Filthy: A Bad Boy Romance (23 page)

Your own fault, Sarah.
My brain likes to remind me of the way things really are. And it’s right—it is my own fault. I should never have let myself get into this position. But I hadn’t seen another choice at the time.

I pick up my spoon to stir the sauce. Gravy, my mom always called it. It was an Italian thing, and I never picked up the term, mostly because the kids I went to school with looked at me funny if I did. Still, her recipe is still the best one I’ve ever made.

On the floor next to me, Sal’s little floppy dog makes a barking noise. He either wants out or he’s hoping I’ll give him some kind of treat, since I’m cooking. By the look on his face—what I can see of it through all that goofy fur—it’s the latter. I smile down at him. He’s an okay dog, even though he’s Sal’s. Sal likes him better than me, I’m sure. At least he never hits the dog like he does me, if that’s an indication of his level of affection.

Thinking about Sal, I smile to myself and take the spoon out of the sauce. I make sure it’s not too hot, but I also make sure it’s got some sauce on it. When I’m sure the sauce isn’t scalding, I hold the spoon down. The dog licks it enthusiastically, his floofy tail wagging in ecstasy.

When he’s done, I put the spoon back in the pot and give the sauce a few thorough stirs. There you go, Sal. Enjoy your fucking spaghetti.

I glance at the clock. This sauce is going to have to simmer for a while before it meets Grandma’s standards. I turn it down and mull what else I can do for the day. I could stay home, finish some of the chores Sal expects me to do…

No. I’m sick of saying “how high” when he tells me to jump. When he told me yesterday he wanted me to make sure the house got clean today, he said, “If you’re going to be my wife someday…” and I thought I was going to vomit. I can’t even think about that. Yeah, I got myself into this mess, but marrying him would make it not so much a mess as a living, breathing hell.

Strange how it’s okay that I’m using him to keep my business afloat, and it’s okay that he’s using me to make himself look good, but it’s not okay that he wants to make that a permanent situation.

Of course, maybe if he hadn’t started hitting me on a regular basis, not to mention the verbal and emotional abuse, I’d look at things a little differently. As it is, it’s untenable. I can’t keep it up. I certainly can’t imagine being married to him.

I shudder as I check the sauce again. I drop a lid on it and turn the heat down just a bit more. I need to get the hell out of this house for a while. The sauce will be okay on its own for a few hours. And if Sal doesn’t bother to come home, and his sauce is ruined because it’s on the heat too long, then that’s his own damn fault, isn’t it?

#

The bakery—
my
bakery—smells like home and comfort when I open the door and head inside. It’s warm, the air full of yeasty smells. It’s enough to draw a smile onto my face in spite of everything.

Sadly, though, the smile doesn’t last long. I love this place—was willing to sacrifice everything for it, including my happiness—but things haven’t turned out the way I hoped they would. Sales started out fairly brisk, but then they fell off. I know I could get things going again, but it would take some money to invest in things I desperately need, like updated equipment, the capacity to produce a wider menu, and, yes, advertising. But I can’t get the money, because
somebody
is holding the purse strings far too tightly.

That somebody, of course, is Sal himself. If it weren’t for Sal, I wouldn’t have had the money to start the business in the first place. If it weren’t for Sal, I’d have the freedom to do what I need to do with the bakery, but not the money. The deal I made with him was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life, and there’s no way I can get free of it.

There are a few customers at the counter, being helped by Mandy, the only employee I can afford to have in today. I rotate a few people, but it’s hard to keep staff paid when there’s so little money coming in. I know Sal refuses to let me improve the place because he wants to keep me under his thumb. As long as I’m there, he has control of the bakery, which gives him control over me as well as a convenient place to launder his dirty mob money. I should have figured that out from the get-go, but no. I went into the deal believing in the innate goodness of humanity. More fool me.

“Sarah, can you take a look at this?” Mandy asks me. I move to stand behind her. The cash register is being wonky again. Because of course it is. One more thing to be broken. One more step closer to the destruction of my life’s dream.

I poke a few buttons and finally get the machine to open, letting me pass the customer her change. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” I tell her, and hand her a coupon from the counter. Maybe she’ll come back. Selling a stack of pastries at 25 percent off is better than selling no pastries at all.

I hear the bell above the entrance ring, and there’s a man in the doorway, holding the door open for my departing customer. My breath catches. He’s broad-shouldered and handsome, wearing suit pants and a dress shirt. He’s also the guy I danced with at the party last night. Nick. I have to say, he’s a hard man to forget, with that dark, almost blue-black hair and green eyes. There’s a scar on his right cheek, but it just makes him that much better looking, as far as I’m concerned.

My body gets hot just looking at him. I remember the way it felt to let him hold me when we were dancing last night. He’d held me so close I could feel him getting hot for me. But even with that big erection giving him trouble in his pants, he’d stayed the gentleman. Mostly. Well, he didn’t try to rub off on me, which frankly is more than I expect from most of the guys who were there last night.

He gives the woman a nod as she moves past him, and then lets the door fall shut. Looking up, he meets my gaze and smiles.

“Hi,” I say. “May I help you?”

Mandy gives me an odd look. She’s probably figured out that I know this guy, or recognize him at the very least. I’m suddenly self-conscious and wonder if he likes the way I look in my everyday clothes. He obviously liked the way I looked in my eveningwear, but this is a whole different me. I’ve got my hair in a ponytail, and I’ve got on jeans and a T-shirt—stuff that won’t end up ruined when it gets flour all over it, as it inevitably will. The only thing I’m missing is my apron, and that’s just because I haven’t quite managed to put it on yet.

“I need some pastries. Maybe some rolls?” he says.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. We specialize in pastries and rolls.”

“I figured you did.”

I tilt my head, giving him a look that’s far more flirtatious than I normally dare with anyone. “What clued you in?”

“The sign above the door. It says BAKERY.” He grins and moves closer to the counter. “So…baked goods, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Mandy moves back away from the cash register. Catching the movement out of the corner of my eye, I turn my attention to her for a few seconds. “Why don’t head on home, hon? I know you’ve been here all day without any help.”

“Okay, sure.” She smiles at me, then at Nick, then takes off her red apron and heads out the door.

“Poor thing. She’s probably starving,” I comment, watching her go.

When I look back toward Nick, his grin has turned to a slight frown. “Don’t you have anybody else to help her out?”

I shake my head. “No. We can’t really afford to pay very many people. Most days it’s just me and Mandy. There’s a high school kid, Jim, who comes in on weekends. That’s why we have such short hours.”

I generally don’t keep the place open past two or three. Most of the traffic comes by in the morning, anyway. But I’m sure we could do additional business if we were open for people coming home from work. Or if we had coffee. Another thing Sal shot down as too expensive. No coffee, not even drip. God forbid I should ask for a couple of espresso machines.

“Yeah, I saw the hours on the sign,” Nick comments. “I was afraid I might be too late to pick anything up.”

I shake my head. “Nope. We’re still open. Technically.” I figure I’ll turn the CLOSED sign over as soon as Nick heads out. It’s not like people are standing in line outside the door, after all. “What can I get for you?”

“I was hoping for a few boxes.” My eyebrows go up—usually I end up selling a couple of pastries here, a couple more there, a few loaves of bread every once in a while. “Maybe whatever you have that’s going to go to the day-old shelves tomorrow?”

Okay, this is going to be a good sale. I can’t help but be a little excited about it. I start looking over the items in the display cabinet, tallying up what I might have in the back. “I think we can accommodate you, sir.”

“That’s great.”

He leans against the counter, and I can’t help but notice the way his shirt pulls tight over the solid, prominent muscles of his chest. I take out a box, unfold and assemble it, and start dropping donuts inside. “Are you having a party? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

He smiles. “I’m going by my mom’s place. They always like fresh bread and pastries.” There’s a hesitation, just long enough for me to wonder how many people live in his mom’s house that he’s buying several dozen pastries. “She’s in a nursing home.”

“Oh.” My voice comes out small, and I feel like I’ve made a misstep. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. She likes it there. She’s got a ton of friends, and I go by a couple times a week. We just lost my dad, so it’s good she’s got people there she can hang out with when she gets lonely.”

“Oh.” I seem to be having problems coming up with full sentences. “That’s great.” I set the full box aside and grab another one. “I mean, that she has friends there, and that you go see her.”

Nick nods in response, then points toward the display case. “Are those apple fritters?”

“These on the left are apple; the ones on the right are peach.”

“That sounds phenomenal. Can I get a few of those?”

“Of course.” I put fritters in the second box. It gives me an excuse not to look at him when I say, “So…I enjoyed dancing with you at the party last night.”

There’s a moment of silence long enough that I finally look at him. His face has gone hard and sober, and my heart lurches. Whenever I see a look like that on Sal’s face, it means he’s about to haul off and hit me, or at the very least rip me up one side and down the other verbally. He’s very imaginative with his insults, is Sal. Sometimes they hurt more than when he actually strikes me.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “Should I not have mentioned it?”

Nick’s head jerks to one side as if I’ve pulled him out of his thoughts. “No. No, it’s not that. I just…” He smiles then, and that’s when I realize he saw Sal hit me. My face goes hot. I look back down at the pastry box.

“Sarah,” he continues, “I had a good time last night. I’m really glad I met you. I’m glad we danced.” Reaching over the top of the display case, he holds his hand out. “Very glad.”

I manage a smile in spite of the hot sense of humiliation that’s washed over me. I set another pastry in the box and then reach out to take his hand. His strong fingers squeeze mine gently, and then he lets go. “How about some rolls?” he suggests. “And bread. They always like to get fresh bread for sandwiches.”

I nod. “I’ve got some more bread in the back. I’ll go get some as soon as we finish out here.”

I’m filling another box with Danishes—cheese, cherry, and lemon. He nods approvingly. “So how’s business? You get a lot of customers?”

My stomach dips a little. “Okay. It could be better. There’s a lot of work I’d like to do that I just can’t afford right now.”

“That’s too bad. Everything looks wonderful. And the smell in here is heavenly.”

That ekes a smile out of me. I love the way this place smells, too. It’s my favorite thing about it. I can only eat so many pastries and so much bread, but I can smell dough and yeast all day and never get tired of it. “I’ll tell you what,” I say. “When I go back to get the bread, you want to come along? I can show you the behind-the-scenes scoop.”

“That sounds great.”

Now my stomach’s fluttering with excitement. I seem to be riding a roller coaster, emotion-wise. Why does he do that to me? Yes, he’s handsome, and he’s been nicer to me than anybody has in a long time, but still, he’s one of Spada’s men, and that means I should stay far away. Very, very far away. There’s nothing but trouble, pain, heartbreak, and probably death down that road.

I add a few crullers to the last box, then close it and set it on the counter. While he looks over the stack of boxes, I head to the door and turn over the sign so it says CLOSED. I’m about fifteen minutes ahead of the posted closing time, but it doesn’t much matter. Nobody’s out on the sidewalk waiting to come in.

When I turn around to go back to the counter, Nick’s looking at me. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize he’s been checking out my ass this whole time. I don’t know whether to be annoyed or flattered. He’s a man, after all. I decided on flattered for the moment. If he says anything crude, I’ll reevaluate.

He doesn’t say anything, though—just moves aside as I head back behind the counter and wave for him to join me. “Let’s go. I’ll show you the fascinating inner workings of a small, not-very-successful bakery. It’ll be the most interesting thing you’ve done in, oh, at least the last fifteen minutes.”

He chuckles. I like him, and he’s managing to charm me even more than he did last night. Of course, he’s on his best behavior. Even Sal can be charming when he works at it. There’s no telling what this man is like when he’s not after something. And I’ve been around these guys long enough to know he’s after something. Everyone is.

He joins me behind the counter. It occurs to me it’s probably not the best idea for me to be alone with him like this, but on the other hand I’m not getting any warning signals. All I’m getting from him is genuine interest.

Like you can trust your instincts.
I mentally roll my eyes at myself. “Come on this way. I’ll show you where we do all the magic.”

He listens attentively as I show him the equipment we use to mix dough, the ovens where we bake the pastries. “And by ‘we’,” I tell him, “I mostly mean ‘me.’ Although Mandy’s learning the ropes for a lot of the basics.” I manage a small surge of pride at what I’ve built here.