Outside, she’s waiting by my car. I guess she’s decided I can be trusted far enough to drive her somewhere this time. That’s a good development. As I approach, she leans that hot ass against the car door and crosses her arms over her chest. Gives me a look.
“Where are we going?”
I don’t answer her. Instead, I crowd her right up against the car and kiss her. I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw her in the crowd—before. Since the second my mouth slid off hers the last time, two days ago at the gym. There’s been a drought since then. A drought of Jess-sized proportions.
Shit, my brain’s going places it shouldn’t go. I can’t afford to be soft. Not with anyone. Fuck, I don’t even know how. Nobody was ever gentle to me when I was a kid; how the fuck am I supposed to know how to be that way now?
I shove that thought aside. This is enough—her pushed up against me, her tits against my chest. She’s warm, and I can feel her breathing in my embrace. Can feel her heart beating. After a few long, but still too-short seconds, I draw back.
“I was thinking Cartelli’s.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. Cartelli’s is expensive, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve got the money. However, apparently it’s not the money that’s got her panties in a wad.
“Pop’s guys like to go there, you know.”
I shrug. I’d had the same thought; decided I didn’t care. “Well, I’m one of Pop’s guys, am I right?”
Her lips thin—I can tell she wants to say something, but she’s not saying it. I have an idea what it is though.
“Somebody sees us, I’ll deal with it.” I hesitate, drawing hair back away from her face and trying not to smirk. “That’s what you want, anyway, isn’t it? For your dad to know you’re defying him by being with me?”
She just makes a face. Apparently she doesn’t have a defense for her mixed signals. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”
I open the door of the car and make no effort whatsoever not to stare at her ass as she slides into the passenger seat.
#
Cartelli’s is busy—it’s always busy—which is another reason I figured it wouldn’t be that big a deal if we went. What are the chances anybody will see us with so many people moving in and out? Besides, I have to admit I’ve been wanting to see somebody while I have Jessica on my arm. I want to rub somebody’s nose in it.
So why haven’t you? You’ve had the chance.
I shrug that off. The maître d’ knows me, and as soon as he catches sight of me in the doorway, he waves me forward. There’s always a table for me here. One advantage of being an owned man, I guess.
Crooking my elbow toward Jessica, I lead her into the restaurant after the maître d’. Once we’re seated, she takes a quick look around, then slides a little farther back into the booth, where anybody just passing by casually won’t be able to see her clearly. I give her a knowing smile, but I don’t say anything. I’ve ribbed her enough. For now.
“Your eye’s starting to swell up,” she says quietly.
I gently prod the eye in question. It does feel a little puffy, a little sore. “He caught me a good one there.”
“Yeah. It was a hard fight.” She hesitates, as if afraid she might have inadvertently insulted me. “I mean…it looked like it from where I was.”
I’m willing to agree with her though. “You’re not wrong. That guy knew his shit. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to let your pops down again.”
She nods. I wonder if she knows anything about how her father sets up the fights—how he decides when I’m supposed to win and when I’m supposed to lose. How he makes sure the right man is in the ring across from me. It’s a complicated process, I know. And, in the long run, it pays for the pretty clothes she’s wearing, the nice food I’m about to buy for her. My stomach twists a little, nauseated. This is no fucking way for a man to live. It’s like Gladiator. I’m basically just a slave.
“Well, you didn’t let him down.” Her smile looks genuine. She seems off-kilter, though, like something’s bothering her. I wonder if I should ask. Instead, I pick up the menu. Not like I need to. I’ve been here before, and I always order the same thing. Meat. Lots of it. And maybe a little pasta.
Things are quiet for a bit, verging on awkward. Great. So we can fuck nine ways to Sunday, but we can’t have a conversation? I’m not sure why that bothers me. Not that it matters. Not like having a conversation is high on our priority list. A waiter comes by, brings my usual bottle of wine and jots down my order, and then asks Jess what she wants. She orders one of those barely food things—pasta with vegetables and a salad. No meat. Pointless, I think, like decaffeinated coffee.
On the other hand, if it keeps her looking like that…
She must sense the way I’m scraping my eyes over her tits, because she gives me a look as the waiter departs. “Is there a problem?”
I grin. “Oh no. Not at all.” I lean forward. “I was just thinking how good your tits look right now.”
“Nice.” Her tone isn’t impressed, but her lips curve ever so slightly.
I just chuckle at her. “So. What have you been up to lately? Anything interesting?” I might as well act like I care as long as she’s here, right?
It seems like an innocent, polite sort of question, but her hands come together in front of her on the table, her fingers tangling with one another, and her shoulders go a little tight. Not innocent at all. And I was right. Something’s bugging her.
“I’ve been busy. Studying mostly.”
“Oh?” I take a drink of the wine and it slides hot into my stomach. That’s going to make me horny. Not that I’m not already horny. I might want to be careful with that tonight though. I wonder how the night might shape up. Getting Jessica off somewhere I can get her naked might be a little trickier than it has been in the past.
I shake my head and remind myself of what we’re talking about. “Studying?” I repeat. “What are you studying?”
She shakes her head a little. “It doesn’t matter.”
Holy fuck, she’s about to cry.
I see tears along the edges of her eyes. I reach out to lay a hand over hers, and she looks up into my face. Yes. She’s trying so hard not to cry. “What’s wrong, Jess?” I’m surprised at the way my voice sounds—gentle, concerned. And my chest hurts a little. The asshole in the ring must have hit me there.
“It’s nothing. Really.”
“No. Tell me.”
She takes a shuddery breath and uses the back of one finger to shove tears away from her eye. “Dammit,” she mutters, and then she’s quiet for a second before she goes on. “I’m trying to get into UCLA to get a Master’s degree. I want to be a PA.”
“PA?”
“Physician’s assistant.”
“Ah.” I laugh. “I should know that—I see enough doctors.”
I’m happy when she laughs back. Maybe she’s lightening up a little. I hope so.
“Anyway, it’s an advanced degree, and I need to take some classes before I can qualify, so I’m doing some classes online.”
“That’s cool.” It is cool. I have to say, I admire anybody who works to better themselves like that. God knows I never had the chance. Straight from my last foster home into my current career, if you want to call it that. Fighting was the only thing that kept me out of juvie in my teenage years, I’m pretty sure. Although it nearly got me into juvie once or twice, but that’s another story. “Good for you.”
Her lips tighten. “I wish Pop felt that way.”
Ah. The heart of the matter. “He doesn’t want you studying?”
“He didn’t really want me to go to college in the first place. It was just ‘the thing to do.’” I’ve never seen such sarcastic air quotes in my life. “Now I’m supposed to shut up, sit down, be a proper little lady, and marry the guy he’s picked out for me. And that’s it. Nothing else.”
“Be a proper little mob girl.”
“Exactly.” She shudders out another breath. “God. I’m sorry, Cain. I didn’t want to be this way tonight. I just wanted to see you…have some fun.”
I mull her words. She’s probably telling the truth, but I can’t help but think there’s more to it. She might not even realize it herself. “You just wanted to get out of the house.” And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
“Well, yeah, you could say that.” She starts to add something else, but the waiter returns and drops off our food. Jessica’s plate of angel hair pasta, chopped tomato, and olive oil barely looks like enough to feed a kid. Me? I’ve got a slab of steak the size of my head.
The waiter tops off our wineglasses and departs. I dig into the steak—medium rare and perfect as usual. Jessica seems to gather herself and takes a few bites of salad then samples the pasta.
“You know…” I venture after a moment. “I can barely stand being around your dad. It must be hell having to live with him.”
She shakes her head. “You have no idea.”