Page 5 of Confession
Vitali’s irritated exhalation is right by my ear. It makes goosebumps rise all over my body. His fingers slide from my wrist down my hand to the receipt. The touch sends a heavy pulse into my dick. He tugs the receipt out from under my fingers. He crumples it up and throws it away, trashing my tip—and the blonde’s number.
“You owe me twenty bucks,” I tell him as he finally backs off and snags a bottle of whiskey from the backlit shelf. I don’t care about the tips. Vitali pays me well, so I was going to leave everything for the rest of the staff.
“Twelve-fifty,” he corrects, pouring a double. “Were you gonna fuck her for that?”
I don’t know why he’s being a dick, but it pisses me off. Having a hard-on that I can’t do anything about doesn’t help my mood either.
“I’m sure she’d accept you as a substitute. If you want to fish her number out of the trash.” At least I assume that’s what this is about, though she didn’t seem like his type. He usually goes for sultry, not flirty.
Vitali’s nostrils flare, and I wonder if we’re about to have a problem. I don’t usually push back at him because he doesn’t usually needle me.
See, this is why I feel like our dynamic has changed. It feels like it started after I got hurt, but I don’t understand why. And it’snotin my head like I keep telling myself.
What I don’t know is which one of us is causing it. Probably me. I got frustrated with the time off. I was starting to cyclethrough anger and depression, which I really fucking hate. It skews my perspective. I know this. I’ve been through it before. I just have to get back to normal, with myself and with Vitali.
But then he fucking smiles and chuckles like what I said was amusing, and my brain completely malfunctions. My thoughts vanish. My resolutions vanish, and I just want …
Things I can’t have.
So even though I want to look at him as he leans against the bar, legs crossed at the ankles, sipping his whiskey, I turn away from him, get back to work, and ignore my aching cock.
It’s not like I’m not used to it.
THREE
Vitali
No, I have no idea what my problem is. I don’t know why I’m fucking with him. I don’t know why I’m fixated on him.
I need to leave Quinn alone, get out of his space, and go back to my office. He’s so fucking tense, and he’s doing his best to ignore me. I shouldn’t have touched him. That’s where I went wrong, and it wasn’t the first time today.
I can’t explain it. It’s a fucking compulsion.
I don’t return to my office because I don’t want to sit at my computer, but I do force myself to leave Quinn alone. He gets quieter as the night progresses, reverting to his usual reserve. I can’t tell if he’s tired or just tired of people, but his performance fades to hand gestures and nods and only the most necessary words. Regardless, he’s plenty alert, constantly tracking the crowd. He’s subtle about it, but I can tell.
Quinn is always alert for danger. That’s how he saved my life two years ago. He saw something that neither Sasha nor I noticed. A man who followed me out into the parking lot. A gun that would’ve killed me. If Quinn hadn’t been there, hadn’t tackled the guy, fought him, killed him, I’d be dead.
Around 1:30, my phone vibrates. I pull it out, frowning at Joe’s name on the screen. Quinn’s full attention is on me instantly, like I was never completely outside his awareness even while he seemed to be ignoring me.
When I step away from the bar, heading toward the quiet storage room behind it, Quinn abandons the drink he’s making and follows. I leave the door open for him so he knows I don’tneed privacy. He closes it behind us and stands by as I answer the call.
“Yeah, Joe.”
Joe doesn’t beat around the bush. “There was an incident at the warehouse. Some damage, not much. Fucking DiMaggios threw a Molotov cocktail through the window.”
“Fuck. You have the fucker?”
“Course, boss.” Joe’s how-could-you-doubt-me tone takes the edge off my anger. I have really good men working for me. That’s what counts when shit happens.
After learning of my uncle’s betrayal, I got a little paranoid. I spent weeks digging through all the records, both my uncle’s and my own, hunting for any sign that any of my men were working with him. But they’re solid, thank fuck. Cleaning house would’ve weakened me against the DiMaggios, and it sucks to know you got played.
Joe says, “DiMaggio’s guy wants to talk to you.”
Of course he does. “You think he has anything?”
“Doubt it. Just wants to breathe a few more minutes. You want me to get to work on him?”
“Nah, I’m at Eclipse. I can be there in fifteen.”
