his shortcomings and how likely it is for him to break her heart.
“Bug,” he greets, grinning at me in that devilish way of his.
Crossing my arms under my chest, I cock my head to the side and give him an exasperated look.
He can’t actually be serious right now.
We haven’t spoken to one another in a week and he opens with that ridiculous nickname?
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” I hiss.
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he shoves a hand into his pocket and steps closer to me. His eyes penetrate mine for a moment and I temporarily forget the newspaper headlines and all the neighborhood gossip. I’m transcended back to the night we shared and the promises we made.
“I’m going to call you Bug until someone puts me out of my misery.”
“Yeah, well word on the street is the chances of someone putting you out of your misery are pretty high these days.”
“Bug," he sighs.
This time I don’t try to correct him, and I think that’s partly because somewhere in the back of my mind I know he’s right. The only way Rocco will ever stop calling me, Bug, is if he’s no longer alive to say it. As true as that may be, so is the fact he’s a walking target. The idea of someone killing him or even hurting him makes me sick to my stomach and I instantly regret my choice of words.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I say, quickly peeling my eyes away from his handsome face.
“It’s fine, Bug.”
No, it’s not, but I don’t say that. Instead, I draw out a heavy breath. Deciding to change the subject, my gaze rakes over the rest of him and reach out to brush my fingers over the lapel of his suit.
“How does that saying go? Is it the suit makes the man or is it the man that makes the suit? I always get them confused,” I babble.
He covers my hand with his and I lift my gaze back to his. Angling his head, he lifts his free hand to brush a strand of hair away from my eyes.
“Fuck if I know,” he rasps huskily.
I equally hate and love the way he looks at me. It’s almost as if he’s not sure I’m real. Like he wants to keep me. I hate it because I know he never will. I mean, we didn’t even make it a week.
As if he can read my thoughts, he turns his head slightly and continues, “Uncle Vic always said a man can have anything he wants in life so long as he dresses for it.”
At the mention of Victor, I raise an eyebrow. This would be the opportunity to ask him if everything I read is true.
“So what are you dressing for?” I ask.
He brings his eyes back to mine.
“That’s a loaded question,” he replies, dropping his hand.
He looks away and I shake my head.
“Actually, it’s pretty simple,” I challenge.
I’m starting to think he has no idea what he wants anymore.
That maybe he never did.
Sadly, money and power won’t help him figure that out, though.
His soulful eyes slice back to me and flash with something I can’t quite place.
“Nothing in life is simple, Bug,” he says.
Done with the whole beating around the bush nonsense, I prop a hand on my hip and narrow my eyes at him. He might not answer my questions, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t ask them.
“Is it true?”
Of course he doesn’t respond and all the frustration I’ve been bottling up for the last week rears its ugly head.
“Life can be simple,” I argue. “You just make it harder than it has to be by making the wrong choices. Thanks for taking me out on Saturday, I had a fantastic time.”
“Violet…”
“No, it’s fine. I get it, you were tied up, but a phone call would’ve been nice, Rocco. I wasn’t sure if you were dead or rotting in a jail cell somewhere. I suppose I should be grateful, though. You’re alive, you were just too busy getting fitted for suits and buying fancy cars and Rolex watches to fucking call me.”
I take it back.
Maybe things aren’t so simple, especially when what you want most comes with consequences and conditions.
“You know what the difference between me and you is? I know what I want and you don’t,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat with anger.
He quirks an eyebrow.
“Is that so?” He asks, widening his stance. He crosses his arms against his chest