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“I want to know why you’re not acting like you usually do.”
“Is that what you want?”
His voice is low, and his eyes are fixed on my face. His body tenses up like he’s going to hit me.
My lips part. I don’t know what I’m going to say.
I don’t get the chance to say anything.
Nero closes the space between us in an instant.
His lips crash against mine. They’re soft, but also hungry. He kisses me wildly, like this is the last moment of our lives. His tongue thrusts into my mouth and his taste is as intoxicating as the liquor, rich and warm and head-spinning. His hands are locked around my face, fingers like iron. The music is still playing:
Sober — G-Eazy
Spotify → geni.us/savage-lover-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/savage-lover-apple
He’s sucking the breath right out of my lungs. He might be pulling my soul out, too, if he really is a demon that feeds on the lust of women.
I don’t care if he is. My heart is pounding, my whole body is aching with need.
I want him, I want him, I want him.
Then he lets go of me, just as abruptly.
He sits back in his seat. “There,” he says.
I’m shocked and reeling, lips still throbbing.
He’s still as a statue, feeling nothing at all. That was just a joke to him—giving me a taste of what he can turn on and off at will.
I can’t turn it off. My thighs are clenched tight together, my whole body screaming for more.
“We can go,” Nero says. “Cops probably gave up by now.”
He starts the engine, still not looking at me. Probably because there’s desperation all over my face, and it’s embarrassing to him.
“Are you sober enough to drive?” I say.
“Yes,” he says, putting the car in reverse. “I’d have to drink that whole bottle to feel anything at all.”
He’s right. Malt liquor isn’t that strong.
I wish I could blame this on being drunk. I wish I could blackout and forget it all in the morning.
8
NERO
We’re meeting with the Griffins today to talk about the South Shore development.
We meet at The Brass Anchor, which has become our regular spot, since that first night where Papa and Fergus Griffin had to negotiate on neutral ground to avoid an all-out war.
We all waited in our cars that night, Papa and Fergus approaching each other in front of the double doors, stiff and formal. Today the mood is completely different. Papa shakes hands with Fergus like he does with all his old friends, gripping Fergus’s elbow with his opposite hand, then clapping him hard on the shoulder as he releases him.
“You’re looking well, Fergus,” Papa says. “Tell me how you never age. Is there formaldehyde in that Irish whiskey?”
