Page 22 of Ruthless Consequences

My eyes ping back to Lilo.

He nods at me and picks up his glass. Then his eyes straighten and land across the table. Father and son are looking at each other again. Having a silent conversation. It seems heated, but I could be wrong. I get the feeling it’s about me, though, and I’m not sure why. I really have no clue what’s going on between them.

I stand, ready to go. The overload of food has me feeling queasy. I haven’t eaten that much in…I can’t even remember. The day she left, I was sick, and I’ve been sick ever since. What makes me feel even worse is that my heart tugs. It wants to stay in this house. With the food. With the atmosphere. With the sweetness of his mom. With the safety I feel from his dad. Even his grandmother. She cares enough about people to respect their suffering.

It stops pulling when Lilo says he’s going to take me home.

It’s not the house but him.

That can’t be good.

He has trouble written all over him. I should be afraid of the bitterness. Of the hurt I know it can cause. But when he’s close, all I can think of is sweetness. Like the first bite…the first taste of…euphoria.

After I thank his parents, his grandmother, for having me, he takes my hand and leads me outside. But not before he grabs a set of keys hanging from the door and uses them to open an old delivery truck parked on the side street.Valentino’sis painted on the side. Italian colors—green, white, and red—are proudly displayed inside the name.

The interior smells like bread and baked goods. My stomach rumbles. It can’t handle another bite. He looks over at me but says nothing. We bounce against the cracked leather seats as he handles the streets with ease.

“You drive like a cabbie,” I say, admiring the side profile of his face and the way he drives with one hand.

His arms are strong, like the rest of him. In the glow of the passing city lights, the veins swell underneath his skin. I resist the urge to run my finger along one. I resist the temptation to ask him about the blood on his face too. The splatters of it that stain his white t-shirt. No one even mentioned it at dinner. Carine had seen it earlier. Maybe his grandma too. But Michele hadn’t. He didn’t even look twice at it.

He nods. “My uncle drives one. He taught me how to drive.”

“Not your dad?”

He makes a noise like his dad made earlier. A grunt that seems to say so much, but I’m not sure what it means yet.

“I told you about my mom,” I say, like fair is fair.

He says nothing, but his hand squeezes the wheel. The short sleeve on his shirt strains with it. It hugs his chest but is loose around his waist.

“Ooo-kay.” I take a deep breath and say nothing else. He owes me nothing. I told him that on my own. And I know how hard it is to talk about things like that. Even if he refuses to admit it, there’s a story between him and Michele. Just because a parent doesn’t leave, it doesn’t mean there can’t be hurt there too.

Sonny comes to mind. I grunt, just like Lilo had.

He gives me a side-eye glance, but he turns it too fast for me to meet it.

He clears his throat a few blocks from my house. “That meal won’t last you longer than tonight.”

“It’ll last me a month,” I say, not sure if I mean it literally or not. I want to unbuckle my jeans because my stomach is hurting. It feels like a balloon filled with too much air. I don’t throw up my food or anything like that after I eat, but all the richness has me craving some alone time in the bathroom.

The thought makes me feel hot. I hope he can’t read my mind. If he can, I willdiefrom embarrassment. I usually don’t care about people or what they think of me. But him? He has all my cares, even if I’m not sure why.

He says nothing else until we turn down my street. He asks which house is mine. I point and he pulls up to the curb. I’m not sure what to say, except for thanks for the food and for the ride, and I reach for the handle. His arm moves like a strike of lightning in the darkness and snatches my shirt.

I gasp, not expecting it. Not expecting the power of him. It really has nothing to do with his actual strength, but what he does to me when he touches me. When his skin touches mine…it might go beyond euphoria and straight into a heart attack. I’m thankful there’s a thin shirt between me and him.

When I turn my face, his is so close to mine, I inhale from the proximity. I breathe him in without meaning to. I’m wondering if this is how it starts with addicts. That very moment when they take the first hit and become dependent. Become sick without the euphoria rushing through their veins.

He still has my shirt in his grip. Our faces are still a kiss apart. His eyes glisten. He licks his lips. My body is turned awkwardly, so is my heart, but I’m still breathing him in. I refuse to move. Anticipating the hit. So afraid of it but so ready for it.

“You’ll eat,” he says, his voice rough.

“You don’t even know me,” I say, my eyes at odds with the mood. They feel frantic. Pinging up and down. I can’t decide whether to meet his stare or try to bite his lip.

“I know you,” he says. “I know everything about you.”

“How?” I say dumbly. Because I’m lost. So lost.

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