Page 70 of Bedding Rose
I’m bouncingon the tips of my toes tonight. I expected to be nauseous and ready to puke tonight, but apparently, the thought of revenge on those motherfuckers—the idea of stealing their breath from them and sucking the very life from their souls the way they did to me—appeals to me on a visceral level.
Some people would say that’s wrong and call me evil.
Fuck them.
I’ve been pondering this a lot the past few days, staring off during classes or zoning out while I watch TV, and I’ve come to the following conclusion: Sometimes justice isn’t shiny handcuffs and metal bars. Sometimes it’s a fist to the face.
Angelo has been annoyingly calm throughout this whole process, not pacing and muttering aloud like me. He went to work this morning, even though I wanted to ditch class and get him to call in sick so we could work out all of my hyperactivity in a horizontal position.
“Alibis are important,” he’d told me.“Acting normal. Routine. We can’t do anything out of the ordinary.”
He’s right, of course, though an immature part of me doesn’t like it. Part of me wants to pregame before the main event. Fuck me for even calling it that, but it’s what it feels like. Tonight is the big showdown and my nails are a wreck from all the chewing I’ve done. But, I know, deep down, that Angelo’s giving me good advice. After years of being underneath my mother’s thumb, I’ve learned the importance of appearances. The only difference is, this time, the appearance is for my benefit instead of hers.
So I went to class this morning. I smiled at the Wild Flowers. I pretended I had a headache when they asked me questions so that I wouldn’t have to answer when I couldn't follow the flow of the conversation. And I’ve made dinner, though I did burn the meat a bit in my distraction. I’m almost done pretending—and I’m practically salivating for what comes next. Just a teeny, tiny bit longer and we’re done. We just have to set up the alibi for the evening.
Our alibi is that I’m organizing some of Angelo’s files tonight—something I’ve been doing this week anyway to help him out and not feel as though I’ve moved in just to be a burden. I’ve been cooking too, hence tonight’s dinner. We just finished off some semi-edible spaghetti. Standing in the tiny apartment kitchen, I deftly pack the leftovers into plastic containers and slide them into the fridge before heading back out into the living room, stomach coiling into Celtic knots while my fingers try to do the same.
It’s time.
I pace as I watch Angelo finish packing a duffel bag with the gear we need and zip it closed—the sound unnaturally loud in my ears. He’s dressed all in black, though his clothes would look casual enough to a random observer—he’s not wearing a black turtleneck or a catsuit. No one would guess what we’re up to.
I’m wearing black yoga pants and a green t-shirt to look even less suspicious, but there’s a big, black raincoat slung across the back of the couch that I’ll slide on later to hide my figure.
When Angelo turns to look at me, I catch my breath at the intensity of his stare. In the low lamplight, I can almost imagine that we’re a war party hundreds of years ago, standing by the fire just before an attack. My nerves dance when he brings a finger to trace the contours of my cheek.
“You sure?” he asks, for the millionth time.
I narrow my eyes and glare at him. “Angelo Walker, if you want to keep that finger, you’d better not ask me that again.”
His chuckle is so full and loud that I imagine I can feel its vibrations. “Love those thorns.”
Then he lowers his hand expectantly, waiting silently until I slide my palm over his. He squeezes my hand possessively, and our connection at this moment isn’t just physical but something far more potent.
He lifts the duffel and I reach around him to grab my coat. And then we’re off to commit our first crime together.
How romantic,my brain remarks sarcastically, but my heart is swooning at the fact that this man will do anything for me. Anything.
The ride to the construction site is silent because I don’t really know what to say but also because I worry that if I start speaking, I won’t be able to stop, words will just flood out of me due to this excess of energy that’s built up in my system.
When Angelo parks, he turns toward me, his profile lit by the angular light of the setting sun.
“My dad’s here. He’s going to vouch for us.”
My throat hollows out like the inside of a dry, dead tree and horror fills me for the first time tonight. “Great way to officially meet him as your girlfriend,” I squeak.
It’s not as if I’ve never met the Walkers. I’ve seen them once or twice, his father more than the rest of the family because they often had jobs that coincided with Mom’s back when she worked with the mayor. But that was different. I was a kid. A kid sister. Meeting Mr. Walker as his son’s girlfriend? That’s another matter. “God, what is he going to think of me?”
Angelo gives a soft laugh. “You’d be surprised. He’s actually quite impressed by you. Mom hasn’t gone out with him on anything like this since they had kids.”
That comment gives me something to ponder, a bit more insight into the Walker family. Should I care about the fact that they’re criminals? Maybe. But I know Angelo—deep in my bones I know who he is—and he’s good. Good for me at least. That’s all that matters.
I make that decision and lock in my answer as he slides out of his seat first and comes around the side of the car to open the door for me, a move he’s been very insistent on every time he drives me. I haven’t argued, because I love the feel of his thick fingers around my waist and the way he slides me down the front of his body each time he sets me down.
Tonight, he doesn’t just set me down and let go. Once my feet hit the dirt, he stares, mesmerized. I’m certain the sunset is doing odd things to my features because it’s blazing across his, striping him with fierce orange lines and making him look bloodthirsty, wild in a way that sets my body off. His eyes drop to my lips telling me what’s coming the second before he dips his head.
This kiss isn’t just sweet and isn’t just possessive. There’s a desperate, dark, and feral taste to it that makes me as light-headed as taking a shot of whiskey.
When he pulls back, I’m breathing hard, all thoughts erased save one: I crave this man in a way that’s completely unnatural. Maybe even unstable.
