Chapter 16

Kennedy

 

“What was your childhood like in the city?” I ask.

Joey chews a bite of Kung Pao Chicken, his eyes thoughtful as he considers his answer. “I had a great childhood. I mean, nothing is perfect, but my life was pretty damn close. My parents moved here from Italy soon after they married, and Dad worked his way into construction and eventually became a partner. Mom stayed home with us and made huge Italian feasts every night. Every night.” He lifts his chin as he says it again. “Lasagnas and baked ziti. Homemade pastas and beef dishes you wouldn’t believe. We played hard, and we then paid for it each Sunday in church.” He smiles, closing his eyes. His dark, inky eyelashes fan across his high cheekbones.

“Can you speak Italian?”

He shrugs. “I can understand it a lot better than I speak it. But Italian isn’t just a language; it’s a culture—a way of life. We’re loud and bossy, and we’re super protective over each other. If someone messes with one of us”—he lifts his hand holding the fork and draws a circle in the air—“they mess with all of us. We live our lives unforgivably and do everything one hundred percent.”

“Isn’t that scary sometimes? I mean, don’t you ever worry you might make the wrong decision?”

Joey moves his head close to his shoulder, as though weighing my question. “Life is so short. If I consider every one of my actions, I won’t have time to do all of them.”

“I get that, but don’t you worry about getting hurt? Whether it’s your pride or your heart or even a physical pain, because you thought it sounded fun to do something dangerous.”

He swallows and looks up, attentive as he waits for me to meet his gaze. “Life isn’t about being comfortable. It’s supposed to hurt. If it were painless and easy, we’d forget why we fight so hard to live.”

I’m pretty certain my heart is soaring right now, looking for a landing place far outside of my own body. And the longer Joey continues staring at me—silently imploring me to understand and believe this foreign philosophy that is so inviting to me—the harder it is for me to focus on reeling it back in.

“You said Violet made it into town?”

Joey’s question has me thinking about Violet sitting in my parents’ living room with my family and Jackson. “I’m sure she’s missing Boston right now,” I say, laughing.

“This strange little town has a way of making me forget why I prefer living in the city. I don’t doubt she’s experiencing something similar.”

“What impacts how much longer you’re here?”

He sucks in a deep breath. “I’m here because I violated orders, which constitutes as insubordination. So Internal Affairs is involved, and they’re still reviewing my actions and deciding on what will happen.”

“Is that why you’ve been taken off the case?”

Joey swiftly shakes his head. He stops and then swallows. “It’s because I couldn’t back away from it.”

My eyes grow large with surprise. I never considered that to be the situation. “Will you be in trouble?”

“Likely. But who knows what that will look like. It’s my first black mark, but it’s a hefty one.”

“I can’t believe that! The guy is a monster! Why wouldn’t they want everyone focusing on him?” I ask.

“Because when you get really close to a case, it can be very difficult to see it objectively.”

“But you understand him. You’ve studied him.”

Joey shrugs. “I also believe he’s guilty, which has been impeding my ability to look for other answers.”

“How can you be so rational about this?”

His full lips tip into a smirk. “It’s taken some time and a lot of manual labor.” He winks. “I’ve told you, we aren’t known for being super rational. After all, punching a guy in the face is what ultimately led Coen to moving here.”

Joey has an intensity behind him that’s impossible to miss, making it easy for me to imagine him knocking a guy out, but Coen’s friendly demeanor and quick smile make it harder for me to picture him hitting someone.

“Don’t look so shocked. I told you, we’re Italian. If a person fucks with someone we love, there are no holds barred.” He doesn’t appear even slightly apologetic. Irrationally, it bestows a sense of safety and security in me, picturing Joey destroying any potential threats.

The wind howls again, followed closely by a loud crash that echoes and leaves the ground vibrating.

“I think that was a tree.” I stand from the bed and move closer to the window. The rain is too heavy, the skies too dark, but I remain frozen in place when Joey moves behind me. The citrusy scent of his soap and sharpness of his cologne invade my senses before his chest grazes my shoulder. “Hopefully it didn’t do much damage, but we’ll see in the morning.”

In.

The.

Morning.

He’s planning for me to spend the night.

My heart trips over itself, excited and fearful and shocked, but most of all happy. I’m happy to be trapped here in this small room with this man whom I really wanted to hate.

“Do you need something to put your contacts in?” Joey moves beside me, his heat traveling from my shoulder to my arm.

“No. They’ll be fine if I sleep in them.”

“Are you sure? I can go get a glass or something for you to put them in.”

“It’s okay, really.”

We both remain still.

“I have a confession to make,” Joey says.

I turn my head, my interest piqued.

“I didn’t forget my phone at your house.” He states the fact without following it up with a reason.

“You didn’t?”

He shakes his head.

“You made it up because you don’t trust Jackson?”

“Partly.”

“Why else?”

He shrugs. “I wasn’t ready for you to go.” He stares at me patiently, allowing his words to soak beneath the barrier I’ve constructed to keep him away that he’s worn so thin.

Several moments pass before I turn my attention back to the window for a moment before looking back at him. He peers at me with those dark eyes that make my heart race even faster. His lips part, and I lean forward.

Joey takes a deep breath and takes a step back, retreating back to the bed in four strides, where our mostly empty takeout cartons litter the space. Confusion mingles with rejection as I follow him, dumping the mostly empty boxes back into the plastic sack they’d come in. He carries it to the door and places it on the top step leading into the garage, then locks the door behind him.

“Sorry.” He moves to unlock it again. “I wasn’t insinuating anything with that. I just lock it out of habit.” He walks closer, stopping in front of me.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “I don’t think we’ve ever locked our doors.”

“Ever?” His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth, jumping back and forth several times.

I shake my head.

His eyes focus on my lips as I lick them, waiting for him to kiss me. I can feel it. Know how badly he wants to kiss me by the way he stands so close, how his focus keeps landing on my mouth, and how his body keeps angling toward me. I know because I want to kiss him just as badly.

“You have a lot going on right now. I don’t want—”

Before he can continue, I lean forward and kiss him. I don’t want him to remind me that my emotions are high or that I’m confused about where I want to live or what I want to do with my life. All I’m certain of in this moment is that I want to kiss him. Feel him beneath my fingers, and stretch this night as far as it will go.

Joey’s lips don’t hold the same hesitancy his voice had. He slants his mouth over mine, patient and controlled, as he returns the kiss, following my lead.

I wrap my arms around the back of his neck, and he responds by placing his hands on my lower back, pulling me closer so my chest is flush against his. His touch is gentle, resting on the outside of his borrowed T-shirt I’m wearing, distracting me from how perfectly his lips are molded to mine. All I can focus on is feeling his touch.

He looks at me as I take a step back, his lids heavy with lust and his arms outstretched from where they were moments ago holding me.

With steady hands, I grip the hem of the T-shirt he lent me and tug it off, revealing my bathing suit top, which is still damp.

Joey studies my face before slowly lowering his gaze over me. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“I thought you said I look like a librarian.”

He chuckles and reaches for one of the loops on my shorts, where he hooks his forefinger. “Don’t hate me, but I enjoy ruffling your feathers. Your lips purse, and your eyes get all fiery. It’s incredibly sexy.”

I shake my head, trying to stop my lips from pursing. “See? You cause my sour side.”

Joey laughs, pulling me close to him again. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want you to stop. I want you to touch me.”

“Where?” His lips brush mine so lightly, it’s a tease. “Tell me where you want me to touch you, Kennedy.”

“Everywhere.”

Joey’s hand falls from my waist, cupping my ass, and his other weaves into my hair, still tied back in a braid. His chin grazes mine as his lips slide over my mouth, creating a contrast in textures with the roughness of his five-o’clock shadow.

His shirt is cool and soft against my torso, making my skin itch. I reach for the bottom of his tee and pull it up several inches before his hands slowly slide loose from their hold on me and he grabs the bunched fabric, yanking it off with a quick swipe. His skin is bronzed, a dark richness from his heritage that mine can’t reach even in the peak of summer. Muscles carve wide paths to the waist of his gym shorts that I want to run my hands and tongue over. I reach around my back, freeing the small clasp that’s securing my bathing suit. It slides down my arms and falls with a nearly silent hush.

“I’m going to apologize now,” Joey says, running his palm down the center of my body.

I arch my back to his touch. “Apologize for what?”

“You’re not going to get much sleep tonight.” Joey’s hand slides back up, stopping when he reaches the base of my neck. It’s driving me crazy to have him touching me, yet not feel him where I want to.

He makes another pass over my body, and my eyes close, noting the heat radiating from his touch and the way his fingers press and constrict with each movement. Rather than going back up, he changes his path, running his hand under each of my breasts and quietly making a humming sound that has me arching my back farther.

His tongue rolls across my neck, tracing a pattern that connects with every nerve ending in my body.

“I don’t do this,” I tell him. “I mean, I don’t do random one-night hookups. I’m not . . . Are we making a mistake? I . . .” I hate that I asked him—loathe that it might make him stop.

Joey kisses me, silencing my trail of words that likely would have led to a run-on sentence I would have regretted more than the last. He pulls back and lowers his head, running his tongue over my nipple. “I’m not random, and this isn’t a hookup.” He moves to the other side and runs his tongue over me there, too.