A Veil of Glass and Rain (11 page)

moment, then his fingers slide into my hair and

curl around the back of my neck.

Eagan grips my nape almost roughly. The

possessive gesture makes my core throb and

clench.

His other hand is still in his pocket. His body

is not touching mine, just leaning toward me,

even so he's able to rouse my senses. It only

takes him a few, simple actions.

“What are you doing?” This time my voice is

a feeble moan.

He presses his cheek against mine, and he

rubs his beard stubble across my skin.

“I'm playing for keeps,” he responds.

“You'll leave marks.”

“I know.”

I sigh and close my eyes.

Abruptly, Eagan's fingers slip away from my

neck and his warmth doesn't envelop me any

longer. My eyes flutter open. My head spins.

“Eagan?”

He's standing a few feet away from me,

both his hands are back in his pockets, and his

head is tilted toward the bedroom door.

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” he

says.

I follow him into his bedroom on unsteady

legs. Like the rest of the apartment, the walls

are painted a light blue. Here, however, the

color makes me think more about the ocean,

because of the curtains that decorate the

window. They are a deep-blue color that fades

into green, and then it bleeds into blue again;

they're exactly like the curtains in my

bedroom.

“I found them in this famous flea market,”

he tells me.

“
Porta Portese
,” I finish for him.

“The color makes me think about the

ocean,” he admits.

I give him a small smile and a brief nod of

understanding. Then I let my gaze wander

around the rest of the room. The furniture is

simple and functional; a desk, a chair, an

armchair, a wardrobe. Finally, my eyes settle

on the king-sized bed. What really grabs my

attention is the bedding; dark-purple blanket

and sheets, and yellow pillows.

As I stare, Eagan moves to stand behind me.

Once again, his heat warms my trembly limbs.

“Purple is my favorite color,” I murmur.

I know that I whisper frequently when I'm

with him, but if I raise my voice, I'm afraid my

real feelings will appear too loud and clear, so

I try to be quiet and muffle them.

“I know. And yellow is mine.” His words

tickle the back of my neck, then he steps away

from me, leaving me once more dizzy, cold

and confused.

“Time to go, kitty-cat.”

We exit his building and step into a warm

evening. Even so, I'm glad I've decided to wear

a jacket over the dress, for Eagan's presence

keeps my skin in a feverish state. The light

cotton of the jacket is a small protection, but I

need it nonetheless.

As soon as we reach my yellow car, I find

myself with my back pressed up against the

passenger door; Eagan's firm body pushes into

mine, his knee parts my legs. I can feel the

buttons of his shirt and the zipper of his pants

scrape my skin through the silk and lace dress.

I give in to temptation and I grind my groin

against his leg. My entire being sighs with bliss

and relief.

Eagan's soft laugh makes me glance up at

him. There's a mischievous grin on his

handsome face, even as his blue gaze darkens.

I rest my palms on his broad chest. I part my

purple-painted lips. I wait for him to accept

the silent invitation.

Eagan's left hand cups my face, while his

right hand rummages inside my purse. When he

digs out the keys of my car, his grin turns into

a triumphant smile.

“I'll drive,” he says. Then he pushes away

from me.

“Eagan!” My voice is an exasperated cry.

“What?” He demands innocently, as he

circles my car. He unlocks the doors. He opens

the driver door, then he slides into the seat,

still smiling.

With nervous and jerky movements, I open

the passenger door, I get in the car, then I

close the door, still seething.

This is going to be a very long night.

Eagan proves to be an experienced and

controlled driver; he's careful but, at the same

time, he manages not to upset the crazy

Roman drivers by getting in their way.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Not really. I won't be giving the

presentation alone. A colleague of mine will

help me out.”

“Who?”

“Sara. You met her. At the museum.”

“The young woman with dark hair?”

He smiles. “Yes. She's been helping me a lot

with this project.”

I wrap my arms around my middle, for I feel

the need to protect myself against a reality I

don't appreciate.

“Why am I here, then?” I demand.

Eagan frowns, but his eyes remain focused

on the road in front of us. “What do you

mean?”

“She obviously has your back. You clearly

like her. What do you need me for?” My words

are so full of venom, they leave a sour after-

taste in my mouth.

“She's a colleague. You're my friend. There's

a huge difference.” Eagan's tone is even.

Regardless, his body tells another story. His

fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly, his

knuckles are white. I observe, with a sort of

detached fascination, the rise and fall of his

chest, as he takes long and calming breaths.

“Fine. Still, you admire her, and you dislike

me,” I insist.

His right hand leaves the wheel and moves

to the stick shift. I expect my yellow car to

lurch, as he quickly switches gears, but Eagan

is in complete control.

“What are you talking about? I adore you,

Brina. You know I do. What is wrong with you?”

There's a note of desperation in his voice.

I know he doesn't need this, especially not

tonight, but I'm hurting and I selfishly want

him to share my pain.

“According to you, everything is wrong with

me and my life,” I retort.

Eagan huffs out a deep sigh. “Tonight. You

want to have this conversation tonight? I can't

believe it,” he mutters.

I don't get to reply, because Eagan breaks

abruptly and, finally, manages to upset the

Roman drivers. They maneuver and speed by

on each side, like an enraged swarm of bees.

“Eagan?”

“This is it.” He gestures toward an old

building on our right, then he scans our

surroundings. “I don't know where to park.”

The angry drivers behind us honk wildly. It's

their way to show how much they hate the fact

that my car has stopped almost in the middle

of the road.

“We can't stay here, Eagan.”

“You think?” He snaps.

I ignore him and the other drivers, and I

quickly search for a solution. On our left I see

a spot between a motorbike and a truck. “Over

there.”

Eagan follows the direction of my gaze. “It's

too small, Brina.”

“It's perfect. The alternative is a long night

of aimless searching. Welcome to Rome.”

“It's-” Eagan's retort is swallowed by a

louder and more infuriated car-horn. His hands

still clutch the steering wheel and his limbs

seem paralyzed by fear. I don't recognize my

brave giant.

“Get out of the damn car, Eagan. I'll park

it!” I yell, exasperated and terrified.

The apartment is a pristine kingdom of white

and crystal. Walking down the spacious

hallway, I can see my reflection in the polished

marble floor.

Tonight I wanted to be pretty and

supportive. I wanted to be a good friend for

Eagan. I feel ugly instead, because jealousy is

a disheveled and dirty dress to wear. It smells

of unkindness and loneliness. It's what I'm

wearing tonight. I doubt Eagan even notices

any longer the peach-pink dress I bought for

the occasion.

As soon as we step into the apartment,

Eagan leaves me behind. I don't blame him; he

needs someone to make him feel calm and

secure, and that person is certainly not me.

The maid who takes my jacket is dressed in

white. When I enter the living room, so huge it

is almost a ballroom, I notice that they hired a

catering service, and that the waiters and

waitresses are all wearing white outfits. It is

kind of creepy.

There's also a string quartet. The musicians

all wear black and they all seem quiet young. I

immediately recognize their stiff and nervous

demeanor, for it was also my posture when I

attended music school. I feel a rush of

sympathy for them.

Then my gaze finds the baby-grand piano;

it's black, shiny and lonely. In this immense

white place we all seem fastidious stains; my

peach-pink dress, the musicians' dim clothes,

the inky shell of the grand piano.

A familiar laughter makes me turn toward

the party. I see colorful and elegant dresses,

and I spot Eagan with his dark clothes and

bright eyes, eating, drinking and chatting with

his colleagues. Sara is with him. She's not

touching him, but she's standing very close to

him. She smiles and she makes his life easy.

It hurts me to know that I can't be like her.

What really makes me feel like I'm suffocating,

though, is watching Eagan surrounded by

people that really seem to care about him.

They're not just co-workers, they're friends.

Eagan has a new family and he has new dreams

in his heart.

I clutch my purse closer to my body. I'm glad

it's small, for it appears to be an integral part

of the dress; the maid who took my jacket

didn't even notice it. With numb fingers I reach

inside and I graze my phone and my car keys.

I'm not going to run away, as I can't afford to

disappoint Eagan. But the familiar objects

grant me a sense of comfort.

I should really try participate and socialize,

because I'm beginning to feel like a misplaced

piece of furniture.

I focus on the music and let it soothe me.

The musicians are not playing classical pieces,

but modern melodies easily recognizable.

Classical and modern, a stark new

apartment inside and old building, huge

windows that open to the eternal city; all

these elements clash and mingle into a strange

blend.

And then trouble finds me. It has a

voluptuous figure, dark hair, and a seductive

voice. And it's holding a sharp knife.

Sara needs my assistance to cut the pie that

she baked. She doesn't ask the waiters or

waitresses for help because, while I cut her

pie, she wants to be sure I hear everything

about her time spent working with Eagan. It is

an epic story about a new and unbreakable

bond. Each cut into the crusty pie is a wound

in my tender heart.

Then I feel Eagan's warmth beside me. And I

see his hand moving toward Sara's hand. “How

are my two favorite girls doing?” He demands.

Then I'm not cutting the pie anymore, I'm

slicing Eagan's vulnerable palm.

I hear the screams. I see the blood. I drop

the knife.

12.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Eagan locks us in the wide white bathroom.

From behind the closed door I can hear the

startled murmurs of the other guests.

Eagan shoves his wounded hand under the

faucet, letting cold water wash away his

blood. Pink rivulets stain the pristine sink.

Meanwhile, his left hand yanks the doors of the

various cabinets open and then slaps them

shut.

“This house looks like a fucking hospital, but

there isn't a damn first-aid kit,” Eagan

mutters.

Through a veil of tears I observe the pink

water spinning and disappearing inside the

drain. All of a sudden Eagan wraps his fingers

around my nape; this time it's not an arousing

gesture, it is meant to bring me back to

reality. His angry blue eyes pierce and slice my

heart.

“Don't you dare cry over this, Brina. Just

help me fix it.” He shakes me, almost roughly.

I nod and kneel on the cold and polished

marble floor. I open the cabinet under the sink

and I groan, for all I find are white towels and

fluffy toilet paper.

I glance up at Eagan and I lick my dry lips,