Heartless (9 page)

A
ce

I
can’t remember
the last time I asked a woman out on a date. My memory fogs the further back I try to go, and for the longest time, there was only ever Kerenza. Everything before Kerenza is static and noise, and everything since her is darkness and void.

I allowed her to break me.

It isn’t something I’m proud of.

Clutching my phone and hunched over in my leather chair Saturday night, I swipe my thumb across the screen and recall my conversation with Topaz in the makeup chair this morning. Topaz is unusually bubbly for a native Brooklynite. She’s the kind of person I can only handle in small doses because she’s just . . . too much. But in the midst of one of our many conversations earlier, she mentioned Aidy, and I’ve found myself thinking about her ever since.

I’ve been around enough women in my day to know that they rarely speak kindly of each other, especially when men are concerned, but Topaz rambled on about how kind and beautiful Aidy was, inside and out, and then she caught me off guard, telling me I should ask her on a date. Not wanting to be rude, I told her I’d consider it.

But I know damn well I’m not dating material. Not in the condition I’m in.

Aidy’s a beautiful woman. She seems bright and content. Someone like me would only weigh her down, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t make the best impression on her this past week. She’d have every right to turn me down if I asked.

Thumbing through my contacts, I pull up her name in my phone and re-read her last and only text to me. I barely have a chance to read the words, “Fuck off” when a call comes through and turns my screen black.

Matteo, one of my four younger brothers, is calling, and I haven’t heard from him in months.

“Alessio,” he says when I answer. He’s one of the select few who never quite adapted to calling me by my nickname, but for him, I’ll allow it. “How goes it,
fratello maggiore
? You around tonight?”

“I am.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs wide. My elbow props me up on the arm, and I rake my hand through my beard.

Not only have I not spoken with Matteo in months, but he hasn’t seen me since shortly after the accident.

“I’m in the city for work,” he says, and I can hear the smile residing on his pretty boy face. Matteo’s an aspiring actor living in Los Angeles, taking bit parts and small jobs whenever he can get them. “Only for a few days. You want to meet up? There’s a group of us from this commercial I shot earlier, and one of them has the hook up at this club. We can get in.”

I snort through my nose, shaking my head. There was a day not too long ago that my name opened doors and busted through VIP list barricades. There was a day when everyone wanted me in their club, drinking their drinks, exciting their patrons.

Funny how quick people are to move on to the next best thing.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Matteo says. “Believe it or not, I miss your dumb face.”

My fingertips trace along the scar hidden beneath my beard. “Yeah?”

“Go out with us,” he says. “I know you sit at home, Alessio. No one ever hears from you anymore. You’re a shell of a man, and you’re better than that. Don’t let . . . don’t let what happened ruin you. Don’t give her that.”

Matteo has a point.

“I’ll come by in an hour. You think you can be ready by then?” he asks.

Fuck.

Fine.

Whatever.

It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do tonight.

“Yeah,” I say.

Matteo laughs. “Good, good.
Molto bene
.”

* * *

A
year ago
, I wouldn’t have been caught dead at a club like this.

Pulsing music.

Flashing lights.

Women stumbling out of bathrooms, brushing white powder from their nostrils.

But I glance at my brother, and he’s grinning ear to ear, like he’s proud his connections opened doors for once. I guess I can at least give him that.

“We’re going to be in the VIP lounge,” he yells above the club remix of god-awful pop song I’ve never heard before. Matteo points to small room illuminated with blue lights and sectioned off with a red velvet rope.

In the cab on our way here, he mentioned we’d be partying with a bunch of production people from some underwear commercial he shot this morning: lighting guys, hair and makeup people, and a couple of production assistants. I’ll admit a small, pathetically curious part of me wondered if Aidy Kincaid might be included in that group.

But I know better.

The industry is huge and this city’s enormous.

The odds of running into her yet again this week aren’t in my favor.

The closer we get to the VIP room, the more I find myself scanning faces for an ounce of familiarity.

Just in case.

But none of them register.

None of them are Aidy, and I’m kind of relieved because I’d be disappointed if she hung out in places like this.

Sinking into a patent leather chair, I take a clean glass resting on a nearby table and pour myself a glass from the magnum of champagne resting in a bucket of ice before me.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask the woman sitting next to me.

Her lashes flutter and her mouth pulls into a drunken grin as she slinks a shoulder to her ear. “Why, hello there, handsome.”

The woman leans toward me, her eyes struggling to focus.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

Jesus. Had I known she was going to be my instant best friend, I never would’ve said anything.

“Alessio,” I reply, glancing at Matteo who’s leaning against the wall, sleeves cuffed to his elbows and bedroom eyes in full effect as he chats up some leggy blonde.

It’s been a long time since I’ve offered anyone my given name, but I didn’t want to take the chance that she might recognize me by my mononym since I’ve evolved into the male athlete equivalent of Cher or Madonna.

“Alessio,” she says. “That’s really fucking hot. I like that.
Alesssssio
.”

I don’t ask her name, and I don’t look at her long enough to figure out if her hair is brown or blonde or red. Under these flashing lights, it’s damn near every color in the rainbow. Her skin too. She could be magenta for all I know, but I don’t give a shit.

I didn’t come here to get laid, and I’m sure as hell not taking anyone home with me.

I only came here to spend time with my brother and to get out of my own head for a bit.

Matteo pulls his phone from his pocket.

We’re not even here five minutes and already he’s exchanging numbers.

The blonde woman walks out of the VIP lounge a moment later and my brother makes his way to me, crouching down in the seat beside me.

“Shameless,” I say, taking a swig of champagne.

Matteo grins, showcasing the set of million-dollar dimples he was born with. At least that’s what our
madre
always called them. She told him they were going to make him famous one day; make him a lot of money.

I’m not sure that’s happened yet, but Matteo’s going to die trying.

That’s the thing about us Amato brothers.

We see what we want, and we pursue it with relentless determination. We’re not capable of stopping until life happens. Until it’s physically impossible to keep going.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he says, eyes scanning the bevy of beautiful women surrounding us. “Just doing a little networking.”

“Right.”

“Seriously. Fuck auditions, Alessio. It’s all about who you know.” He pours himself a glass of champagne. “Nobody walks into a casting call and lands a part anymore. It’s all about who you’re fucking.”

“So you’re going to fuck that leggy blonde and get a part in the next Michael Bay movie?”

Matteo hunches forward, his elbows on his knees. His dress shirt hugs his muscled physique, the one he’s spent hours upon hours sculpting in some outrageously expensive L.A. gym he belongs to.

“She’s the daughter of a producer,” he says, huffing. “This isn’t baseball, Alessio. You don’t get by on merit and batting averages here. You kiss ass. You fuck who you’re told to fuck. And you hope to God these rich assholes have the decency to keep their word.”

“What are you guys talking about?” The drunk girl from two minutes ago takes it upon herself to plop down into my lap. She slinks an arm around my neck and smooshes her cheek against mine.

Matteo turns away, hiding the amused smirk on his pretty boy face.

“You know what? You two look like you could be brothers.” The drunk girl’s jaw hangs open. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“We are brothers, babe.” Matteo pats her knee the way an adult might pat the top of a child’s head.

The woman giggles, leaning back and nearly falling off my lap.

Leaning toward my brother, I give him a look and ask, “Where’d you find this one?”

Matteo rolls his eyes. “She worked on the set earlier. Her job was to steam all the wrinkles out of the underwear we were modeling.”

Tossing back the rest of my drink, I place the flute on the table and declare that I’m in need of a real man’s drink. The drunk girl pouts before taking her sweet ass time climbing off me, and I make my way to the bar.

“Hey,” the bartender says, eyes lighting when he sees me. “I know you.”

I keep my head down. So much for the beard and flashing club lights camouflaging my identity tonight.

“You’re that baseball player. Ace, right? Huge fan.” he says. “Huge.”

“Thank you.” My gaze is averted. Meeting loyal fans anymore tends to serve as a reminder that I’ve let them down.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

I order a whiskey sour, top shelf, and take a seat on a nearby stool while he pours. A minute later, he slides the drink to me and waves me off when I try and hand him a twenty.

“On the house,” he says, hunched over his side of the bar. The lights flash on his round face, reflecting in his thick-rimmed glasses.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “We’re glad to have you, Ace. You’re drinking for free tonight, man.”

“Thank you.” I give him a tight-lipped smile, one he probably can’t see anyway thanks to the beard, and head back to the lounge.

By the time I’m finished with my whiskey, I’m feeling better than I have in a long time. I’ve never been a drinking man, always opting to maintain control over myself at all times. Plus when I wasn’t conditioning and eating things like quinoa and kale, I still had to stay in shape.

I may not be quite as cut as before, but the muscles are still there, like corded steel reminders that I was once capable of strike outs and 100mph speedballs.

Warmth floods my veins in slow motion, and I sink into my velvet chair, eyes half open and focusing on the pulsing tunes and swaying bodies in the crowd across the club. For the first time in a long time, I’m merely existing. In a good way.

I’m not dwelling on the past.

I’m not fixating on the question mark that is my future.

I’m just . . . here.

After a while, I lose track of time.

And I lose track of how many drinks I’ve ordered.

Come two in the morning, I find myself back at home, in my bed, with no recollection of how I got here, though I’m sure Matteo had something to do with that. It’s funny how things have changed. I was always the big brother, looking after the younger kids, making sure they were staying out of trouble and keeping their noses clean. I was always the one taking care of them when our mom was working two jobs.

Sinking into the messy sheets that cover my bed, I feel the cool glass of my phone screen. Looking up at the ceiling, the room spins. Faster and faster. Like I’m on a Merry-Go-Round. I want to get off, but I know I can’t. This is why I hate being drunk.

I bring the phone to my face, eyes pierced with pain as they adjust to the bright light in my darkened room.

For a brief moment, I forget about the ungodly hour upon me and consider calling Aidy. I should apologize. I should apologize for calling her crazy. If anyone’s crazy, it’s me. I haven’t been myself, not since last year. She should know I’m not myself. And I want to send that freckle-faced kid an autograph. He didn’t do anything wrong, and it’s the least I can do.

Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but I kind of don’t want to be an asshole anymore.

I don’t want to be heartless.

Rolling over, I clutch my phone, eyelids at half-mast and free hand reaching for the cold, empty side of the bed. Moving to my side, I tuck my hands under my pillow and shut my eyes.

The room spins.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice sounds far away, muffled. “Ace?”

I’m dreaming, I’m sure.

A
idy

A
rmed
with a brown bag of groceries that I lugged all the way from Chelsea, I’m rapping on the door of 942 Lexington Avenue Sunday morning, just before ten.

The bag feels heavier than it did a few blocks ago, if that’s even possible, and I’m quite certain the bottom’s about to fall out. Fortunately, I spot a doorbell just in time.

Pressing the button over and over, I almost feel bad. He’s got to have a horrendous hangover. Then again, he woke me up at two in the morning, so I kind of feel like we’re even.

The door swings open a second later, and Ace stands before me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair is going every which way and when he lifts his arm to shield the blinding sun from his eyes, his shirt pulls up and reveals a hint of the dark happy trail that runs straight south to the dwindling morning bulge in his pants.

“Good morning,” I say in the cheeriest, Mary Poppins-esque tone I can muster.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“Payback?” I glance down at the groceries in my arms and then up at him. “Plus I felt like you maybe needed to talk?”

Ace scratches his head, squinting.

“You called me . . . last night . . . two a.m. Remember?” I ask.

He doesn’t blink. He just stares ahead at me.

“I don’t think you meant to call me,” I say. “I think you must have pressed a button or something. You sounded really out of it. Like hammered beyond belief.”

Ace blows a hard breath, nostrils flaring as he studies me.

“Do you remember anything you said last night?” I ask.

“No. I don’t even remember talking to you.” He stands back, hand gripping the door, and motions for me to come in. “What’s all this?”

“Figured you’d be hung over, so I brought you some things. Gatorade. Eggs. Bacon. Bread. Orange juice. I don’t know what you eat. Maybe you’re vegan. I have no idea. Didn’t really plan this out too well . . .”

We’re standing in the landing of his townhome. Ace closes the door, watching me still. A set of stairs behind him looks to lead to the main part of his place, but his frozen body language makes me wonder if he wants me up there at all.

But I kind of don’t care because it’s not like I wanted him calling me at two in the morning.

As far as I’m concerned, we’re even Stevens right now.

“Is someone up there or are you going to invite me up?” I ask.

I should’ve considered the possibility that maybe he wasn’t alone. That maybe he’d taken someone home with him the night before. Although if he did, she had to have been passed out cold because she didn’t make a peep as he rambled drunkenly into his phone for the better part of an hour.

“No,” he says, still unmoving. “Nobody’s here.”

My gaze falls to his shoulders, his muscled pecs curving beneath a white V-neck t-shirt. “If you don’t want me here, that’s cool. I can leave all this stuff, and you can do whatever you want with it. Feed it to the neighborhood cats. I don’t care.”

“What did we talk about last night?” His hands hook on his hips, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his navy sweats.

“Lots of things.”

The bag slips from my grip, nearly sliding down my body and hitting the ground until he catches it. His hands graze my hips as he relieves me, and my arms, now tired and shaking, quietly thank him.

“Come on up.” Ace nods toward the stairs. I kick my shoes off and follow him. When we reach the top, it’s all I can do to keep from gawking.

His place is
nice
.

Better than nice.

It’s modern and industrial and edgy.

I pull in a lungful of what smells like spice and leather and tobacco and take a good look around. The floors, particularly hard and cold beneath my feet, appear to be some kind of stained concrete, and his kitchen is completely open. The island, which anchors that space, is wrapped in brick and covered with a stainless countertop. His fridge is enormous, easily holding enough to feed a small village, and a rack holding shiny, neatly organized pots and pans and utensils hovers above it all.

With a kitchen like this, there’s no doubt in my mind Ace knows how to cook.

My mistake. I never should’ve doubted him.

He places the bag on his counter, pulling out eggs and OJ as I nonchalantly peer around the rest of the space.

In the far corner is a fireplace, covered in worn brick with names I can’t read stamped into random places. Oversized leather furniture is arranged conversationally, and a cable knit blanket hangs haphazardly over the back of one of the chairs. On the table, a lamp is clicked, providing a small amount of light, but every window in his palatial townhome is shaded and dark.

I stand in silence, glancing around as he unloads the groceries.

This place is hard like him. Dark. Walled off.

“So,” I say, almost breathless for some reason.

It’s as if all of a sudden, I’m realizing how silly it is that I picked up groceries at the store this morning and carried them all the way here, thinking he’d be appreciative of my efforts. If he truly doesn’t remember our conversation, it makes all of . . . this . . . seem a little ridiculous. “You want me to make you breakfast or you want me to leave?”

Ace stops unloading groceries and locks his gaze into mine. “No. Stay. You can make breakfast, and then you can tell me exactly what we talked about last night.”