The sound of heels clip-clopping on the shiny marble forces me to look away from the disappointment and confusion on Evans’ face.
“Tony spared no expense on the alcohol and you two were upstairs, fucking,” Isabella’s voice is full of entertainment as she comes up behind Evan. She's got a bottle of champagne in each hand. When she sees me, and I mean really perceives my discomfort, her face drenches with worry. Upon noticing Grayson starting for the double doors at the front of the house, she gasps.
“Oh, shit, I thought my ma was giving the bitch the twenty-one questions to size him up against Vinny. Had I known, I woulda kept 'em preoccupied. Brat, what happened?”
Evan begins to speak Italian. Whatever he's said has Isabella giving me a friendly grin and hug.
“What are you talking about?” I ask still in a daze as she smothers me in that large bosom of hers.
“I'm taking you home,” Evan scoops me up before I can flinch to his touch.
We end up at my place. The chair in my bedroom which was once the focal point of his erotic fantasy fleshed out has become his chair once more. I sit on the edge of bed. But neither of us is in the mood.
I'm gnawing on my lip when Evan asks, “What did I do?”
His eyes are so similar like my father’s. A warm gold, like the sun as it peeks over the horizon in the summertime. And yes, his eyes were like my father’s when they stormed a dark-brown full of anger. My gaze must be shining with bewilderment because his pleasing lips form a straight line. He won't ask again.
“You reminded me of Milo.” I murmur.
His eyebrow rises, yet curiosity and jealousy are equally weighed.
Like a child, my throat sinks so heavily that I barely croak out, “Milo was my father.”
And because Evan has always taken an open stance with me, I decide to be real with him too… as real as I can be. I tell Evan all of the bad stuff. Like being five years old and understanding that you don't touch pa’s fairy dust. Even Lolita hated when he sniffed it. Furthermore, you go hide under your twenty-thousand-dollar canopy bed because once he's loaded, he's fucking gone. He's no longer dad.
I didn't tell Evan the super bad stuff. Like how Milo got a taste for kilos of cocaine during many drug busts. Or how after the "good" guys, with their badges came by and left, the bad guys who goof around and speak Italian would come by and they'd rehash some of the stuff pa went over with his cop buddies.
It's not that I didn't want Evan to know. I just wanted to continue to see the look of love in my stepbrother’s eyes afterwards. Besides, Milo is dead.
Somehow, we’ve ended up spooning. It’s comforting being in the safe haven of his arms, and not having to look in Evan’s face as I purge is truly a stress reliever. For some reason, I tell Evan about growing up with guns all over the house. And even show him the snub-nose in my top drawer.
“There’s more where that came from.”
Evan smiles, as I glance back at him. He rubs the hair from my forehead and bestows it with a kiss. “That’s good. I want you to be safe.”
“If there was one thing my dad taught me, I know how to pull the trigger.”
Instead of asking more, we’re comfortable in the silence, entwined in each other. Evan’s bulging biceps become my comforter, my anchor to sanity as I rationalize the love I have for my father.
“One day, Milo, mom and I are taking a road trip up Pacific Coast Highway, sightseeing, stopping at every beach and determining which ice cream stand was the best. The next day, Milo’s high as a fucking kite or… gone. He probably was gone for a few months at a time, but as a kid, just a day away lasted for a lifetime. I don’t know what I hated more: the length of time or not knowing the next time I’d see my father.” I pause to lick my lips. “People hated the air he breathed, Evan. I was ten years old, worried that someone might act on their personal vendetta. Or,” I shiver in Evan’s arms, “Or watching him beat a guy to a bloody pulp for no reason at all scared the shit outta me.” I sigh, my feelings about Milo running hot and cold. “He probably was the worst dad anybody could ever have… Maybe not the worst.”
“I'm sure Milo loved you in his own way,” Evans deep voice ribbons out, embracing me. A part of me wants to observe what he sees. “Some men love only the best way they know how.”
I turn to face him. Evan’s rough fingertips softly graze my forehead as he pushes away tendrils of hair. He has this fetish with kissing places that aren’t even sexy, which make my entire body melt. His lips land against my fluttery eyelashes.
“Oh? You don't believe me, Reese's Pieces,” Evan says since I hadn’t responded to his theory. “My dad raised me right. How do I treat you?”
“You love me selfishly,” I say giving a wry smile, while hoping to God he can’t read me right now.
“Indeed, I am in love with you.”
My heart ceases to beat for a moment. He said… Oh God, he said those very bad, bad words. But I DID say…
“Reese, I’m in love with you.”
I lick my lips in thought. “It’s just a dumb word, Evan. I love baking, I love the Canadian singer, Feist, who the entire world should know but doesn’t…”
Evan’s hands push the hair from my forehead once more. He has this innate ability, almost hypnotic really, which brings my eyes to his.
