Chapter 18

18

JACK

" H ow you doin' today?" Ronnie asks me.

He heard what happened from Foz, I guess. Who could resist the gossip that the don of the Marino family got dumped in the back room of a bar by a part-time waitress? The guys are only human after all. I feel my jaw tighten, the tension bristle through me.

"I'm good, Ron. How are you?"

"I'm doin' fine. Just wanted to check in on you. You did so good by me when I was out with my surgery, and it seems like the thing to do, return the favor."

"My prostate's fine," I quip.

He gives a wheezy chuckle. "I still can't thank ya enough for watchin' out for the old place when I was out of commission. If there's anything I can ever do—have yous around for a barbecue this weekend maybe?" he offers. I'm getting a pity invite from an employee. My pride can barely handle this hit.

"That's real nice of you," I say, "wish I could accept, but I'm all booked up." I lie with a straight face. All I have planned for this weekend is to be bitter about Serena Mayfield.

"That's good to hear, boss," he says like he's encouraging some kid.

"Thanks again, Ronnie. Did you need anything?"

"Nah, just checkin' up on ya," he says fondly.

"Tell Foz to concentrate on slinging drinks," I say wryly.

"Not sure it'll do any good, but I can try," he responds.

I finish tying my sneakers and head back to my home gym. One thing's for sure, my workouts are getting the time they deserve. It turns out that any upper body work hurts like hell with my stitches, so it's leg day every day. I turn the volume to max and zone out while I follow along with the workout. Interval training at least shuts off my brain. The sweat burns my eyes, and I can barely breathe. I cue up another session and push through.

This time I'm so winded, my muscles trying to cramp, that I can't dissociate. My thoughts go in a loop, chasing each other through my mind.

She said she was so happy with me.

The loop repeats again and again. At last, I stumble over to stretch and drink some water. I remind myself what I know to be true.

Her eyes brighten when she sees me.

Her smile heals my soul.

I lay on the mat, trying to let my body cool down. I toy with the idea of funding a scholarship specifically for her, something with a living stipend tied to it so she can't use it to bail out her father. That's controlling, I realize.

It makes me uncomfortable that I want to make her decisions for her, that I feel entitled to dictate what she would spend a stipend on. I could just tell my finance guy I want her taken care of. He could arrange for expenses, a line of credit, some kind of restriction to keep her from liquidating assets to give her father's debtors. But I don't want to outsource this or her.

My head throbs, and I know I need to grab another bottle of water.

If I had to describe her in one word, and that word couldn't be ‘mine', it would be 'loyal'. Not ‘coward' or ‘weak'. Walking away from me after every word and action up until I got stabbed was loving and attached and euphoric was not about weakness. Serena gave me no reason to doubt that she wants to be with me until, like Lynette said, I went and got hurt and scared the hell out of her.

I was too strung out from pain and blood loss to think straight when she walked out on me. If I'd been able to reason it out at the time, it was obvious she got spooked and ran off.

She was afraid. I didn't even notice, didn't comfort her. It sickens me to realize that. As a man, I weigh myself in the balance and judge myself as wanting. She deserves more than a man with a bruised ego who blames her for his own transgression. I failed her, failed to see her terror.

I should've taken her in my arms and told her the truth. That my job has its risks and while that won't change, my habits and security protocols can be altered to make everything safer, to reduce the danger. I should have assured her I could keep her safe and that I would take better care with my own life now that it matters to her. I nearly choke on shame from the profound apology I owe her.

I vault off the mat, pulse racing, wondering if this is clarity or if it's a stroke symptom. A quick shower and I'm in street clothes. I waste minutes debating whether to bring her flowers, whether to call her first or just show up at her door. With an apology. With roses. With a damned diamond ring. With my heart in my hand.

It galls me to wait, to show restraint. But I make myself sit and dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. I don't leave a message. I sit and hold my phone, willing the screen to light up with a call back from her. Minutes pass, but she never calls back. Chest aching with want, the urgency thrumming in my blood, I pace the length of my penthouse again and again.

In desperation, I call Lynette again.

"You came to your senses?" she says by way of a greeting.

"You could say that. I tried to call her, and it went to voicemail."

"Can ya blame her?"

"That's not productive," I frown.

"Did you think you called one of your lieutenants that you say jump and they say how high, boss? Cause you got the wrong number if you think so," she says.

"I know better than that," I tell her, "But I want to know what to do. To do this right, to apologize and reassure her about security concerns and the danger. Without being pushy and controlling. Like I wanna show up at her door with flowers and champagne, but something tells me that's intrusive."

"Intrusive, creepy as hell—whatever you wanna call it, Jacky. Do not show up at her door without talking to her first. For one thing, if I don't know somebody's coming over ahead of time, I don't answer the door."

"Okay, so what then?"

"You gotta reach out to her, be patient, be extra sweet and not pushy. See if she'll meet you somewhere at a time that's good for her. That lets her know that you want to make the effort for her, not that you're trying to fit her into your schedule like you're Mr. Important. Even though you're Mr. Important."

"Good point. I'll take that advice. Thanks. And thanks for not giving me a mountain of shit about being in my feelings before. It was a weird time for me."

"Yeah, you met rejection face-to-face. It had to be a shock to you."

"Okay, I thanked you for not rubbing it and now you're rubbing it in," I grumble.

"Yeah, I know. Since you don't have a sister, I'm here to keep you humble."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Message her, just say you are thinking of her, or you miss her. Or something that reminds you of her. Not something dirty."

"Okay."

"And don't expect her to answer the first time. Wait a day and message her something else. Something sweet but not pushy. Then leave it. See if she messages you back by day three," she says with confidence.

"Day three? How am I supposed to wait that long?" I say.

"Because you're a man who knows she's worth waiting for," she says. I'm trapped and I know it. I can't argue with that reasoning.

"All right. Thanks. And if you think about a way to get her to answer me quicker—that would be good news," I try to understate it and show less of my desperation, but I'm not sure I succeed.

"Shoot your shot and then put away the phone. Wait till she makes the next move. Trust me on this."

"I'll do my best to trust you on this," I say. "But I know how you and Louie are enjoying watching me squirm."

"Like a worm on a fishhook, Jacky," she says with no small amusement in her voice.

I sit for a while and try to compose what I will say to Serena. Nothing seems right. I want to say something that'll stop her in her tracks and make her think about me and only me. There won't be room for anyone else in her mind or heart, not when she thinks about love and how close we feel to each other. I rewrite it about nine times before I decide I'm being an idiot and just message her that I miss her, and we need to talk.

In triumph I send Lynette a screenshot of my text.

NOOOOOOOOO, she replies

WTF ? I demand, you said text her that I miss her. That's what I did.

No. You said ‘we need to talk' which is making it about you, not giving her the control.

I hate to admit that she's right.

I take a deep breath and compose a simple message telling her I miss her and that I hope she's doing alright.

I set my phone down and huff out a breath of frustration.

Now, I wait.