Page 12 of Gin & Trouble

Danny, noDante. Freaking Dante Marchionni sat up and gave me a look so suggestive it bypassed my panic and went straight to my core . “Get in the shower. I’ll call you a cab.”

“No.” Shaking my head like a lunatic, I said, “I don’t have time. I just. I need to go.”

He climbed out of bed in all of his naked glory. “Is this about last night?”

Every step he took toward me, I took one back until I reached the bathroom. “No. Nope. Not about last night.”

Dante sighed and pulled on his boxer briefs. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing. I’m just late for work.” I didn’t think he knew who I really was. If he did, he would have been on the phone with his brother Marco, the Marchionnicapo, and I would be…

What?

Tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey waiting to be thrown in the oven? Would Dante hurt me? The Marchionnis wouldn’t hesitate putting a bullet in Sophia. That much I knew for sure.

I have to play it cool. Get the hell out of here and think.

He scratched his stubbly jaw. “What time are you supposed to be at the convention center?”

“Nine, but I left my costume at home.”

He motioned to the clock on the nightstand. “It’s only seven.”

“Right. Barely enough time to get home and get into costume.” I shoved my legs into my pants, did my best to wrangle the girls into my bustier, and splashed water on my face. I needed to calm the heck down, STAT. “Sorry, I’m being such a freak.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He stood in the doorway holding my leather jacket and purse. “Are you sure I can’t call you a cab?”

“Nope. I’m good.” I kissed his cheek and fought hard to hold back my tears.

If he were anyone else, anyone else in the entire world, I’d have hope. Hope we could somehow find a way to be together, or at very least, remain friends. But a relationship with Dante Marchionni was the definition of impossible.

5

Dante

A high-pitched wailsilenced the room. Not an easy feat, considering thousands of people had packed into the convention center. Then again, it wasn’t every day you saw sexy Darth Vader giving Spiderman a wedgie.

My balls winced in sympathy pain. Growing up the youngest of six boys, I’d experienced more than my fair share of wedgies, atomic and otherwise.

“Holy shit. Is that her?” Zach, my teenaged nephew, stared slack-jawed.

Good question. She looks taller, but it could be the boots.

“Unless there are more female Vaders here, that’s definitely Julia.” The voice-activated Chewbacca sound effect went off as I spoke.

“All I heard after ‘female’ was RRWWWGG that’s GGGWARRRHHWWWW Julia.”

The costume had cost me a small fortune. Too damned much for the tech to break down after only a couple of hours.

“Yes. RRWAH.”

“Dude, that noise is going to ruin your game.” Zach cracked up. “And you’re going to need all the game you can get with a girl who looks like that.”

The kid had a point, but I had a feeling I’d already blown it with Julia. She’d ghosted me since leaving the hotel. After a dozen or so texts, I’d decided to find her at the convention. My game was off all right, but it didn’t have jack-shit to do with the Chewie get up.

I made my way through the crowd surrounding Vader to get a better look. Her costume consisted of leather straps with blinking LED lights, a cape, and a phallic-ishhelmet. In other words, she was every sci-fi fan’s wet dream—but not mine.

“That’s not her. GGGWARRRHHWWWW.”

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