By “somebody” I know he means Sal, and all my carefully stoked desire disappears, falling to tatters around me. God, what would Sal do if he walked in here right now and found me damn near fucking Nick? I know damn well what he’d do.
I move back a little, realizing he’s right. “This is a very bad idea.”
“Of course it is.” He takes in my face, almost stroking me with his gaze. Then he reaches up with his free hand—the other one’s still having its way with my nipple, in spite of his protests that we should stop—and runs his thumb over my lips. “Let me take you out somewhere tomorrow. We can go out of the city. Nobody will know.”
My heart leaps, wanting to say yes, but logic takes over. Thank God, because it was sure keeping quiet over the last few minutes. “No. Also a terrible idea. If Sal finds out—”
“He won’t.”
“You can’t guarantee it. And if he does, I’m dead. Or worse.”
His expression sobers. I’ve gotten through to him, at least. I figure he’s finally getting his head around what I’ve been saying, and he’s picturing me lying on the ground covered in bruises, bleeding out of my mouth, limbs broken. Or something equally hideous. He can probably get as imaginative as he wants and not be far from the truth.
“I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
I shake my head. I’d love to believe him, but I know how these things work. “You can’t promise that. You know that.”
“Nothing and nobody is going to get to you if you’re with me.”
His voice is low and earnest and damn near persuasive, but I shake my head again.
“No, Nick. This can’t happen. As much as I hate it, I’m Sal’s. Probably always will be, and not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“There’s always something you can do about it.”
“Not this time.” I draw back from him, pulling my shirt back into place. His hand slides away from my breast, and I immediately want it back where it was. “I’m sorry, Nick.”
“So am I.” He leans forward and kisses me again, long, deep, searching. I whimper, reaching up to comb my fingers through his hair. When he’s done, he stands there for what feels like an eternity, just looking at my face, into my eyes.
Finally he steps away. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, fishes out a business card, and hands it to me. “Call me if you change your mind.” As I take the card, he adds, “Hell, call me if you don’t change your mind. Call me if Sal tries to hurt you. Call me if you’re lonely. Call me if you just want to say hi.”
He leans forward and kisses me again, quick and gentle this time. When he heads back to the front of the store, I slide down off the counter. I hear the door close behind him, and when I make my way back out to the front, he’s gone, and so are the boxes of pastries. He’s left two hundred-dollar bills next to the cash register—double what he actually owed.
I pick them up and ring out the order then pull all the money out to count it for my end-of-day routine.
Time to go back to real life.
#
Back home, Sal’s returned; his car’s in the garage, and there are lights on in the house that were turned off when I left. Everything still smells like spaghetti sauce. Though I’d prefer to avoid him, I head for the kitchen, figuring Sal’s in there eating his dinner. I hope he’s enjoying the extra spices in his sauce.
Sure enough, he’s at the table shoveling down spaghetti like there’s no tomorrow. The dog sits at his feet, watching hopefully, hoping Sal will drop something or pass him a noodle or something. I’d think he developed a taste for the sauce after I gave him that sample, but the truth is that dog will beg for anything. If you’re eating it, he wants to be eating it.
He’s a good dog. He deserves better than Sal. So do I.
“Sarah,” Sal says when I walk into the dining room. “About time you got home. Join me for dinner?”
I hold back the sneer I’d like to show him. No. You eat your dog-spit-infused spaghetti sauce all on your own. I’ll be fine. “No, thanks,” I say out loud. “I’m not really hungry.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Probably for the best, anyway.”
I grind my teeth. I know better than to ask him what he means by that. He’ll tell me I’ve been eating too many of my own pastries, or that my muffin top is getting out of hand. I don’t want to hear it. So I say nothing and watch him take another big forkful of his spaghetti. The dog has started to drool.
“So how was business today?” he finally says. I figure he gave up on waiting for me to rise to his bait about my not eating.