatcher yells, “Che cozz’!”
He’s taught me enough Italian that I remember the translation:What the fuck are you doing?
