Текст книги "A Little Too Much"

Автор книги: Lisa Desrochers

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“So we’re doing the scene from Act Two of The Taming of the Shrew, where Petruchio is trying to get into Katherine’s pants,” the taller one, Vee, says.

Kamara steps in front of her. “I’m Petruchio.”

“And I’m Katherine,” Vee says.

Quinn rolls his hand in a circle. “Just get on with it.”

Kamara clears her throat and stands straight, holding out her hand to Vee. “Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear.”

Vee makes a disgusted face. “Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:

They call me Katherine that do talk of me.”

“You lie, in faith; for you are call’d plain Kate, and bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst.”

Kamara keeps rolling, pouring it on as she finishes the long list of all Kate’s virtues. As they banter back and forth, everyone around the circle is on the edge of laughing. When they finish, they sit with a bow and flourish, and everyone claps. But then the next three girls do utterly uninspired Juliet monologues and bring the whole room down. By the time we get all the way back around the circle to me, everyone is yawning.

“What you got, Irish?” Quinn says, elbowing me. “Time to lay it all on the table.”

“Keep your bony elbows to yourself, old man.” I stand and move to the center of the circle. “So, this is Rosalind . . . or her male alter ego, Ganymede, really, trying to convince Phoebe to love Silvius instead of him . . . or her . . . or whatever. It’s from Act Three, scene five of As You Like it.”

I close my eyes, feeling Rosalind seep into my bloodstream.

“And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, that you insult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched?” A tingly rush prickles my skin as I open myself up to her, letting her have me.

“What though you have no beauty as by my faith, I see no more in you than without candle may go dark to bed, must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?” I ask, raising my voice and lifting my hand, pressing it into my chest as Rosalind starts to use my body as hers.

“I see no more in you than in the ordinary of nature’s sale-work. Od’s my little life!”

I open my eyes and move around the circle. Quinn smiles and shakes his head as I glide past.

“I think she means to tangle my eyes too. No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it: ’Tis not your inky brows,” I say, running a fingertip over Nathan’s, “your black silk hair,” I add, my hand raking through his waves. Mike elbows him and I see him blush. “Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, that can entame my spirits to your worship.”

This is the part I love about acting—when I totally escape into the character—someone who’s not me. I let Rosalind have me, body and soul, as she tells us about how foolish men are. But as she finishes by telling Pheobe to stop pining over her male alter ego and take what she’s got right in front of her, my real life creeps back into my thoughts.

Just like in Shakespeare, when you fall head over heals in love with someone you don’t even know, it’s never going to end well. Love killed Juliet when she was thirteen. I made it all the way to fourteen before it nearly killed me.

Chapter Four

JESS IS GOING to get this one. I can feel it. Chalk it up to karma or whatever you want. It’s just for a tiny, short-run off-off Broadway show, but if it does well, there’s the possibility of going on the road. LA and maybe Vegas. Vegas could be kind of fun. They’re taking three for the chorus and she was by far the best. Me, not so much, but I’m not surprised. It’s the read where I usually shine, and there’s no read for this part. At least this time, I’m spared the humiliation of getting rejected right in front of everyone. They’re not posting callbacks until tomorrow. It’s not until I grab my bag that I notice Brett in the back. He’s talking to the director.

“We’re still on for tonight?” Jess asks me, pulling my attention away from trying desperately to read the director’s lips.

“Yeah. Club Sixty-nine, right? On Ludlow? Ten?”

“Perfect. Mind if I invite some other friends too?”

I give her a quick, sweaty hug, so I can watch over her shoulder without being rude, as Brett knuckle bumps the director. “It’s your party. Invite whoever you want.” I pull back as Brett makes his way to the stage. “Gotta go, but see you tonight.”

I turn and Brett is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “What did he say?” I mutter as I make my way down.

He shrugs. “He might be able to find something for you.”

I can’t help myself. I leap off the last stair onto him and wrap my legs around his waist, grinning like a moron. “Thank you!”

He grins back. “Don’t thank me yet, babe. But I like the enthusiasm.”

He turns for the side door with me still clinging to him like a monkey, but then I see the director giving us a look. I slide off Brett and try to appear . . . something other than crazy.

“See ya, Tim,” Brett calls with a wave as we head for the door.

The director lifts a hand. “I’ll text you about the audition.”

“What audition?” I ask once we’re on the sidewalk.

“Something he thought you might be better suited for.”

Great. “Which means he’s not giving me a part.”

We weave through the crowded sidewalk toward the subway and he loops his arm around my waist. “You don’t know that.”

“So what’s this other thing?”

“It’s a recast for someone who got knocked up in When You Least Expect It. Says he’ll get you on the audition list.”

I feel my eyes go wide. “At the Elektra? Are you shitting me?”

He grins as he wends us through a swarm of high-school kids in matching orange T-shirts who are clogging the sidewalk. “As far as I know, no, I am not shitting you.”

“But that’s off-Broadway. Open run!”

“Last I looked.” He’s all smug now, trying to hide his self-satisfied smirk.

But then reality comes crashing down on me. “I’m not going to get it.”

He tugs me to his side. “Tim says the dancing is less choreographed for that one so they’re basically looking for someone with a hot body, because there’s a partial nude . . . which you have covered,” he adds, squeezing my ass, “and a voice, which you also got.”

“When is the audition?”

“He just heard about it so he’s not sure. After Thanksgiving, maybe. Said he’d talk to the director and get you on the list, then let me know.”

I’m not even going to let myself believe I might get this. But . . . holy shit!

We jump on the subway, but when we get to Columbus Circle, I stand. “I’m gonna get some tea and run an errand. I’ll be home in a while.”

“I’ve got rehearsal in a few hours. Don’t keep me waiting too long,” he says with that sexy smile and raised eyebrows.

I climb the stairs and head up Central Park West to Sixty-second Street, where my feet slow. I stand on the corner and stare at the building. The West Side YMCA is in a really old brick building just up from Central Park. I’ve walked past this intersection a thousand times, but I’ve never had a reason to turn up Sixty-second. I don’t have a reason now either . . . at least not one that makes sense, but I do it anyway.

“What am I even doing here?” I ask out loud, but that doesn’t stop my feet from carrying me over the threshold. Through a second set of wooden doors is a reception area. I almost turn around, but instead, I head to the desk.

A young Asian man is behind the counter, laughing into a cell phone. I wait a few minutes until he hangs up. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“Um . . . maybe. There’s a guy who I think volunteers here . . . Alessandro Moretti?”

He just looks at me a second like he’s expecting more. When I just stare back, he says, “ ‘Here’ is a big place. You’ll have to be more specific.”

I shrug. “I don’t have anything more specific.”

“You can try the gym,” he finally says, looking at the screen of his cell phone. “Take the elevator to the third floor.” He waves his hand at the corridor as he sticks the phone to his ear.

I turn and head in the direction he indicated and find the elevator. When the door opens on three, there is a desk with another Asian guy who could be the last guy’s brother. “Hi,” I say as I step up to the desk. He lifts his face out of the book he’s reading and stares at me blankly. “Do you know if there’s a guy named Alessandro Moretti that volunteers here?”

Finally, something registers on his face. It might be curiosity. “Yeah.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, I ask, “Do you know if he’s maybe here? Now?”

He sets his book facedown on the desk. “He’s here.”

After another awkward beat, I lean on the counter. “Do you think maybe I could see him?”

He points to a staircase. “Up one flight. He’s in the basketball gym.”

I find out that’s not as easy as it sounded when I get up one flight and find a weight room first, and then a pool. I look around both places for someone who looks like they might belong here. I finally see an older Hispanic man who is probably a custodian coming out of a locker room.

“Um . . . hi.”

The man looks up at me and smiles. “Hello.”

Why am I nervous? I force myself to stop fidgeting. “Where is the basketball gym?”

“If you go straight through the women’s locker room,” he says, indicating the door just down from where we are, “you’ll find it on the other side.”

I catch myself worrying my lower lip and make myself stop. “Thanks.”

He smiles again and turns for the stairs.

I weave through the women’s locker room and push through the door at the other end into a gym with a running track on a mezzanine above it. There’s a group of four black kids shooting hoops at one end, and in the corner under the mezzanine is a guy in a wifebeater, loose black athletic shorts, and boxing gloves, punching a hanging bag. His skin shimmers under a sheen of sweat, and I catch my gaze wandering over the ripple of muscles in his arms as he lashes out at the bag, a blistering rhythm of hard lefts and rights. I’m not sure what that bag ever did to him, but he’s clearly intent upon killing it.

As my eyes trace the lines of the veins of his forearm, I realize I’m not breathing. Nothing is as hot as a great pair of man-arms, and these are some of the sexiest arms I’ve ever seen.

The problem is, they’re attached to Alessandro.

The whistle from the group of boys on the court breaks my daze, and I realize I’m on the edge of drooling. It also catches Alessandro’s attention. He turns, and when he sees me standing near the doors, his whole body tenses. After a long beat, he tugs off his boxing gloves, tossing them to the floor near the bag, and walks over. By the time he reaches me, I’m just about ready to bolt . . . or trace my finger down one of those arm veins, pulsing under perfect, sweaty skin.

What was I thinking, coming here?

He stops in front of me—out of my reach, I can’t help but notice—and his lips press into a line.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to slap you . . .” I tell him. “Unless you deserve it.”

“I think we both know I deserve it.” He looks at me a long time and I have to pull my eyes away from his. I’m just now remembering a person could get lost in his deep gaze. “Is there something you wanted?”

I shrug and run my fingers over the dark wooden door frame next to me. “I was in the neighborhood.”

That gets a flicker of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then I’m glad you stopped by.”

“Sorry I slapped you,” I blurt, not even sure where it came from, but as I say it, I know it’s true.

“I’m sorry I gave you reason to.” The skin around his eyes crinkles as he looks at me, as if he’s trying to see into my head. “Would you like to get something to drink?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He gestures with a nod of his head back toward the locker rooms. “I’ll meet you at the central staircase.”

I nod and move back through the locker room in the direction I came. A minute later, Alessandro emerges through the door of the men’s locker room, a gray hoodie covering those amazing arms.

He motions with a sweep of his arm toward the stairs, and when we get to the first floor, he directs me into a small café there.

“Help yourself to whatever you’d like,” he says with a nod at the drink case.

I slide open the door and pluck a bottle of Diet Coke off the shelf. He chooses a container of Muscle Milk and we settle in at a table near the window.

He crosses one ankle over the other knee, then just looks at me for a long, uncomfortable minute. “When I left, you were waiting for the courts to award your sister custody,” he finally says.

“Yeah.” I’m not going to tell him that, for half of the time in between, I was in rehab. I don’t really remember much about it anyway, and even if I did, it’s none of his business. “I moved in with her about five months after you left.”

He nods. “You were happy there?”

“She and Jeff have always been great to me.” And that’s all he’s getting. His turn to answer some questions. “How did Lorenzo die?” And that’s it, I realize. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I need to know.

His eyes flash to me, dark and guarded, as he stiffens. It takes him a minute to unclamp his jaw, and when he does, his voice is low. “How much do you remember about Lorenzo?”

I remember he hurt me. I remember he dealt drugs. I remember he didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. “He was tough. I remember he hit Ms. Jenkins.”

Alessandro nods slowly. “He was thirteen when our father was killed in the 9/11 attacks, and he’d already been in trouble. Our father was able to rein him in, but after he was gone, and our mother became . . . ill, there was no one he felt accountable to. We ended up in juvenile detention because Lorenzo decided to rob a street vendor. It was a habit he never broke. He was shot and killed in Toulon, France, two years ago during a store robbery.”

“Were you with him?”

His face pulls tight as he shakes his head. “No. He left my grandparents’ shortly after turning eighteen . . . just a few months after we’d arrived in Corsica. We never heard from him again until we were notified he’d been killed.”

“Why didn’t you just move back with your mother when you got out of juvie? Why go to Corsica with your grandparents?”

He spins his drink absently with his fingers and I can’t help notice his hands. They’re strong and sure, and his fingers are long. “Our mother attempted suicide while Lorenzo and I were in juvenile detention,” he answers. “She had never been well after our father was killed. Her parents brought her home to Corsica to care for her.”

“Suicide?” That snaps me out of my sexy-hand daze. Did he tell me that? Back then? There’s so much I really don’t remember. I feel suddenly cold and wrap my arms around myself, shuddering at the memory that surfaces. “But she’s okay?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “She survived, but she’s never been the same.”

My guts are in a hard knot and I’m having trouble taking a full breath. This is all hitting a little too close to home. I shift in my chair and veer the conversation away from his mother and her botched suicide. “Corsica . . . Rome. That sounds pretty amazing. Why would you want to come back here?”

He hesitates a long second, and when I look up at him, his expression is guarded. “My life took an unexpected turn this spring. When I left training for the priesthood my—”

“Whoa! Back up a sec. The priesthood?”

He rubs his forehead and nods. “I graduated seminary last year. I was days away from my ordination this April when I changed my mind.”

“You wanted to become a priest?” It comes out sharp and cynical. I can’t even begin to get my head around the kid I knew becoming a man of the cloth.

His gaze goes all intense and I swear to God it’s like he’s trying to see into my skull. “I’ve changed since you knew me, Hilary.”

“When I knew you, you were dealing drugs and ruining my life!” It slices out of my mouth like a blade before I even think it, but there’s some satisfaction when I see it hit the mark. His piercing gaze clouds and he won’t meet my eyes.

He picks up his drink and takes a sip. “As I’ve already said, I’m sorry for my part in what happened to you. I’ve always regretted it.”

He’s regretted it. He’s regretted me. Fine. It’s not like that’s news.

“So, why did you change your mind? Why aren’t you a priest?”

“I fell in love.”

Somewhere deep inside me, a knife twists. “So . . . you’re with someone?”

He shakes his head slowly as something like chagrin flashes over his face, but it’s gone as fast. “No. We’re not together.”

“Why? I mean, if you gave up the priesthood . . .”

“She was in love with someone else,” he says, watching his finger trace circles on the tabletop. “But she was the pebble in my shoe that made me see what I’d dogmatically pursued for my entire adult life wasn’t my path. She made me question myself and realize I don’t have the discipline it takes for that life. I’ve never had that kind of control,” he adds, his dark gaze locking on mine.

“You love her.” He loves her. I can’t explain the sudden burst of bitterness I feel at the thought, except that it explodes out of the deepest layers of my being.

“I did,” he says. “She’s an extraordinary person.”

Suddenly, I want to make him suffer the way I did when he left me, and I know just the thing. I turn back and smile at him. “It’s my friend Jess’s birthday. I’m taking her to Club Sixty-nine on the Lower East Side tonight. You should come.”

I’m sure he’ll beg off. I can’t see Mr. I-almost-became-a-priest enjoying himself at a dance club. But that’s exactly why I invited him—to get him on my playing field and throw him off his game. I want to see him as uncomfortable as he makes me. I want to see him squirm. And I definitely know how to make men squirm.

“What time?” he asks.

“Ten.”

He gives me a slow nod. “And what is the dress?”

“You don’t get out much do you?” I smirk. “Dress hot. It’s a dance club.”

He huffs a laugh out his nose. “No, I don’t ‘get out much,’ but I’m sure I can find something that works.”

A little zing of electricity shoots up my spine. This is going to be so satisfying. He falls in love with someone else, but he regrets me? Fine. He’s going to see what he had and gave up. He’s going to squirm with his hard-on, knowing he can never have me again.

My turn to hurt him for a change.

Chapter Five

WHEN I GET home, Brett has already left for rehearsal. Since my normal outlet is gone, I decide to work up a sweat by cleaning. I need something mindless to keep me occupied until show time. I scrub three months’ worth of soap scum off the shower, give the kitchen floor its annual mopping, wash the overflowing mound of dishes in the kitchen sink, and wipe down every surface in the place.

Brett comes in just as I’m finishing the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

I duck into the fridge, which I probably should have cleaned in my frenzy. “There’s leftover Chinese takeout and . . . whatever this is,” I say pulling a styrofoam take-out box off the shelf and opening it. My face pinches against the rancid smell. “Ugh! No . . . you definitely don’t want that.” I say, pitching the moldy Mexican leftovers in the trash. “We have eggs. I could do a cheese omelet.”

I love to cook, but our refrigerator is pretty sparse because I’m at the bar most nights and Brett’s happy with takeout. Plus, the cooking is great, and the eating is great, but the cleaning up afterward blows.

Brett comes up behind me and cups my ass in his palms. “You keep pointing this thing in my face you’ll be eating me for dinner.”

“As appealing at that sounds, I’m drinking tonight, so I’ll need a little more than that to keep me vertical.”

He glides a hand between my legs. “Who you going out with?”

I brush his hand away and reach for the Chinese containers. “Jess. It’s her birthday.” I spin, kicking the fridge door closed. “You want to come?”

I only ask ’cause I know he’ll say no.

“Not really, babe. I’ve got poker at Rob’s tonight. Probably won’t be home till late.”

Which really means he won’t be home at all tonight. He usually stumbles in from his poker nights around sunrise, stinking of cigars and whisky.

I just shrug. That’s the great thing about our relationship. I don’t have to pretend I’m upset. No fake, “Jeez, hon, that’s too bad. We’ll miss you.” He knows I don’t really give a shit.

I take the Chinese containers to the microwave and heat up the contents, then dump the mu shu and chow mein onto plates.

“I heard about another audition you should go to,” he says as I bring the plates to the couch. “It’s not a musical, but it’s got a pretty big cast, so it’s worth a shot.”

I hand him his plate and drop onto the couch next to him. “If it’s not a musical, they probably won’t even want to see me.”

“If you want it, I’ll get you the audition,” he says through a mouthful of noodles. “There’s no dancing, so all you have to do is look hot and deliver your lines.”

I just look at him. Why is he helping me so much all of a sudden? After a second, he looks up and sees me staring.

“I’ll get you the audition,” he says, a little irritated, like I’m a bitch for questioning him.

I twirl my fork in my noodles and a few spill off the edge of the plate onto my lap. “Damn.” I look for somewhere to set my plate and end up putting it on the seat next to me. “Why don’t we have a coffee table?”

He shrugs and picks noodles off my lap. “Just never got one, I guess. Plus they take up space.”

“I want one.”

He quirks a half smile. “Go for it.”

When we’re done eating, I head to the shower and I’m a little relieved when Brett doesn’t follow me. I’m feeling uncharacteristically unhorny. Too busy plotting, I guess.

I’m going to be the hottest thing Alessandro’s ever laid eyes on. He regrets me? I’m going to make him regret the day he gave me up.

I slip on a sheer black thong then rifle through my closet, knowing exactly the outfit: a tight-fitting silver halter that is nearly transparent, and a tiny ruffled black skirt that barely covers my ass. I’ve got the perfect shoes too. Five-inch platforms that make my legs look totally lickable.

I want Alessandro to want to lick me.

Once I’m dressed, I smudge on some blush, draw on eyeliner, and brush on mascara. There’s no freaking way Alessandro’s going to be able to resist.

WHEN JESS AND I get to the club, we skip the line and the bouncer lets us in without a cover. I tug off my jacket, leaving it on the back of a chair near the door, and look for Alessandro. Jess and I are half an hour late, and there’s no way Mr. Uptight would be anything but punctual. I finally see him leaning against the bar talking to a pair of brunettes, one of whom is bursting out of her low-cut tank.

And, damn, he’s hot.

His hair is combed back and he’s got the sexiest case of five-o’clock shadow I’ve ever seen. He’s in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up and one tail loose over faded jeans that fit him in a way that makes me want to rip them off.

I pull Jess onto the dance floor and bounce to the pulsing dance beat. We writhe around each other and by the end of the song, I’m slick with sweat. When I look over at Alessandro, I see the brunettes are gone and he’s watching me from the bar with rapt interest.

Bait taken. Time to lure him in.

The song changes over to one of my favorites. I close my eyes and let my body pulse with the rhythm as Dev sings about wandering hands and a sex drive that’s push to start. All the muscles in my belly contract when I feel long, strong hands on my shoulders. Showtime.

I’m going to make him want me so hard, he won’t know what hit him when I shut him down.

I open my eyes and there Alessandro is, his smoldering gaze raking over my body. I raise my arms slowly overhead as I move to the music, giving him an up-close-and-personal look at the girls, daring him to touch me. With this top and no bra, they’re a pretty spectacular sight, if I do say so myself.

Jess grins and shimmies off to dance with a mixed group near us—probably the people she invited. I recognize a few of them from auditions.

Alessandro leans in and I catch his scent—some tangy, spicy cologne that seems to hardwire my nose to my groin. “That was quite the show,” he says, his voice thick and rough.

You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

I put on my fuck-me smile and swing my hips to the music. He shocks the hell out of me when he lays his hands on my waist and starts to move with me. I spin in his arms so he’s behind me and grasp his wrists, feeling the strength in his forearms. God, he’s got great arms. I glide his hands over my ass, down the backs of my thighs, to the bottom edge of my tiny skirt. His hands are sure and firm against my skin and he doesn’t resist me.

Heat pulses through me as I close my eyes and roll my hips in a circle. I glide his hands slowly up my backside, bringing my short skirt with them and leaving his fingers on bare skin, then press myself into him. He doesn’t miss a beat, moving his hips with mine to the rhythm. I grind a circle against him and damn if he doesn’t play along. For a guy who was inches from becoming a priest, he’s pretty damn bold. I loop my arms behind me, around his neck, and press my whole back into his whole front, and I swear I feel a low groan in his chest as his head tips back. His hands slide up my sides and stop on my rib cage below my breasts.

And damn if I don’t want them to keep going. I think my plan might be backfiring, because everywhere he touches me, I’m on fire.

I turn to face him and the look in his eye, hungry and raw, makes my heart beat faster. I run my hands over his strong forearms as his hands glide around me, pulling me tight to his body, one knee sliding between mine. His face is in my hair, his hot breath sending goose bumps skittering over my skin despite the fact that that I feel like we’re standing five inches from the sun. We dance just like that, plastered against each other, his hand on my back, his fingers brushing the bare skin at the waist of my skirt, and I lose track of everything except the pounding of the music and the heat of his body.

This was a very bad plan.

I wanted him to want me. I wanted to hurt him.

But just as I feel myself starting to question whether I might actually follow through, I feel a rumble in his chest and a low growl escapes his throat. I barely hear it over the deafening music, but the next second, he’s pushing me away like I’ve burned him. His eyes are closed and his jaw is ground tight and he just stands there, still as stone for a few long heartbeats. He doesn’t even breathe.

“I have to go,” he finally grinds out.

“What?” I say, incredulous. “Why?”

He opens his eyes and takes another deep breath before answering. “Because coming here was a mistake.”

I’m so stunned that I can’t even move for a second as he turns and stalks off the dance floor. I was supposed to make him want me. I was supposed to shut him down. How did my plan get so totally turned on its head? How is it I’m the one standing here aching where I shouldn’t? How is it him shutting me down?

Jess is a few feet away, dancing slow with a cute redhead with pouty lips. I tap her shoulder. “Sorry, Jess, but I’ve got to go.”

The redhead runs her fingers down the open back of Jess’s dress and clings a little more tightly, and I get the distinct feeling Jess wasn’t leaving here with me tonight anyway. “Will you be okay getting home?” she asks.

“I’m good. Call me tomorrow?”

“Okay,” she says as the redhead nuzzles her neck.

I storm off the dance floor and grab my jacket, following Alessandro out the door. He’s already almost half a block up.

“Just keep walking, asshole!” I yell at his back.

He doesn’t turn around. The only indication he heard me is the way his purposeful stride stalls for a beat before he does exactly what I told him to do.

I lean back against the building and tip my head up, staring at the overcast sky, waiting for my heart rate to slow to the noncoronary inducing range. But when I push off the building, I see Alessandro striding back toward me, looking like he’s on a mission. He’s almost on top of me before I know it.

“What do you want from me, Hilary?”

There’s an angry edge to his words that makes me furious. He has no right to be pissed at me. “I want you to go back to Rome or Corsica or wherever the hell you came from and leave me alone.”

His jaw tightens and something passes over his face as he works to contain whatever it is that he wants to say.

“Why the hell did you come back here anyway?” I spit.

He throws his hands in the air and spins, pacing away from me in the direction he came. But then he turns back and looks at me with hard charcoal eyes. “I don’t know! I don’t know why I do anything anymore! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to make this right,” he says, flinging his arm between us. “I don’t know how to fix any of it.”

He finishes his rant by dropping his chin to his chest and rubbing his forehead, and that’s when I realize it’s not me he’s pissed at. He’s angry with himself. Very angry, based on the way his face twisted in disgust as he said that.

I catch myself feeling sorry that I yelled at him, but then I stop. I’m not going to feel sorry for him. After everything, he’s got no right to my sympathy. “Just go home, Alessandro,” I say, turning for the subway.

I hoof it up Ludlow Street as fast as I can in my killer heels . . . which isn’t all that fast. I hate that I’m wearing them. I hate that I’m wearing this whole outfit. What was I even thinking? This was such a stupid plan.

Despite my vow not to look back, I do as I round the corner onto Broome, toward the Grand Street station, and see Alessandro following behind, half a block back. I start walking faster, but I’ve only gotten to the end of the first building when someone says, “Hey!” from very close by.

I turn and see a pair of white kids, maybe eighteen or nineteen, hanging in a dark doorway. One of them has his hoodie up, shadowing his face, a lit cigarette pinched between his thumb and finger, all dark and brooding. The other one is a tall, blond, grinning fool.

The blond kid steps out of the doorway. His eyes rake over me and I pull my jacket closed. “You looking for a good time?”

I am so not in the mood for this. “I am so far out of your league, honey, that you wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with me.”

The one with the cigarette glares at me, but the blond laughs. “I’m sure we could think of a thing or two.”