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His eyes searched mine for something before he moved back a step or two, his sight dropping to his shoes.
“You’re the signora’s nephew. I must take care of you for her.”
Ouch. That stung nearly as bad as the goose pinch. Was he being nice to me just because he felt that he had to be? No, no, that kiss to the calf was not part of any kind of good employee boon.
“I’m sure she appreciates it,” I muttered, leaning back to let him slide his leg over the seat. When he was settled, I snuggled in close, my nose on the nape of his neck, my chest flat to his back. “I appreciate it even more.”
The fine hairs on his neck rose. He said nothing as I encircled his waist, my hands resting flat on his hard stomach. The bike coughed twice, then rolled over. I hugged him tightly as we sped off, the tone of the outing now very different. We’d gone about a mile when we found ourselves moving into the city proper. I cinched myself even closer to Donvino as the traffic grew denser. We joined a pack of motorbikes for a moment, then pulled ahead, our Suzuki weaving in and out of cars so quickly I couldn’t bear to watch. I pushed my nose into his nape.
“Don’t be scared,” his warm voice filled my ears. Little did he know I was always scared when on anything that did not have four wheels and a steel frame around me. “We are good.” We pulled up to a traffic light. His feet went to the ground. I picked up my head. We were on a long street with massive trees planted in the middle. On each side were apartment buildings in various shades of tan, yellow, and light pink. Some were white. All pale colors to reflect the heat, I assumed. Windows with shutters that opened up instead of sideways stood open, patios filled with plants seemed to go with every unit, and short clotheslines could be seen under most windows or attached to the balconies. Tiny bits of clothing danced in the hot wind.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” I murmured after we passed a row of large recycle bins along the curb, one of many I’d spied. Donvino chuckled. I snuggled in a bit closer, sighing at the feel of a big man in my arms. The light flicked to green. The person in front of us didn’t move immediately and Donvino, along with seven or eight other people, hit their horns while yelling what I had to assume was “Move it, asshole!” in Italian. Wow. And I thought American drivers were speed demons. We zoomed around the pokey guy in a Panda, narrowly missing a woman in a business suit streaking past on a Vespa.
“Four more blocks.” Static. “Good club nearby.” Static. “Top DJ in area.” Static. “Italian pines.”
We sailed through a yellow light, picked up a turnaround, sped into that with four other maniacs on scooters, and then flew around a delivery truck trying to back up in a street that was barely wide enough for a baby stroller let alone the cars parked on each side of the road. Donvino gave the bike some gas. I yelped, and we whipped around the truck. The driver shouted something that I was sure was not complimentary.
“I’m going to die,” I whimpered, then tensed when we sailed around a woman and two kids who had simply walked out into the road as if traffic would part for her as if she were Moses and the cars were the Red Sea. She called something to us as we moved around her and her offspring. Something that came with a hand gesture that was not a polite wave. “Oh my God, I am going to die!”
“No, no dying, is fine. Hold tight.”
If I held any tighter, I’d be peeling his skin off his ribcage. We flew around a corner, hit a yellow light that he flew through, took another left, and then eased to the side of the road to park.
Parking, in this case, meant sliding his ride into a skinny slot, made just for motorbikes by the looks. I shook off the terror-induced muscle freeze and removed my skinny ass from that Suzuki as if it were on fire. My ass, not the bike.
“Oh thank all the gods we’re stopped,” I cried out as I wobbled forward two steps and fell to my knees, softly so as not to scrape them, and hugged the sidewalk. Two women walking past with shopping bags spoke sharply to me. A small hairy dog being walked by an old man sniffed my helmet. The old man also spoke sharply to me. I rolled to my back, sniffling in joy, and whispered thanks to any deity who looked over queer boys in corsets on motorbikes. “I’m walking home, hand to God…oh hello, ma’am.”
An older woman, perhaps in her sixties, wearing a green dress with a white apron, stood to my left staring down at me. She spoke to Donvino who, I now saw, was at my feet, helmet off, staring down at me as if perplexed yet amused. Donvino, he of the good humor and to-die-for biceps, was now speaking to the lady in green.
“Signor Arlo,” he started. I sat up, gingerly, for my head was loopy from the near-death ride as well as the goose attack.
“Please, just call me Arlo,” I begged, bringing my legs to my chest and resting my brow on my kneecaps.
“I’m not sure that would be right,” he replied. I shot him an eye roll. He dropped down into a crouch beside me, removed my helmet, and then tipped his head to the side to examine my face.
“It would be more than right. We’re friends, yes?”
That brought him up short, but he did nod. His hair was rather flat, but it looked good on him. I was beginning to think that any kind of hairstyle would flatter the man, he was just that fucking pretty.
“Sì, yes, of course. Friends. Well, Arlo, this is Signora Briffa. She is the assistant to Señorina Capello and is wishing to know if you are suffering a conniption fit. Are you?” He appeared to be a little distressed, the dear thing.
“No, no, I’ll be fine. I just needed to sit down and count my blessings.” I went to stand, remembered my goose bite, twisted my leg to examine it, and gasped. Oh my stars, it was already turning purple, and the skin was torn slightly as if something ragged had sliced into my flesh. “What the hell?! Why does it look like I tried to shave with a bread knife?”
“Geese have serrated beaks,” he explained as he took my elbow and rose.
“What? What on earth? That is the most bizarre thing I have ever heard.” I warily placed my feet on the sidewalk while Signora Briffa kept repeating “medico,” over and over. “No, I’m good, just a little wobbly. No medical, well, perhaps some peroxide and a Band-Aid to keep the germs out of my goose bite. Why do geese have teeth on their bills? That’s just outlandish.”
Donvino finally convinced the tiny chubby Signora Briffa that I was perfectly okay. She kept side-eyeing me as I limped to the front door, a stately brown door set into a soft beige home behind a tallish security gate with hedges on either side. The yard was quite small, just a couple of patches of grass and a neatly trimmed fir with bright marigolds around its base.
“I will be over there,” Donvino said, pausing at the short step leading to the recessed door. “When you have your hour done…” He pointed across the street to a little eatery of some sort. The shop was small, with two tables on either side of the open doorway. “If you need me before the hour, you can call?”
“I don’t have your number.” He slipped his phone out of his back pocket and added my number and I did the same for his. That felt kind of personal. I liked it. “So you’re not going to wait nearby?”
“No, I have tasks to run for my grandmother and Ricci, my boss at the restaurant, but I will be there when you are done. I promise.” He crossed his heart and winked. I wanted to sigh so badly, but I had an impatient maid personal assistant waiting in the door. From within the house, I could hear a small dog barking. Which was fine. I usually got along well with all animals. They could sense that I was a compassionate and delicate spirit. “Now go learn. We will practice on the way home. Soon your Italian will be as magnifico as my English.”
I smiled widely, wishing I could peck his cheek. My perfectly trimmed scruff rubbing against his wild whiskers would be divine. The small dog’s barking grew louder. Signora Briffa herded me into the home, slammed the door, and then caught what appeared to be a mangy raccoon as it launched itself at my leg. Signora Briffa was quick. I had to give her that. She scolded the hairless Chihuahua soundly, then glanced back at me, snarling dog under her arm, to jerk her chin at the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Grazie,” I said as I made a wide berth around the mutant mutt. I glanced upward. The stairs were narrow, dimly lit, and crafted out of dark wood.
