It’s hard to swallow. A defined body with muscles, grooves, and divots that made my mouth water several times last night is on full display. And that perfect V that points directly to the weapon between his thighs.
We only fell asleep a couple of hours ago, and every time I shift, my body aches. Mycoreaches.
The man was relentless and insatiable. His fingers and tongue were in places that had never been touched before, and even thinking about it now has my face burning hot.
I’m going to miss you.
But I need to survive more.
Steeling my spine, I gently slip out of bed, quickly gather my clothes, and yank them on.
Casting another glance at Enzo, I pick up his discarded shorts and rifle through them until my fingers close around his wallet. Smooth, black leather encasing his identity.
Enzo Vitale. Thirty-four years old. Born November 12th—Scorpio; Lord, help me. Six-four—so heisa foot taller. Hazel eyes. He’s as delicious on paper as he is in the flesh.
I never physically steal anything. It’s too noticeable. So, I snap a quick photo of it, then replace the wallet in his shorts. Before slipping out of the room, I give him one last glance-over, every beat of my heart ringing hollow. I hate that I’m doing this to him, but then I hate that I do this to anyone at all.
Softly closing the door behind me, I walk out into his living room and kitchen area.
He lives in a beautiful home—lots of white with brown wooden beams lining up the walls and across the ceiling. I was surprised to find that Enzo has good taste and interior design skills. Almost as surprised as he was when he discovered my lack of a gag reflex.
Tiptoeing through the space, I open random doors until I find my gold mine. His office. A simple wooden desk, black leather chair, and several diagrams of sharks hanging on the walls. Bookshelves line the wall behind his desk, full of textbooks that are most likely for smart people.
Adrenaline is racing through my system as I approach the desk and start rifling through the drawers. Nothing of value in any of them—until I tug on the bottom one, finding it locked.
What I need is definitely in there. There’s a small bobby pin hooked around the string of my bathing suit top. I always have one there. Always.
Slipping it off, I straighten it out and insert it into the lock. I’ve gotten pretty good at this, so within a minute, I’m carefully sliding the drawer open.
Pausing intermittently to listen for sounds, I dig through the contents, my heart spiking when I find a card that saysRepubblica Italianawritten across the top, with a bunch of numbers and letters below. I slip my phone from my back pocket and do a quick Google search, matching it to what’s called atessera sanitaria. I’m not sure how to interpret what it says, but I can make out his first and last name, birthdate, and place of birth. I’m almost positive it’s the equivalent of a social security card in America and precisely what I need.
I also uncover an official document naming Enzo as the owner of a corporation labeled V.O.R.S., along with a business address.
Guilt tugs at my heartstrings as I quickly snap photos of them, close the drawer, and sidle out of the room.
God, I hope he thinks he just forgot to lock it, but I know better, which is why I will do everything in my power to never see Enzo Vitale again.
The loud banging on a door from somewhere nearby has my heart nearly bursting from my chest. I’m in the midst of bleaching my roots, so I toss the brush into the bowl and grab for my gun lying in the sink, adrenaline causing my vision to sharpen.
Breath short, I stare out past the entryway to the bathroom and at the door to my hotel room straight ahead, waiting for someone to bust through and take me away in handcuffs. Time ticks by, only nothing happens, yet there's no calming the thundering in my chest.
Inhaling deeply, I face the mirror, averting my eyes as I set the gun back into the sink.
My very illegal gun, but I couldn’t resist. In the U.S., I had bought one from some shady dude for protection, but I had to leave it behind in order to travel. Here, gun laws are extremely strict, and obtaining one is nearly impossible in my predicament.
I had been walking past a shooting range when I got the stupid idea. A man had just finished up and put his handgun into a padlocked case in the trunk of his car and his ammo in a second locked case next to it. I hid behind a tree on the sidewalk while he ran back into the building, muttering to himself about having to pee. He didn’t even bother locking his car, too distracted by nature’s call.
I didn’t think at that moment, I just acted. I tiptoed to his car, opened the trunk, and stole both cases. Thankfully, my hotel was only a few blocks away, but my heart was nearly beating out of my chest the entire way back.
After, I was forced to find a hardware store to break into the damn things, though once I had the weapon in my hands, I felt like I could breathe again.
Blowing out a slow breath, I grab my brush from the bowl, then resume lathering the chemicals onto my roots, hands shaking. My natural brown has been coming through, and about once every couple of months, I make it my life’s mission to expunge it from existence.
I hate this shit, but I think my abused scalp is used to it by now.
When I'm finished, I toss the brush and the now empty bowl into the trash. The hotel room I’m staying in reeks of the bleach, but it also stinks of other things that are probably better suited in a lab.
Then, I pick up my burning cigarette that's been resting in an ashtray on top of the toilet and inhale, still avoiding my reflection.