But neither of us do.
Maybe we’re not the type.
Words are cheap, anyway.
I love him just as he is, no matter what he’s done. I know he’s done it to protect me. Like the tattoos, that says he loves me more than any words. His love is in every caress, every kiss, every touch, every rough thrust that makes me see stars and leaves me more satisfied than a girl like me has a right to be. It’s in the leather seats of the fancy car that he could have left in his name, but he put it in mine, so it belongs solely to me. It’s in the bruises on his knuckles and the blood on his lips, the ink on his skin, the fullness of his eyes when he cums without me having to bring him back to me.
He’s already here, completely present, in this moment with me when nothing else matters but our names on each other’s lips and our hearts beating out the rhythm of this crazy storm between us, and the sweat on our skin that combines to make the smell of us as we lay pressed together so tightly I don’t know where he ends and I begin.
Love isn’t found in words. It’s found in us.
nineteen
Preston Darling
“Hey, cutie pie,” says the middle-aged waitress who also happens to own the downtime diner I just walked into. “I saved your regular booth.”
“Thanks, Scar,” I say. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Scarlet’s toughness is the stuff of legends, as is the scar that runs diagonally across her face and down her neck. No one knows how she really got it, but kids around town make up stories of its origin—she was slashed with a machete and left for dead when she cheated on her boyfriend with a member of the rival gang, her dad punished her for running with Crossbones boys by marking her face so none of them would want her, she stood up to the Disciples leader and got a taste of his switchblade. The only thing that anyone agrees on is that it’s gang-related, but that may be rooted more in the fact that her partner is a gang leader than any truth.
“Don’t I know it,” she says, giving me a two-finger salute. “Two of a kind, you and me. Too bad you’re not into cougars.”
“And you’re not single,” I point out.
“Pssh, aren’t all the kids poly these days anyway?”
“Somehow I don’t see your boyfriend sharing,” I say, shaking my head. “Or I’d be all over that. If I’d had a woman like you, I wouldn’t be so fuck-ugly right now.”
“Ugly is as ugly does,” she says, waving a laminated menu toward the booth tucked away in the corner. “Go on back, sugar.”
I slide into the booth, my back to the rest of the room. Scarlet’s not a family friend, though she’s my parents’ age. She went to Faulkner High, and my parents didn’t associate with girls like her. But we have an easy kinship, for obvious reasons, and the Dolces would never set foot in the greasy spoon diner she owns. So, it’s a safe space for Darlings, for the time being at least.
If the Dolces find out we frequent the place, they’ll send thugs to beat up the workers, since even they probably wouldn’t fuck with Scar outright. She wouldn’t back down from a direct threat, but she’d do it to save any of her workers or their families. So, that’s where Mr. Dolce will hit her, knowing it’s her vulnerability. That, or he’ll trash the place, which is her livelihood. Then she’ll pay the tax to keep the thugs out of her establishment, even though the same thugs will “protect” it. If she slips up and lets a Darling through the door, the protection will magically disappear for a night, and the place will go up in flames.
Better to stay home and keep our heads down than to endanger the town we still love. Scar might not have been my parents’ type of friend, but she’s mine. Anyone in this town who hasn’t been corrupted is worthy of the utmost respect.
“Am I late or are you early?” asks a voice behind me.
I stand to shake hands with the man I’m here to meet. “Father,” I say with a nod.
“Mr. Darling,” he says, giving me a quick shake before taking his seat opposite me in the booth. He’s wearing his collar, but otherwise looks like a regular, built guy in a sweater and glasses. “I appreciate you meeting me out. I know you like your privacy.”
“I’m more worried about risking Scarlet than myself,” I assure him. “And you don’t have to pay your students personal visits.”
“Are you ready for finals?” he asks, flipping over his menu.
Scarlet appears beside us, a menu pad in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. “The usual?” she asks, pouring us both coffee.
“You have avocado toast yet?” I ask.
“The usual for you, then,” she says, jotting down a note and popping her gum. “Father?”
“You shouldn’t have a suggestion box if you’re not taking suggestions,” I say, laying my arm along the top of the booth and smiling up at her with all the innocence I can muster, little as it is.
She glowers at me, chomping on her gum like she chews out kids who come in to stare at her and don’t order. “If I added your damn hipster toast, I’d have to change all the menus,” she says.
“You could write it on the specials board,” I say, giving her my most winning smile, which isn’t saying much anymore.