Scar
I spend a few days in Boston getting a feel for the city. I meet with all the brothers except for Gregory-no shock there-and have dinner with Orin on the last night. He seems as stressed as he was back in the office, only drunker.
“Don’t ever forget, they’re out for blood,” he says on the sidewalk outside of the expensive restaurant. He grabs my shoulder, stares into my eye. “They’re all out for blood, Scar.”
I have no clue who he means, but I can imagine it’s everyone. In his business, in his position, real paranoia must be the norm, and a shiver runs down my spine trying to picture myself working for this man.
I can’t stop thinking about the difference between Beach Orin and Office Orin on the flight back to Dallas. I keep seeing him standing there behind the desk surrounded by all the trappings of power-huge windows overlooking the city, oil paintings on the walls, expensive wooden furniture, priceless books and artifacts on the shelves-but looking absolutely diminished.
Smaller, worn down, sanded down into nothing. He’s like a completely different man, and if I hadn’t seen the other Orin, I never would’ve believed the contrast could be so stark.
The Orin down the beach was alive. He was happy, outgoing, loud. Beach Orin looked like he loved life, loved his family, loved waking up in the morning.
But the man in the office was small, shriveled, weighed down by stress and rage, beset by enemies both real and imagined.
It’s a hard contrast, and I’m still trying to come to grips with what it means.
And what it would mean for me to follow him down that path.
Because that’s what will happen when I move out to Boston. I’ll become the Callahan lawyer, working for them full-time-still helping out my other clients, but I can’t pretend like I wouldn’t give the Callahans most of my attention.
I’d be on the path toward power. Real power, like the kind Orin wields.
Except as I travel closer, I’ll be wrung out, squeezed for more and more of my time and attention.
Seeing it, even that one rare glimpse, didn’t make it seem appealing.
Not in the least.
Instead, it made me think about Rita. About her white bikini, her skin pink and sun-kissed, her body glimmering with suntan lotion and sweat. About her whimpers as I ran my tongue along her pussy, eating her like a man possessed, loving her taste, loving the way she came. Her orgasm, her gasps, her laughter, her smiles. Her body pressed against mine.
Could I really give that up?
I get back to the apartment, exhausted. Travel always takes it out of me. I step over the threshold, head into the kitchen-and there she is.
Rita, my wife. Smiling at me. “Welcome home,” she says.
Oh, fuck.
It hits me all at once.
Wow.
She looks stunning. Hair up, in short-shorts and a tank top, showing off her body like it’s no big thing. Glistening slightly, probably fresh from a workout.
Simple. Not made up, nothing pretentious. Nothing fancy.
And still absolutely beautiful.
Looking at her now, I can’t imagine ever walking away.
“Hey,” I say, and the weariness dissipates, like she gives me extra energy.
Suddenly, I’m happy to be home.
“How was it?” she asks, pouring herself some water and drinking half of it down. “Sorry, I just rode the bike for an hour.”
“No worries, I don’t mind looking at you.” I lean against the counter, heart pounding. “Trip was fine.”
“Fine? That’s all?” Her eyebrows raise. “Give me more. Come on, you’re going to move there, you have to have something to say.”
“Honestly, it’s hard to think clearly with you looking so good.”
She laughs, face flushed. “There’s the Scar I remember. Why do you always do that?”
“Do what? Tell you the truth?”
“Flirt with me.”
“I like flirting with you. It feels good.”
Actually, it feels right. But I can’t say that out loud.
“You’re a tease, Scar Scarfoni.” I expected her to be angry, but instead, she’s smiling. She’s easy and free in a way the Callahans aren’t. Theirs is a dark world, a dangerous world. Rita’s light and life. She’s pleasure and laughter.
I always thought I wanted the pain-the struggle, the fight-but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I never wanted that at all.
“What can I say? I must’ve missed you.” I walk closer, intending to get myself a glass of water too, but she doesn’t move out of my way. I end up inches from her, breathing in the smell of her sweat. I forget all about the drink. All about everything but her.
“The apartment was lonely without you,” she says, mouth open, lovely lips parted. “I actually found myself wishing you hadn’t left. Stupid, right?”
What’s happening right now? Why do I feel like I’m spinning, falling into a vortex, unable to break away?
“Not stupid. Well, maybe a little, but I feel the same way. All I thought about while out in Boston was coming back home.” I touch her face. It’s a mistake, we both know it’s a mistake, but she doesn’t stop me, and I don’t stop.
“You just like to sleep in your own bed.” A coy smile. Daring me.
“I like to sleep in it when there’s another body next to mine.”
Her eyebrows raise. “You’ve been sneaking girls in here behind my back? Scar Scarfoni, are you cheating on your wife?”
I shake my head slowly. “There isn’t a woman on this planet that comes anywhere close to matching you.”
“What a gentleman,” she says, leaning back against the counter, fingers curling around the lip.
I put my hands on her hips. I shiver, aware that I’m crossing a line, but unable to turn back. She looks at me, lengthening her neck, eyebrows quirked. A little challenging smile on her lips.
“We both know I’m not a gentleman,” I say, voice husky. “There’s nothing gentle about me.”
“But you are oh, so manly.” She waggles her eyebrows, grabbing onto both of my biceps.
“This is what I missed. Your sparkling wit.”
“Wrong. You missed pinning me up against the counter in our kitchen. You missed seeing me down on my knees in front of you.”
I release a soft, strangled growl. “Yes, wife, that’s exactly what I missed.”
“You missed watching me while I work out. Don’t pretend like I haven’t noticed. Not that I mind. It’s flattering, the way you look at me. I’ve never felt seen before.”
“I can’t help myself.”
“You have very bad self-control, it’s true.” She cocks her head.
“Only when it comes to you. In everything else, I’m in charge.”
“So you think, anyway.” She leans closer. “You think you’re so in control, but here you are anyway. What’s the end game, Scar? You kiss me? You fuck me? Lift me up on the counter, spread my legs, lick my pussy until I scream? I’ll let you do it. You know I will. But what about after?”
I stare at her, pain lancing into my heart. She’s right to ask, and it kills me, because that’s what I want. Her legs wrapped around my neck, pushing me tighter as my tongue laps at her lovely clit.
I want her moans, her screams in my ears. I want her taste flooding my mouth.
I want my drool on her inner thighs, my bite marks above her breasts.
I want her claimed, owned, twitching with pleasure.
“Does there have to be an after?” I lean forward, brush my lips against hers. “Does there need to be anything else but right now?”
And I kiss her.