Deep(11)
“You’re not a skinny vegan type.”
She didn’t take offense at all. She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, but again he could read her clearly, and she wasn’t one of those women who collapsed into a puddle of needy insecurity at any kind of comment that wasn’t an affirmation of their perfection.
Her answer was clear and confident. “Health and strength isn’t about being thin. It took me a long time to believe that, but now I more than believe it. I know it’s true. So, no, I’m not skinny. I’m a hundred times healthier now than when I was skinny. Or when I was fat. I’m strong and fit.” She gave him a smirk—more sass. “Limber, too.”
It was a good answer. And she wasn’t fat. She was—he didn’t know how to describe it. He’d say ‘average,’ but that didn’t feel right. Her shape was somehow better than average in a way he could see but not explain. She fit her clothes really well—that was as close as he could get.
He had an impulse to take hold of her ass. He could get there, too. But he wouldn’t.
When he cocked his head at her, conceding her point, she misread him and thought he was humoring her. “What, you want to arm wrestle?” She made a fist and flexed her bicep. Her muscle tone was obvious. And she had a tattoo on the inside of her right wrist—two feathers, light and delicate.
“No need.” He finished his ale. “I believe you.”
“Good.” She walked past him, around the dividing counter, and into his living room. “Your place is nice. Bigger than mine.” She gestured with her half-empty bottle toward the interior wall of glass, separating the living room from his office. “I like that—did you take the wall down, or was it an option when you bought?”
It was one thing to chat as a means to get a read on someone, but Nick had no use for purposeless chatter, and it seemed to him now that she was simply stalling. She wore her interest in him like a flashing red sign over her head. He was attracted, too, surprisingly so. He had two choices here: exploit that and fuck her, or send her on her way.
Though he wanted to get his hands on those tits, that ass, he hadn’t cut ties with Vanessa yet, and cheating was some messy bullshit that he did not need in his life. He’d cleaned up many a mess for Pagano Brothers men whose wives and comares had crashed together. He had only a mistress, no wife, but he didn’t need the drama. And Beverly lived across the hall. That was drama with a bonus package.
So there was only one choice, then. “It’s time for you to go.”
Surprise was clear in the way she spun back to him. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to overstay.” She was blushing again, and Nick had a moment of regret for his plain speaking.
“Finish your beer first.”
She handed him the bottle. “It’s India Pale Ale, remember? And I don’t like it that much. Okay, well, I’ll see you in the hallway, then.” She went to the front door, and he didn’t follow her to see her out—it was only about fifteen feet. As she opened the door she turned back and smiled. Still beautiful, but the light was a bit dimmer than earlier. “Good night, Nick. Thanks again for the help.”
“Good night, Beverly. You’re welcome.”
She left, and he finished her IPA. Then he picked up his glass of scotch and continued his evening as he’d expected. Alone.
~oOo~
Early the next afternoon, Jimmy parked Nick’s SUV along a broken curb on a weedy street near the Providence Harbor. Most of the lots had been taken over by slapdash commercial interests; the few residences left were little more than squats. The Paganos kept one of the old houses for a certain kind of work. They had other locations for similar work—storage lockers, a seemingly abandoned warehouse, an old barn. Nick chose the location based upon the subject.
He used to choose the location. Now, because he had refused to offer up any name but Brian Notaro’s as his replacement, and Ben had cleaved to tradition and refused to promote a half-blooded Italian, J.J. Nicci, Julie’s son, was capo in charge of enforcement and information. Nick thought it was a bad fit, not least because J.J. had no interrogation experience. He was a knee-capper, with no finesse. But Julie had fought hard for his son, and he’d hit the right chord with Don Pagano.
Nick was keeping tabs, because he thought the don had made a mistake.
J.J. had brought the subject here, and that was stupid. They were only blocks from the guy’s own turf.
Jimmy got out, buttoning his jacket as he walked around the car and opened Nick’s door. It was a small thing, but this was a way that extra security rubbed at Nick—not even opening his own door. He felt the restraint as if it were an actual leash. No point in bitching about it, however; it was necessary, and this location was unstable. He got out and buttoned his jacket, appreciating the weight of his Beretta under his arm. Brian was already out and getting a kit from the back of the SUV.