got the feeling that we both needed more, more time to do what we had been doing.
He gave me a sideways glance in response to me whispering his name.
“Brando is an Italian name. It means brilliant raven, fiery torch, beacon.” Forcing myself to stop tracing the lines of my palm, I tucked my hands deep inside the arms of his (my) leather jacket. “Did Maggie Beautiful name you after Marlon Brando?” It seemed like something she’d do, given her flair for dramatics. Stella!
“No,” he shook his head. “Lucious Fausti gave me the name.”
“Oh,” I said, taken by surprise. “I didn’t realize…”
“That he was around? Yeah, I remember him. No problem. Elliott called me Seven. That’s when he was arrested. I was seven at the time.”
The way he said “no problem” had me even more curious. Maja had once told me that it’s not the people that are often talked about that you should pay attention to; it’s the ones who people refuse to talk about that should capture your interest. No one wanted to speak of Luca Fausti. Except for Maggie Beautiful.
The rest treated him as though saying his name aloud would somehow summon him. It had been terrible what happened to Sheriff Stone’s wife and their unborn child. Still, he was someone’s father. Brando’s. And I got the feeling there was more to the situation then he let on.
If I were to push him on the matter? He would tell me the truth about his infamous racecar driver father. Then what? I didn’t want to answer that. He seemed particularly protective over me where certain situations were concerned. No, best let that be. For now.
“I see his face every time I look in the mirror.”
My eyes came up, absorbing his profile. Regal, sharp, bold, intense, there wasn’t a damn thing about him that came across as unattractive. He practically oozed virility. In the confines of his truck, the air felt thick with his presence, too small for the power he carried in his shoulders alone.
It wasn’t that he was overly muscular. No, he was just perfect, in that regard. Strength radiated from him, always a challenge that no man usually took, and I could sense it—taste it on my tongue.
As usual, speaking of his father had turned his mood. Whatever he had been feeling before, he was using this to fuel the flame.
“Brando. How many women have you been with?”
If the question shocked him, it didn’t show. He lifted his hands on the wheel. “I never kept count.”
“All right.” I looked down, expecting to find my hands. Instead, I stared at the peaks of my knuckles, my hands gripping the fabric as though the leather could keep me from falling. “How many virgins?”
“None.”
“Zero?”
“You heard me, Scarlett.”
I did. But his answer had shocked me. Even talking about this had me uncomfortable. Not discussing sex, but discussing what he had done before me. It made my stomach flop in an uneasy way, and that crazed, jealous streak started to burn green.
“I’m not that kind of man to begin with,” he said, drawing my attention back to his gorgeous profile.
Why would have been the most pragmatic response to this blatant comment. But the answer had already come to me, back at Maggie Beautiful’s, on the sofa. Part of it. I could’ve been wrong, but I didn’t think I was. It didn’t seem normal, his…substantial size.
Yes, definitely Apollo and Adonis.
Nothing about him scared me though. Did he make me wary? Yes, only because I didn’t want to push him too far, too fast. No one else could. I held that power. Yet, I refused to.
Still, I had more to say on the matter.
“I am.” My voice came out small, but brave enough. “A virgin. And I have no shame.”
“You are,” he said, his tone even, but burning with something below the surface. “And that wasn’t the intent of my comment, to cause shame. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“How? How do you know for sure? That I am?”
He grinned at that, but I found nothing humorous about it. “It’d take a fucking fool to even try.” His hands squeezed the wheel tighter, causing the veins in his arms to become more prominent.
I sat up taller in the seat. “I wouldn’t have.” I stuck my chin up. “I’ve never loved anyone before you.”
“Still.” He shrugged, but it was stiff. The tension in his shoulders was apparent—the cords in his neck strained against his skin. “Not even a touch.”