Page 51 of He Should Be Mine
“No, not this time,” I answer truthfully. I don’t think Rick knows his wife discovered his dirty little secret. He wasn’t angry or possessive or frustrated. Simply horny.
“Good.”
He sips his coffee. I sip my hot chocolate. Silence and shadows swirl around us. I can feel him, even though we are not touching. We aren’t even close.
I don’t understand this. Any of this. I have never felt this way. It feels like falling.
It is leaving me dizzy and disorientated. And completely lost.
How is Dario feeling? Is he aware that he has become a force of gravity, pulling me towards him? Or is he existing in blissful ignorance? Completely oblivious to the chaos he is causing within me?
I gulp down some hot chocolate.
It was stupid of me to get angry because he doesn’t like me. It is not his fault his mind has dreamed up a fantasy, it’s what minds do. It’s usually my job to play to those fantasies. To give men what they desire.
But what does Dario desire?
A boy who smells of peaches? A boy who doesn’t want to be here?
I inhale through my nose while I cradle my mug. Emotions are such messy things. Nasty and troublesome. I shouldn’t waste my time with them.
I don’t know what Dario wants from me. I don’t know what is happening between us. I don’t know what I want from him.
But it doesn’t matter, because I never get what I want. Life has taught me that lesson well. So angsting over it is pointless. It will never lead to anything. Even if I ever discovered the answers.
I belong to Rick. I can’t do anything about that. Neither can Dario.
My hands lift my mug to my lips. Dario quietly inhales another lungful of smoke. On the other side of the windows, the sky is lightening. Another day is on the way.
It won’t be any better.
Chapter fourteen
Dario
It feels strange to be out of the apartment. In some ways it is good. In other ways, being apart from Molly feels wrong. Like an unsettling feeling at the back of my mind that won’t go away. It is distracting and I need it to stop.
Yes, there is every chance Molly could do something stupid. But worrying about it is a waste of energy. Besides, I suspect this uneasy feeling is more than worry. I think it might be something far worse.
I think I miss him. Even though it has barely been an hour since I last saw him.
I swirl my whiskey around in its cut-glass tumbler. I really need to get a grip. I am about to have a very important and dangerous meeting. I need my wits about me. I can’t be sitting here pining for Molly.
Especially since he is the whole reason I’m doing this. The entire point of this meeting is to ensure his safety. Failing because I can’t stop thinking about him, would be ironic as well as tragic.
I take a deep breath and attempt to focus. My guests should be arriving soon. The bottle of whisky is in the middle of the round table, waiting for them. Three emptytumblers gleam in the muted light. It’s dark in this back room of this non-descript pub. The window is small, heavily frosted, and grimy. The single light hanging from the ceiling seems to have given up. The light it casts is weak, with a yellow tinge.
At least if anyone ignores the ‘private function’ sign on the door, they won’t be tempted to stay. It is not exactly inviting in here.
But it is private and discreet, and that is all that matters.
The door opens, and Dante stands in the doorway. His dark eyes dart all over the room, taking in every corner, assessing all the exits.
I give him a slow nod of greeting. He nods back. He steps inside and allows the door to swing shut behind him. He takes the seat next to me, positioning himself with his back to the far corner, while ensuring he has a full view of the only door.
I pour him a whisky. He takes it with another nod. Dante is never talkative, and that is just fine by me. I have a very healthy respect for the man. He does the dark work. There has never been a man who has not sung under his knives. There is no secret he cannot extract. And his punishments are legendary.
I really, truly hope to never get on Dante’s wrong side. May he remain a friend forever.
