Delusive (37 page)

“
Há mais alguma coisa que possa fazer por si, Sr. Cari
?”
 

“
Certifique-se de que o meu tio Silvio recebe isto
,” Elias replied.

“
Ele está à espera
?”

“
Está… é um pequeno presente para lhe agradecer antecipadamente
.”

The rapid exchange in Portuguese was quickly ended when the waiter seemed all too happy to take the letter-sized, thick manila envelope that Elias handed to him.

I stared at the manila envelope with curiosity, wondering who it was for and what it was as it disappeared along with the waiter.

“If you don’t mind,” he began, watching the waiter walk away together with me, “I’d like to skip the walk to the Our Lady of Mareantes Chapel and just go home.”

My hopeful mood dropped as quickly as my fork. “I shouldn’t have assumed with what happened—I’m sorry if you think I’m going too fast.”

“I’m glad you realize you are going too fast.”

“Excuse me,” I rasped, lifting up from the table. “My stomach is still a little sour. I’ll meet you at the car.”

He stood like a gentleman, his eyes burning into me while I left the table. I flitted around the tables, making my way to the restroom in the back of the restaurant.
 

I stared into the mirror, looking at a woman who looked much better than she had the past few days. I forewent the flat iron, allowing my natural curls to show, and styled my hair up in a neat bun.
 

But what was behind my kohl-rimmed eyes told the truth—I was exhausted.
 

I picked through my clutch, thumbing the two phones I had and picked up my burner phone. I tucked my black eyelet halter sundress underneath my legs and hopped up to sit on the sink vanity. I pressed the two key and held it.

“Yes?” my father’s tired voice rang out after the third ring.

“Dad, it’s me.”

“Hanley?” He released a sigh of relaxation. “I’ve been so worried about you. Where did you disappear to? We made plans to leave and you just abandoned me.” There was something in his voice. A sadness so heavy it was palpable enough to touch.
 

“I’m still going through with it, or trying to. I hit a roadblock just now, but I’m sure it’s his denial.”

“I read about something in the papers. A fire on Fletcher. Did it have something to do with you?”

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, thinking of Milton. I lured him into orchestrating the ordeal for more than one reason. While it seemed the primary reason was a failure, the second would be found out in the—hopefully—near future. The problem was I couldn’t have one with the other.
 

It was a complete miss in bringing Elias and me closer. I thought it would make Elias realize a few things and easily push our relationship to the next level. I also hoped it would change the dynamic of the relationship with his parents and their “businesses.”

Milton went off the plan I gave him, thinking he was going against me. I expected him to. He did almost everything exactly as I knew he would. What I didn’t expect was for Skylar to be involved, the replacement of diluted heroin for the black tar version, nor for it to end in the mass murder of people.

I needed a push to make Elias realize the full extent of his feelings for me. I wanted the threat of death to make him think he couldn’t live without me and to take the next step in our relationship. It appeared I was wrong to think it would’ve done anything. The feelings he held toward me leaned more toward obsession than love. While I hoped I could continue to confuse him into thinking the latter, it just proved to be another dead end.
 

Te-amo
was just an expression to manipulate me when I wanted to give up. I couldn’t help but think Elias didn’t love me yet. I wasn’t sure if it had purely been my insecurity, if it really was the truth and his inexperience with knowing how to show love correctly (at all times) reared its ugly head, or if he lied to me about feeling that way.

“I want to talk about you,” I said. “You sound”—
depressed
— “distant.”

His exhale was audible. “Why did you run off to him when I warned you that he knows the truth?”

“Because I don’t believe he does.” The knock on the locked bathroom door startled me. A woman speaking in the native language said a few things I couldn’t understand. “Please don’t do anything rash,” I pleaded with him. “Are things working out with the new nurse?”

“She’s fine. She does her job better than the last one.”

I relaxed, perceiving what he said as true, because he thought the nurse was for Frankie and not him like he usually did. The moment the nurses made it clear who they were really there for, my father began to fall apart. “As soon as I get back to the States, I’ll come see you, Dad. We need to talk.”

“To the States?” he drew out the question carefully, as though he scarcely believed it. “Where are you?”

“In Portugal with Elias.” The knocking became more persistent, pushing me to finish my call. “Please promise me you’ll wait for me.”

“Of course, baby girl. We’ll talk when you return.”

On the cusp of hanging up, he called me by my birth name.
 

“Dad?” I asked, startled.

“I love you. Your mother and I always have. We’re sorry we couldn’t get our acts together to be the best examples for you and your sister.”

“You both loved me unconditionally,” I said, the words feeling far from true for some reason. And I continued to feel uneasy when I said what I once believed to be true. “You were the best parents. I understood why you did the things you did, Dad. The both of you.”

PREPARING TO TURN in for the night, I washed my face and showered, dressing in only a pair of panties and a lace tank top. When I went into the bedroom, Elias was no longer there. I walked through the house, eventually descending to the first level. The door to the backyard was left open, the night air rushed in, fluttering the retracted white chiffon curtains.

Barefoot, I padded around the patio. The warm concrete met my soft steps. I wandered around the garden, finding Elias in the grassy area by the soccer net, kicking balls into the goal. The only thing covering his body was a pair of dark boxer-briefs that hugged him in all his perfect places.

Watching him made my heart stutter. The slightly humid air added to his perspiration, further defining the muscles in his arms, chest, stomach, and legs. His hair was slick with perspiration, and the high-gloss effect, brightened by moon, intensified the dark tones in his hair.

“You can’t sneak up on me. How many times do I have to tell you?” He combed his hands through his damp strands, directing it away from falling against his forehead and flashed me a grin.

“Come to bed,” I said, stepping forward.

He sauntered over to me. His scent, a mix of cologne and his natural smell, wafted around my nose and made my body ignite with a yearning. “Why would you bring up the topic of marriage so soon?”

My blinking became so rapid it clouded my vision and put a stop to my heightening desire to have him in the way I needed him tonight—in bed, on top of me.

But, there it was, the issue that bothered him so much, he’d barely spoken to me, much less touched me, after we left the restaurant.

My father told me he fell in love with my mother after dating her for only a week. My sister married Whitney after four months of dating. I had been dating Elias for months—it didn’t seem as big of deal as he made it out to be. Six months, a year, or seven years, things can fall apart no matter when you decided to marry. In the end, time mattered very little. While in this case, my reasons held a not altogether innocent purpose, there still shouldn’t have been any time constraints; Elias’s fear spoke loudly to me.

I had to save face, because obviously, my mention of marriage made him shut down, erasing all the hard work I had done to make him get ready. I began to laugh. “Is that what you thought I—” The look he gave me, halted my laughter immediately.

“You rarely mention how you feel about me, Hanley. Even when you do, you dance around your words. I’m not sure if it’s to confuse me, or if I’m right in thinking our feelings for each other aren’t the same.”

Folding my arms, I raised both brows, unable to hide my stunned reaction. “Is that the real issue?”

“I have
more
than one issue.”

Walking past him and his crushing attention, I picked up the soccer ball and bounced it back and forth on my knees before kicking it into the goal with an instep kick. I smiled with the knowledge I hadn’t lost my skill.

He looked at the goal with a proud smile. “Impressive.”

“I played soccer—”

“Football,” he corrected me, his brows furrowing.

“Tomato. Tomato. Anyway, I played when I was a kid. My father was always on the sidelines, cheering me on. He never missed a single game, and we never lost a single game. I won’t count the one—completely unfair game—where my team had to forfeit. A midfielder decided to kick me, so I pushed her. Of course, the referee didn’t see her kick me, just the push.” I giggled as I recalled the memory. “It started a brawl not only on the field, but in the crowd of spectators. Let’s just say my father has a mean right hook.”

He looked at the goal, chuckling for a moment before he rounded my position and brought me closer to him. “Did your mother ever attend a game?”

In remembering the way things were with my father and Elias’s question about my mother bringing about sadder memories, I felt the loss over the man my father used to be. “No.” I placed my hands on his slick shoulders and pressed my breasts against his chest. “But I’m not going to cry on your shoulder about what she did and didn’t do for me. I don’t fault them for any of the things they did, because I know why they did them.”

He directed a passing glance at the soccer net. “Have you ever played Goal Keeper?”

I quirked my brow, knowing from his smirk it wasn’t a simple, fun for all type of game. “No. How do you play?”

Walking me over to the goal, he grabbed my hips and positioned me to face away from the net. His fingertips grazed down my arms, erecting a chilling sensation. With either of my hands in his, he directed my hands to extend straight up. “Keep them there.”

I did as told, keeping an eye on him as he walked to either side of the net and adjusted the poles until the top level was only a foot within my reach. Coming back around to me, he put his arms around my waist and lifted me until I could hold the pole with both of my hands. I quickly wrapped my legs around his hips for extra support.

Slipping his hands down the curves of my waist, he stopped at my hips. “Don’t let go no matter what I do to you. If you do, I’ll stop aiming for the goal.”

“And what is the goal of this game?”

He pushed my hair from my shoulder and leaned against my ear, kissing it. “Be patient, and you’ll find out.” He snaked a hand around my back to firmly cup my ass. The other continued to slide down the front of my body. When he reached the crotch portion of my underwear, he pulled the material away, removing the patch of lace from my sex. Slipping his fingers inside of me, he rocked them in and out.
 

A soft, hoarse moan erupted from my throat. The sensation of his touch—the touch I’ve been thirsty for—almost completely obliterated me. I could feel myself becoming wetter, dousing his fingers with moisture.
 

I lurched forward to kiss him, and he moved his head backward, evading my kiss. A devious warning was held in his eyes. I almost let go of the pole, and he noticed.
 

He chided me by shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “That is something you don’t want to do. Trust me.” His blazing stare entranced me and seduced me. The expert movement of his fingers drove me fucking wild. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking his fingers clean of my arousal. Allowing his hand to roam again, he rocked his thumb across my nipple. Firming my grip on the pole, I tried to stifle a moan. He ran his thumb back and forth, urging my nipple to swell and harden and moved to the other breast to do the same. His index finger and thumb pinched and gently pulled at the nub.
 

The gratifying physical feeling began to sear my skin and increase the wetness between my thighs. I pursed my lips together, keeping my eyes on him. His hand moved down to cup my sex again. He rocked his fingers back and forth underneath the lace material. Opening my slit, he slipped a finger inside me. Bringing his finger out and up, he circled my clit with a light but perfect pressure.

Throwing my head back, I parted my lips to unleash a high-pitched groan. “Fuck, please don’t stop,” I pleaded. Pure pleasure held my body captive, debilitating me.
 

He grabbed the back of my head, pulling it down to reinforce eye contact. “I need to see your beautiful face at all times. I need to know when you’re going to come. Like”—he moved his fingers faster and harder, sliding a finger inside me while another circled my clit—“right”—he thrashed his fingers at a steady rhythm, making my clit throb and pulse—“now.”

My grasp on the pole tightened enough to create pain in my hands. My legs loosened their hold on his hips, rendered unable to maintain their position. On the verge and ready to come, I was pulled out of my ascent when he immediately stopped. I blinked at him, wondering why. I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist and slanted my hips up, hoping for a release. Clutching my waist, he adjusted me to sit lower on his body.