Turning from the pictures, I laid the clothes she had handed me on Brando’s bed. I took a seat next to them and tried to pull myself back together. When that didn’t work, I thrust my body backwards and settled into the comfort of his mattress. The pillows were askew and his comforter turned down.
As neat as everything else was in his room, it surprised me that he hadn’t made his bed. And that he had left the table littered with unopened suckers. Woven between the candies, a long blue strip of silk stretched out like a beautiful, iridescent snake. I scooted up the bed and turned the lamp on.
The brightness momentarily blinded me, even though the light was soft. When my eyes adjusted, I picked the silk strand up and ran it between my fingers, enjoying the softness of it against my skin. The fabric had become worn and tattered, dotted here and there with stains.
I had a hard time believing what I was seeing. I involuntarily touched my hair and then put the ribbon to my nose, inhaling. It still smelled the same. The subtle scent of rose drifted and floated, clinging to the fabric, like his scent clung to the leather.
Maggie Beautiful must have turned the music down. The rain became louder, pelting the house, and the silence in-between almost seemed to scream. Footsteps sounded, growing closer to Brando’s bedroom.
Creeping from the bed, I took comfort in the corner, hiding in a darkened area. His place. Some childish part of me didn’t want him to see me right away. I demanded a moment to see him before he saw me. Though I was not so naïve to think that he wouldn’t know that I was there, waiting.
The doorknob slowly rotated and light from the hall shone in a long, thin strip when the door finally opened all the way. It missed me completely, keeping me hidden. He stepped inside, filling the small space with his overwhelming presence.
I breathed him in before he took another step closer. His cologne, the sweetness of the suckers, the smell of hard work and oil reached my lungs like manna. His white t-shirt was stained black. So were his face, hands, and jeans.
He looked directly at me, eyes burning, fingers flexing, muscles taut with whatever he repressed.
I waited him out, as silent as I could be. My heart pumped overtime, in competition with the hundreds of fluttering wings in my stomach. His proximity felt infectious—I felt feverish. Goosebumps spread over my skin and a shiver tore through me.
He seemed to be waiting me out too. He could be as still as stone, the same stone his features seemed to be chiseled out of. No doubt a really expensive Italian marble.
After a bit of time had elapsed, he seemed to grow restless with the game and moved to the shelf underneath the one that my brother’s picture sat on. He squinted at the buttons of the stereo until he finally found the one that he was looking for. A slow rock song poured out, low but distinguishable. Led Zeppelin.
“You came to see me.” His tone was flat, reserved, but I could feel the heat behind it smoldering underneath the surface. Even more so, I could see the disappointment, a tinge of anger, in the set of his face. It made his eyes seem darker, even more dangerous.
His presence, though his mood was uncertain, warmed me to my toes, causing the fluttering wings to become even more frenzied. The blood in my veins fizzed. I nodded but realized that, with his back to me, he couldn’t see, so I answered. “Yes.”
He turned his face a fraction toward me and smiled. It seemed friendly, amused, and with the reaction came a moment of great clarity: Even when his temper flared, he kept as calm as still water. His temper was the sneaky beast that lurked underneath the depths. Which made him even more lethal. Unsuspected.
“You couldn’t hide in the dark if you wanted to. Your lipstick glows.” He turned to face me fully. “Game over, Scarlett. I won.”
You always do, I was tempted to say, but I refused to give in that easily.
I smirked. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” He repeated the word, tasted it. There was no doubt in my mind that “no” and “perhaps” were two words Brando Fausti was not accustomed to hearing. “You say that a lot. Perhaps. Not maybe. Perhaps.”