Hold You Against Me (6 page)

Somehow my body finds the strength to fight again, and I lunge against the restraints, slamming my head into Javier’s. A sickening crack fills the air. Then a fist lands on my temple and everything becomes muted. In slow motion I see the washcloth coming down toward my face. I’m still too dazed from the punch to suck in a breath, my body spasming and out of control.
Clara. Clara. Clara.
Her name a wild beat in my ears, a thousand feet pounding the pavement.

One.

Present Day

I
see him
everywhere. He is the memory of a dream when I wake up. He’s the man at the street corner, gone the moment I blink. He’s my last regret as I go to bed. The boy I left behind. The boy who died for me. Some days it feels like I’m living a normal life—the one he wanted me to have, free from my mafia family, going to art school like I always dreamed. Other days I feel like a ghost, like I died back in that gunfight with him, never really free.

“Earth to Clara.”

I blink, coming back to myself. My friend Amy waves her hand in front of me, an exasperated look on her face. The windows are already dark, the light in the studio reduced to shadows. When did that happen?

A twinge of pain courses through my hand, and I look down. My fingers are stained with black. Charcoal. I don’t remember drawing, but the result of it is splayed across the page.

I move to cover it, but I’m not quick enough.

“Again?” Amy sighs. “Let me see.”

Reluctant, I push the paper across the smooth table as if it means nothing. And really, it doesn’t. I have a hundred of those stacked up at home.

Amy studies the harsh lines and shading. “Your composition is perfect,” she says a little wistfully. “Even when you aren’t trying. I might hate you.”

That makes me smile. “It’s a sketch. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mhmm, and what about the hundred other times you’ve drawn him?”

“Those didn’t mean anything either.”

She laughs softly, because she’s seen his face drawn in charcoal, scribbled on napkins, and traced in watercolor. He’s never what I set out to draw, but he’s always where I end up.

I crumple the paper into a tight ball and toss it into the trash can. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Like your big debut?”

“Like that.” My gaze sweeps over the big empty place in the corner where I spent the last three months sculpting. It was my first commission and my largest piece. It turned out more beautifully than I’d envisioned, and it’s now installed on the fountain where it will stand, awaiting its official unveiling tomorrow night. I should feel proud. I should feel accomplished.

Instead a sense of dread has taken root in my chest, soaking up all the happiness, spreading through my limbs. I should be focused on my dreams or, at the very least, enjoying life as a college student. We aren’t on the run anymore, but in my darkest hours I can’t shake the feeling that we should be.

A hand covers mine, and I look up to see Amy’s eyes full of concern. “It’s beautiful, sweetie. Everyone will be blown away tomorrow night.”

I force a smile. “I hope so, but I’ll settle for not totally hating it.”

“It’s going to blow their minds, and I’m still bummed you won’t let me be there to see it.”

Her family is extremely uptight, and the fact that the Grand used to be a strip club means that it’s off-limits. Technically almost anyplace off campus is off-limits, but she sneaks out often enough. She’s determined to rebel, but I have to admit, it isn’t a safe part of town. The only way my own sister lets me go is with her and Kip as my escort.

“You’ve already seen it.” The statue is an angel reaching up, both sensual and pure, a representation of how I see the girls who stripped at the club. It may be a burlesque club now, may be respectable, but there was something beautiful and raw about what it had been. Survival and sex.

“Not installed.”

“Use your imagination,” I say, teasing. Her medium is paint, and her work is incredibly imaginative. She has a soft dreamy style, kind of like Alice in Wonderland with an Instagram filter.

She sticks out her tongue. “Well, you better call me after and tell me all about it. I bet you get a million new commissions.”

I look down at the blank sheet of paper. She’s not totally wrong about the commissions. The guest list to the opening gala is highbrow because the club owner, Ivan, has more money than God. And I learned a long time ago that money erases every sin. The hint of impropriety will just make the art that much more desirable.

But I’m not sure that I can fulfill those commissions. I’m not sure I want to. It’s every artist’s dream, but the lingering imprint on the blank paper, leftover pressure from charcoal, a mindless drawing, proves that I’m really dreaming about something else entirely.

*     *     *

“Here comes your
trophy boyfriend,” Amy mutters.

I glance back to see a bunch of frat guys approaching, Shane at the head of the pack. The way they’re weaving down the street, it’s clear they’re wasted. I feel myself tensing, because Shane can get a little intense when he hangs out with the boys after football practice. Which is most of the time, these days.

“Don’t call him that,” I say absently, hoping she can’t see my worry.

“Why not? That’s the only reason you’re with him. Don’t tell me it’s his charming personality.”

Shane knows how to be charming. He pursued me with the full weight of that charm. There are boys at the art school, but they’re usually more interested in having me pose for them than actually dating. Shane made me feel desirable, coveted—at least until he started to change.

I don’t answer her and instead paste on a smile for the guys. We’re on the edge of campus, and the streets are still busy with students walking home after late-night study sessions or heading to a club. Light rain mists the air, leaving a sheen on everyone’s skin.

Shane grins at me as he gets close, all swagger and sweaty male. A certain appreciation sweeps through me, but it feels detached, the way I’d view a beautiful piece of art.

“Hey, babe,” he says with a sloppy kiss.

I hide my wince. Definitely drunk. “How was practice?”

“Killer. Coach made us lap the stadium ten fucking times.” He grabs me around the waist, and I stumble against the pull of him. “But I’m feeling no pain now.”

A grin tugs at my lips. “I bet you’re not.”

“We’re heading over to Club X. Come with us.”

Two blocks down is the clubbing district. Party Row, it’s called. The clubs open up in warehouses with cheap couches and heavy beats, only to get shut down a few months later, usually related to drugs or sex work. Club X is the latest hot spot, which means Shane wants to go all the time.

I look down at my clothes, a tank top and jeans. Sandals. No makeup. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

He pulls me close, his hands wrapping around my ass. I squirm because his friends are totally watching. “Shane,” I whisper.

His lips are close to mine. “Go back to your place and get dressed. I’ll watch.”

Unease twists my stomach, along with guilt I don’t want to examine too closely. “Amy will come with me. You go ahead with the guys.”

Shane might be a jock, but he’s not stupid. He knows a rejection when he hears one. His lips firm. He tightens his hands on my hips, and for a tense moment, I think he’s going to do something crazy, something violent, right here in front of everyone. His impatience has been getting stronger, his temper more extreme. Always in the privacy of a dark corner or his apartment on the rare occasion I visit him.

Always followed by an apology and a promise never to do it again.

“Hurry,” he says finally, his voice sharp. “You don’t want to miss all the fun.”

Then he’s gone in a swirl of testosterone, the raucous laughter of his teammates bouncing off the stately brick facades of university buildings.

We stand in silence, watching them go, until they round the corner at the end of the block, their shouts melting into the persistent clamor of Party Row. Even two blocks away you can almost feel the bass in the concrete beneath us, the sex and the glitter and the casual expectations.

“You okay?” Amy asks quietly.

I haven’t been okay in years. Not since the night my sister and I went on the run. Not since the boy I loved gave up his life so we would be safe. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She frowns. “I don’t like the way he looked at you.”

“He’s drunk.”

“And you’re making excuses.” There’s a pause, dark with speculation. “Are you still holding out on him?”

There’s that shame again, but for all the wrong reasons. Shane and I have been dating for months. I’ve let him get to second base, but we haven’t had sex. This isn’t freaking middle school. Who does that?

I do, apparently. He would be humiliated if his teammates found out.

I’m just not ready to give up my virginity.
Not when you saved it for him.

Which is crazy, because the boy of my teenage fantasies is dead. Shane is alive and so very willing.

“We’ll do it soon,” I say, but that sounds like a lie.

A small part of me feels guilty for stringing Shane along.

Most of me feels guilty for even considering having sex with anyone who isn’t Giovanni.

“Oh, Clara.” There’s a wealth of meaning in those two words.
I don’t think you should be with him. Doesn’t it mean something that you won’t have sex with him? Something is holding you back.

I’ve heard it before, and I can’t even deny it. I can’t explain it either. Giovanni is my secret, a shard of glass buried so deep in my soul it would kill me to remove it.

“Let’s hurry,” I say, my voice hollow. “We don’t want to miss all the fun.”

I
decide on
a dark skirt and a black slinky sleeveless top that drapes low in the back. I finish the outfit with a glitter-gold headband that looks half-vintage, half-party girl. I’d love to wear my low black heels so I can dance the night away—it’s more fun than sitting on Shane’s lap while he trades mildly sexist jokes with his buddies. Instead I pull on my four-inch black heels studded with gold Swarovski crystals.

“Gorgeous,” Amy says, but I hear the judgment in her voice.

“They
are
gorgeous.” I don’t have any right to be indignant, because I’m only wearing them for Shane. He likes me to look a certain way when we go out. That kind of control seems weird to Amy—and, well, maybe to most girls my age. But I was raised to be a mafia princess, someone who shuts her mouth and looks pretty. It’s not a destiny I’ve fulfilled, but some of the lessons never go away.

Amy sighs and adjusts her silver dewdrop choker in the bathroom mirror. She borrowed a silver dress with ruffles and a short hem from my closet so we wouldn’t have to stop at her apartment. “Aren’t you going to Honor’s house tomorrow?”

“Regular Sunday night. Why? You want some real food?” We usually subsist on the food stands scattered around campus. There’s a pretzel-dog guy outside the art history museum who knows my order before I say a word. Ever since my sister got married, she’s turned into a regular Martha Stewart. Her house is like some country-chic magazine spread with fresh-baked muffins on the counter.

Amy clips a strand of pink hair and shakes her head so it blends. “Nah, I’m good.” There’s a suspicious pause while she adjusts hair that already looks fine. “You should bring Shane. Introduce him.”

My heart stops. That would be a disaster. I can only imagine Shane swaggering into my sister’s picturesque bungalow like a bull in a china shop. “How about no.”

“Why not? At some point you have to tell Honor about him.”

My sister, Honor, is already overprotective. Kip used to keep a cool head, but he’s turned into a regular caveman now that they’re married. They’d probably bar the door as soon as they saw him—and his flashy Viper. “You just want me to tell because you know she’ll freak out.”

“Anyone who cares about you would freak out,” she says. “He’s not good enough for you.”

I focus on the bracelet clasp I’m fighting with, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “Why can’t you just be happy for me? You’re my best friend.”

Her gentle hands take the bracelet from me. In a few seconds she has it attached around my wrist. Then her arms enfold me in a tight hug that steals all the air from my lungs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers fiercely.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I breathe in her familiar scent. Her arms are more comforting than Shane’s have ever been. “Why can’t you be a guy?”

She pulls back, grinning. “If I were a guy, I’d bang you in a heartbeat.”

My laugh is a little watery. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” she says. “We don’t have to go out tonight. Forget boys. They only bring drama, right?”

“Nah, we should go. We both look fabulous.”

“That’s right. Let him see what he can’t have.”

I wince because that’s not what I’m trying to do.

And I know that Shane won’t accept this forever.

“Do me a favor?” I ask softly.

“Anything.”

“Leave the Shane thing alone for tonight?” There was a look in his eye, a hardness that made me shiver. He doesn’t like being denied. He comes from a wealthy New England family. He’s not used to being told no. “One night. That’s all I’m asking.”

She meets my gaze, and the solemn concern makes my insides clench. “One night,” she says.

I know I’m only postponing the inevitable. Amy will bring this up again, and she’s right. Eventually I will have to introduce my sister to Shane. Eventually I’ll have to give in and let him have sex with me.

History is repeating itself…

That dark little voice in my head reminds me this is all I’d ever been meant for. Shut up and look pretty. The mafia princess who wasn’t even a legitimate daughter. At least that’s what the whispers said. So I tried even harder to be perfect—to be quieter and prettier.

Only my sister was strong enough to defy what was expected of her.

To escape the cruel fiancé chosen for her, we went on the run. We came to Tanglewood to hide. Honor met Kip, who protected her when we were found.