Page 102 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
It was enough for Percy that there, at the corner of the gilt bar, Althea sat decked out in the loudest, gaudiest, most clashing ensemble of designer clothing she could manage to find that morning. She held a bright pink cocktail in hand, calling a great deal of attention to herself, though at least, to her credit, she looked nothing like the girl she was the day before. It was trying too that Leo, having taken especial care with his own presentation that morning, leaned all too close, too appreciatively, too handsomely over to her, laughing with her, fiddling with the tips of her fingers which she didn’t once pull away. But the spine-shattering straw that floated feather-light on top of Percy’s back was Giordano.
Giordano leaned on one glorious arm behind the bar. He’d seen Percy long before Percy had seen him, and he waited in his handsome pose, with his handsome face, with his handsome fingers gripping the bench tight. His hair fell down in dark curls about his cheek, and he watched Percy come to him as though it wasn’t a big deal. As though Percy didn’t know it took every bit of self-discipline Giordano had in him to put on that show of casual disregard. And Percy felt terrible every step of the very long walk from the lobby to the bar, where Giordano waited, just as he had for the last four years.
“Giordano.”
Leo wrenched his hand back from Althea’s at the sound of Percy’s voice, and stood very tall and distant, while Althea spun her chair around excitedly. But she halted her words at the sight of Percy, then Giordano, each holding one another’s gazewith the intensity of a pair of thieves, one about to out the other.
Giordano was the first to look away, his eyes dropping to the chilled champagne glass he turned swiftly and placed on the bar. “Usual?”
Percy remained where he was, right at the entrance of the small room. “What are you doing here?”
Giordano’s hands moved unerringly over the bottles he knew by heart, working by touch, seeing none of it. “I’m always here.”
Shifting his hands into his pockets to lean against the doorframe, “Not in the day, you’re not.”
One bottle was exchanged for another. “I swapped shifts.”
Percy made the decision to kill it. He strolled over to Joe’s side, Joe having made his way to Althea before he noticed the stand off. “Giordano, this is Joe. My partner.”
Giordano froze with a handful of ice and a stark study of Joe, then mechanically clanked his load into a metal shaker. “A drink for Joe too, then.”
The entire scene was awkward enough to shut the rest of the group up, but all except Percy averted their eyes completely when Giordano added, “My mother made you some caponata.” A ceramic bowl was placed on the counter with an obtrusive ‘tink’ cutting into the silence.
Percy gave very little. “How is she?”
“Worse,” he replied, measuring the Campari by sight in a long, thin stream. “She won’t go to the hospital. Says it makes her sick.”
“Do you want me to talk to her?”
Wary brown eyes glanced up and away again, as a lid was shoved hard onto the shaker. “Yes.”
Giordano’s white shirt was thrust up at the sleeves in a way that would have been unacceptable at the five-star hotel, hadnot this beautiful barman been requested by name, by the stinking rich, almost every night.
As he lifted the shaker high, Joe’s eyes swept over the veins that laced along his forearms, tanned and thick and tapering to large, statuesque hands, and Joe thought of those hands on Percy, and winced. He dropped onto the stool beside Althea to contemplate his new reality, which, so far, seemed to be an endless stream of ex-lovers and sycophants, punctuated by flights of death and blood. Except when they were alone. Everything was very different when they were alone. And he began to wish they hadn’t left the hotel room after all.
Percy slipped onto the seat beside Joe, picked his hand up and kissed it, despite Giordano’s very deliberately averted face. The drinks were poured, red and sparkling and exactly as though it were a normal holiday.
Whatever tension had been between Giordano and Percy was now, apparently, on hold, and Percy leaned down the bar towards Leo, a hint of menace in his quiet tone. “You’re not supposed to be drinking.”
Leo threw a guilty look at his almost empty glass. “It was only two.”
His gaze burning into the young man, Percy said, “None.” As if by command, Giordano took Leo’s drink down from the bar. “And where’s my mail?”
Leo looked up in alarm. “I had it forwarded. Just like you asked.”
“My personal mail.”
Leo thought for a few seconds before he remembered. “Ah, shit,” he said. “I had it separate from the business stuff. I was going to?—”
“As soon as you get back.” Swiftly, Percy turned his attention to Althea. “How many have you had?”
“Not many,” she mumbled, hurriedly explaining, “Drinking age is sixteen here…”
“That’s her third,” said Giordano. Then, to the frown Percy gave him, “She said she was with you.”
Percy nodded towards her half-empty glass. “Nothing more than that until we eat. I know you’ve had a hard time, but there are people trying to kill you and you need to be on your guard.”
“Okay, Percy,” Althea whispered.
