Tayler peers up from the screen of his cell phone. “You wouldn’t change anything? You mean you wouldn’t even tell Dante about Frank’s plan?”
I shake my headno. In a fit of courage and stupidity, I snatch the cell phone from his hand. “I’ll borrow this for a second.”
Since Jean gave me her phone two hours ago, I can only think about calling Dante to hear his voice again. Before Tayler can protest, I’m on my feet, rushing out the door. Wind whips at me, tugging on my shirt, but I barely register the cold, too pumped up on adrenaline. My heart picks up the pace as I change the iPhone’s settings to disable caller ID, then check three times that the correct setting is definitely on before I tap ten digits which, in the right order, form Dante’s number.
My hands shake so hard it takes me three tries to input the number without mistakes. I stop a hundred yards from the bar and sit cross-legged on the edge of the empty, eerily silent interstate.
The night sky is a sight to behold around here. Back in Chicago, among the skyscrapers and artificial lights, stars are rarely visible. Even when they do peek from between the thick, gray clouds, they don’t shine as bright as they do in Texas. Away from Dallas, on a clear winter night, the sky looks even better than the mural in my bedroom at Jean’s house. An oily, black canvas stretches high above my head, dotted with millions of bright stars. The moon looks more radiant, too. It’s bigger and shines brighter, illuminating the horizon with a soft glow.
One deep breath fails to calm my nerves. Nothing but the touch of Dante’s lips on my forehead could elicit any sense of calmness right now. He always had the magical power to rid me of all troubles with one kiss.
I tap the green button, pressing the phone to my ear. Incoherent thoughts screaming over one another in my head come to an abrupt halt...
“Hello?” he answers before the second tone rings out.
My legs turn cotton-candy-soft. Thirteen days have passed since I last heard his voice. Thirteen days filled with more hurt and pain than some experience in a lifetime.
I might’ve killed Frank myself, but I still mourn him even though he doesn’t deserve a single tear.
Music plays in the background hinting at Dante’s whereabouts.
I squeeze his hand, having a hard time believing he’s not only real but mine too. Frankie was right six months ago when he said he knows what type of woman Dante’s looking for.
He stops to look at me, inching closer not to shout over Britney blasting from the speakers. “Everything good?”
“Yes, all good.” I rise on my toes, curious to see whether sucha blatantmanifestation of feelings will bother him while everyone who can see us watches us with wide eyes.
He doesn’t stop me when I press my lips to his and smile, satisfied that he’s not planning to hide me like a dirty secret.
I swallow the lump lodged in my throat, unmoving, silent, one hand clasped over my mouth to muffle my ragged breaths. I count to stay focused.
One.
I want to speak, say something, anything that’ll prompt an answer so I can hear his voice again; nitpick his tone to guess what’s going through his head. Whether he hates me or still loves me even a little bit. My mouth falls open, but my mind draws a blank. No words come out. All I can do is listen to the music pumping around him and his steady, calculated breaths.
Two.
Tears sting my eyes. I imagine he sits in the VIP booth at Delta, a drink in hand—vodka on the rocks or maybe cognac. He’s probably surrounded by his men. A focused expression clouds his handsome face, not a hint of softness in his striking green eyes. That softness was reserved for me.
Three.
“You promised,” I whisper, twisting the ring he gave me on my finger.
“Layla,” he says on an exhale, his voice low and coarse as if his throat hurts. “Where are you?!”
The trance I lulled myself into fades when a tendril of panic seizes my chest. An adrenaline rush sharpens my senses as air stalls in my lungs, but my reaction is instantaneous.
I cut the call.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dante
Delta once again bursts at its seams, overflowing with half-naked women writhing on the dance floor to modern techno remixes of the nineties R’n’B classics. Music blares from the speakers, sifting through the air that smells heavily sweet of coconuts and vanilla.
Andzerogiant dildos are in sight. The club looks more or less as it did before the fire, with a few updated details. A white to red color change of floor-length curtains that hung behind the DJ station happened. It was an unconscious decision. I didn’t realize at the time why I craved red...
Now, I crave red even more.