Summer
Sunday dinner is sacred at the LaTorre house. I tried, my first year in college to beg out of it, but my mom laid on the guilt so thick, I soon gave up and resigned myself. Every week, my parents host a dinner for the family. My nonna and Carlo are always in attendance, and the rest of the family rotates throughUncle Joey and Aunt Sophie, occasionally my dad’s cousin Bobby and his twins, and other members of the organization.
Tonight, I arrive separately from Carlo, with our agreement not to tell anyone about the new twist in our relationship. Still, I can’t account for how differently I feel about him now. I sense the moment he walks in the door because every cell in my body starts vibrating.
My body remembers the way he used me, over and over again last night. Bound spread eagle to his bed, he alternately tormented me and brought me to the brink of ecstasy. I think of the caress of his velvet tongue licking into my core, making me come so many times I thought I’d never move again. My pussy slicks now, just at the sound of his deep voice in the hall, the rich timber of his greeting to my father.
I can’t decide where to look when he comes into the room. Perched on the arm of the sofa, where I was talking to my nonna, I purposely don’t look over. But then, is that too obvious? Or rude? Jesus, am I blushing? I duck down to re-tie the lace of my Chucks.
“Hey Summer.”
How does he manage to pull off casual? Oh God, he’s coming over.
I jerk up, my gaze darting to his face then away as he leans in for the customary cheek kisses. How many times have I greeted him this way? Hundreds. But this time has my heart racing, my palms sweating.
He grips my elbow to pull me in, which sends a zing of excitement running through me, reminding me of his dominance. Did he always hold my arm like that? He gives it a squeeze before he releases it. That part is definitely new. A secret message just for me.
I don’t dare look at him.
Thankfully, Uncle Joey and Aunt Sophie come in with a flurry of greetings, saving me from more awkwardness.
“Hey Summer, how’s your foot?” Sophie’s a massage therapist, so we always talk body stuff. “Ooh, it looks swollen, hon. Have you been dancing?”
I don’t know how Sophie can tell it’s swollen when it’s tucked in my shoe and sock, but she’s right. The damn thing is throbbing.
“Yeah, a little.” Just not the kind of dance you’re thinking of.
“You’re dancing?” I hear the sharp note of criticism in my mother’s voice. Growing up, she was a total stage mom, my biggest cheerleader, but I guess she thought it was something I would quit or just do as a hobby when I went to college. She didn’t like me choosing it as a college degree-said I should be using my brains, not my body. As if dance is for idiots.
I tense. “Of course. Did you think I was quitting it forever?”
The room takes on an awkward strain. I wouldn’t sound so defensive if some part of me doesn’t share my mother’s opinion: the dance career is over. I might as well give up on the dream.
My mom puts her hands on her hips. “I just didn’t know. Do you have time to get back to dance classes with your business studies?”
Of course I don’t, which was exactly why my mom pushed me this way. By the time I re-emerge from my new degree, I’ll be so far removed from the dance world that making a comeback will be impossible.
I sense Carlo’s attention on the conversation, even though he stands casually talking to Joey, his gaze bouncing around the room with no particular interest. I’m sure he’s listening, though, and I like it. The only time John ever listened to my conversation was if he was the topic.
I wonder, suddenly, how many other times Carlo paid attention to me when I thought we were just hanging out at noisy Sunday gatherings. Was this how he knew my life was a hot mess?
Thankfully, my mother disappears, returning with a platter of seasoned steaks. “Carlo or Joey, will you take these out to Al? He’s warming up the grill.” My mom thrusts the plate at Carlo, and a glimmer of the familiar routine returns. Men outside to grill the meat. Women talking and sipping wine around the kitchen island. I trail my mother and Sophie into the kitchen and pull out the placemats and napkins to set the table.
I pull out the plates and make a stack of twelve, carrying them into the dining room. I brought John to a few of these Sunday dinners at my mom’s insistence, but my dad made them painful with his overbearing father act.
John never guessed my father was mafia, not in the entire time we were together. He was too self-absorbed, I guess. Other people close to me must know. Maggie never mentions it, but she’s not obtuse. Some of my other friends have made little jokes here and there, almost like they are testing for my reaction. The girls at St. Mary’s Academy knew, but some of their dads were made men, too.
I think of Carlo, my father’s golden child. How different it would be to be openly dating a man like him-a guy who’s part of the family business? What would dinner be like?
This line of thought doesn’t really matter because this thing with Carlo isn’t permanent. It isn’t a relationship. It’s hot sex.
Okay, smoking hot sex.
But that’s all. We’re not dating. We’re not going to announce an engagement around this dinner table.
He’s not the kind of guy who’s looking to settle down, and that’s okay.
He’s perfect for a rebound.