CHAPTER
ELEVEN
“A quick temper will make a fool of you soon enough.”
~Bruce Lee
“Let it out, Scarlett,” he uttered, a deep rumble that came wetly out of his throat as he tried to hold back his own tears. “I know it hurts. Believe me, I know.”
Gram was in her eighties, so this should not have come as such a shock.
Of course I knew she wasn’t immortal, but something about her, her spirit I supposed, had always seemed, always felt so indestructible to me.
“I know it hurts,” Dante murmured into the top of my shaking head. “Believe me, I know,” he repeated.
I went from shaking to seizing up, body going stiff as a board.
God, I was an inconsiderate bitch. Of course it hurt. And not just me.
I hated Dante like aspiring actresses hate cupcakes, but Gram was Dante’s grandmother and not my own, and here I was forcing him to comfort me.
“I’m s-s-s-so s-s-s-sorry, D-d-d-dante,” I stammered out.
My eyes shut in horror, eyes burning as the hot lids made contact with each other. I felt my skin flushing. I didn’t have to look to know I was red with shame. Worse than crying even, my dreaded stutter from childhood had emerged.
A little noise escaped from his throat, a little pained, distressed mewl that I knew was a direct reaction to the re-emergence of my despised stutter.
Great, now he was feeling sorry for me, which was the thing I hated the most.
I tried to pull myself together, shifting away slightly to look up at him.
My eyes darted quickly away at what I saw. I couldn’t take his unguarded expression.
Could not handle what it did to the traitorous organ that was trying to pound its way out of my chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” My voice came out small and faint, but far steadier than I felt.
“You think it was easy to tell you? You think I wanted to? You were determined to distract me, and I was just as determined to let you. I didn’t think I’d pass out like that when we were . . . finished.”
“You were drunk.”
“Well, yes. My drunk brain didn’t realize it was doing drunk things, but as you well know, sober or senseless, I wasn’t about to turn that down.”
My only excuse was that his unguarded expression had taken down some of my own defenses, but at his words, I felt myself blush. It was inexcusable, even under the circumstances.
I pushed away from him, and he let me, going back to perch on the edge of my bed, facing me. I could feel his eyes on my face. Mine stayed on his shoes.
“Was she by herself when she had the stroke?” I asked him, voice trembling, body trembling. I couldn’t bear the thought of that, of her dying alone.
“Yes. Staff found her after she’d already passed.”
I took deep breaths, still fighting the good fight against hated tears. “When is the funeral?”
“Day after tomorrow. I already booked your flight home.” If I could have found the composure or the breath, I’d have pointed out that that dreaded little town was not my home, but I couldn’t find either.
“I took care of everything, actually,” he continued. “I’ll email you the info. Sit down, Scarlett, before you fall down.
I tried again to look at him, glancing up briefly, eyes again darting quickly away at what I saw.
That face. Those eyes that saw everything I wanted to hide. No, I still couldn’t take it. Not at all. Not even close.
A fierce whisper escaped him, one that carried across the room and hit me straight in the gut, “Come here.”
Every clenched part of me seemed to break at once, and I didn’t even feel myself move, didn’t even will it, but one moment I was standing several feet away from him, and the next I was in his arms, sobbing like the broken child that Gram had always tried so hard to fix.
I cried for what felt like hours, until my soul felt scraped raw, and he was there with me, arms around me, face in my hair, legs tangled with mine.
We had melded ourselves so close together in our mourning that it felt like there was only one of us.
After a time, a whisper came out of him, one that ached, and I ached with it, “I couldn’t believe it at first either. Didn’t want to. Still don’t.”
I opened my mouth to say something, what I wasn’t even sure, but the sound of the doorbell ringing again distracted me.
“You expecting anybody?” Dante murmured into my hair.
I sighed. “No. I’m sure it’s for Demi. She’s a social creature. Makes friends everywhere. Has people over constantly.” As I spoke, I realized I was babbling into his chest, and I straightened. Having a weak moment was one thing. Lingering at it was another.
I stood, turned my back on him, and took two decisive, necessary steps away. I didn’t know what to say to him, what to do with myself, but I knew I couldn’t wallow in his arms for another fragile second.
We were both silent for a solid minute and then another. I stared at the wall, my shoulders hunched, fists clenched.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I turned around to look at him again.
His gaze was so warm on me—tender—and I didn’t know what to do with how that made me feel. He hadn’t had that warmth in his eyes for me in years. I’d made sure he had no reason to. Gone to drastic measures to make sure.
Why was he looking at me like that now? Shared grief? Rekindled feeling?
“Stop looking at me like that,” I told him slowly, reproach in every syllable of every word.
“Like what?”
“You know.”
“You think I can help it?” he countered softly. “When could I ever help it?”
I lost my breath. No, he’d knocked it out of me.
This was the problem with fighting Dante. I got in my jabs, loudly and often, but it only took one good hit from him and I was stripped of my defenses. A few sentences out of his gorgeous, manipulative mouth and I lost the whole fucking round.
K.O. Done.
He needed to leave now.
I opened my mouth to tell him so, but just then there was a soft knock at my bedroom door.
“Scar dear, your boyfriend is here,” Demi’s concerned voice called.
My eyes were still on Dante’s, so I saw the moment when the warmth left them, watched unblinking as all tenderness was sucked out and replaced by something else.
Something cold and dark and all too familiar.
I told myself I was relieved at the change. I almost believed it.
“Boyfriend?” he uttered softly, his voice rumbling and low, a distant clap of thunder, the way it got when he was on the edge of losing his temper.
Oh yes, he had a famous temper like me, though his was harder to provoke.
My own temper was quick to ignite and could be indiscriminately destructive but his was just as terrible of a thing to behold when things went south.
A small but powerful thrill moved through me.
Our eyes were still locked as I called back to Demi, “I’ll be out in just a second, hun.”
“Boyfriend?” he repeated quietly, punching it out in a dangerous clip, the thunder closer to the surface now, eyes going black as he began in earnest to lose the battle with the storm inside of himself.
I firmed my jaw and squared off against him. It was almost easy for me to deal with him angry. Familiar, safe ground. Enjoyable, even. A much needed distraction. “You should go, Dante.”
“Does he know I fucked you last night?” He did not say this quietly. He said it loud enough to be heard, and not just by me.
I felt my nipples tighten, a slow, familiar throb starting up between my thighs.
I was a perverse creature and his jealous rages had always turned me on.
My mouth twisted in something not quite a smile.
Predictably, it set him off. “Does your boyfriend know I rode you bareback last night?” He said this even less quietly, voice pitched to be heard across the large apartment.
It was an effort to keep from showing any reaction to his increasing hostility. “Your jealousy is showing,” I pointed out evenly.
He shook his head, lip curling as he spoke, “It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Does he know what happened between us last night?”
“Does it matter?”
A shudder moved through his big, agitated body.
I tried not to shudder at the sight of it. I was in a state.
“I can’t believe you,” he gritted out.
“Can’t you?” I countered, voice steady, pulse not so much.
He stood abruptly. “I’m leaving. As I said before, I’ll email you the details of your travel arrangements.”
He hadn’t had to do that, arrange it all for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to thank him. “When do I leave?”
“The day after tomorrow. Early.”
“Fine.”
His lip curled. “Fine,” he clipped back and strode from the room.