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Dinner. 6pm. Staying with me tonight. I’ll send a car. Dress nice.

Chuckling, I looked down at the command I’m given almost every time we’re together.

Dress nice.

I desperately needed to go shopping. Which is why I text Nikki, asking her to meet me for lunch.

Walking into my office, I stop in my track when I see Michael sitting behind my desk. Glaring at him, my fists ball by my sides and I grit my teeth. “You’d better have a good reason for skipping school, Mickey.”

He grins, “Pupil free-day.”

My steam evaporates and I stroll all the way into my office, “Well, that’s a pretty good reason, I’d say.” Winking at him, I walk all the way over to him and sigh. Twitch told me he’d been roughed up. He also told me he dealt with it. When I asked what had happened, he threw seriousness in my face and said in dead calm, “
Don’t ask, don’t tell
.”

That obviously made me feel about as relaxed as a person with a boil on their eye.

Taking Michael’s face in my hands, I look down at him with sad eyes. “Let me look at you, sweetie.”

His nose swollen and crooked, his lip cut at the left side, and his eye black but the swelling seeming to have gone, I decide to play it cool and not show just how much I’m freaking out over the fact that one of my kids was beaten. And beaten good.

Still cupping his cheek, I run a hand through his now short and neat do. “You okay?”

His eyes close at the feel of my fingers in his hair.
 

My chest pangs.

How long has it been since someone has shown Michael motherly affection?

My guess is a long stinking time.

Eyes closed, he mumbles, “I’m good. Nothing I haven’t been through before. I love my job.”

That makes me smile. A genuine smile.

Releasing him from my clutches, I cluck, “Good! No, great! How’s your new boss?”

Okay. I’m officially fishing for information. Can you blame me?

Michael dips his chin and smiles softly. “I don’t know where that guy came from, Miss Ballentine. But I’m grateful.” Looking up at me, his face turns serious. “The way he took care of what happened...” His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Your boyfriend is seriously fucking scary.”

Rather than correct his assumption, I scowl at him. “Language.”

Looking into me with empty eyes, he utters distractedly, “Sorry. He was all cut, stab, and gouge, and I was just like
what
? And then he was all smiley again, like nothing happened, and I was seriously freaking out worrying.” His eyes meet mine, and Michael comes back from the trip delved deep into his mind. “But I think he likes me.” He smiles.

He looks so happy. But I’m still stuck on
cut, stab, and gouge
.

My blood runs cold.

Clearing my throat, I turn my back to him and ask in false cheer, “What are your plans today?”

I hear Michael stand. “Work. I should get going. Mr. T wouldn’t be happy if I was late.”

Pretending to fetch some books from the shelf at the side of the room, I call out, “Okay, Mickey. Be safe.”

The door closes behind him, and placing a hand to my heaving chest, I wonder how I’m going to get through dinner tonight.
 

Cancelling on Twitch is not an option.

Sitting in the back of the car, smoothing down my little black dress which doesn’t need smoothing, I hyperventilate a little more and think about how I bring up what Michael told me today.

Having decided I would wait until dinner is over, I do my best at placing a poker face on as the door to my side opens and the mature, greying driver holds a hand out to me. Placing my hand in his, I step out and come face-to-face with Twitch. His eyes crinkle in the corners, but then he loses his smile when he spots my dress and heels. His already hooded eyes hood a wee bit more, and he leans in, placing his lips at my cheek in a gesture of affection that takes me aback.

Breaking out into goosebumps, I shiver and close my eyes.

Twitch takes my small hand in his large tattooed one and leads me towards the front door of the quaint little Italian restaurant.

His choice of venue surprises me. This doesn’t look like something he would choose. He looks the type to choose fancy. Or expensive. And modern.

Not sweet, warm, and delicious.

We stand in line waiting to be seated when an older man comes towards us wearing a white shirt and a white chef’s hat, wiping his wet hands with a dish towel, and speaking rapid-fire Italian.

Twitch grins at the man before letting go of my hand and taking a step towards him. The older man kisses his cheeks, still talking up a storm. With his animated hand gestures and playful scowls, I can’t help but smile at him. He pinches Twitch’s cheek hard, shakes it a little, then let’s go, but not before slapping his cheek.

And the thought of someone treating him in such a way is a shock. So much of a shock that my eyes widen and I have to bite my lip hard to hold in my laughter.

When the man spots me, he does a double-take, and his enthusiastic speech halts. Smiling a sweet smile, he says, “Hello. I’m Joe.”
 

Holding out a hand to me, I take it and smile genuinely. “I’m Lexi. Nice to meet you, Joe.”

Twitch rolls his eyes at the man. “Just get us a table, old man. We’re hungry.”

Elbowing Twitch, he mutters, “I’ll give you
old man
.”

Escorting us to our table in the back corner, away from the other patrons, I look around and thank God for the privacy. I want tonight to be the night we finally talk about more than just business. I want to know more about him, but I have to do this in a sneaky way.
 

I have to make him answer questions without it seeming like I’m asking any.

Picking up my menu, Joe snatches it out of my hand with a heartbroken look. “No, lady. No. It’s your first night with us, so I get the honour of choosing what you’ll eat.” My heart sinks. What if he chooses something I don’t like? This could be disastrous. Spotting my anxious face, Joe smiles. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll like it. I promise.”

Looking across the small table to Twitch, he rests his elbows on the table, linking his hands together just under his chin. He lifts his brows in a way that says, “
Don’t bother arguing
.”

So I don’t.

Putting on a bright smile, I tell Joe, “That’s fine by me. But I should let you know, I don’t love seafood.”

Already walking away, Joe calls out, “Noted!”

Twitch utters, “Already told him about the seafood. And peppers. And peas.”

My brow furrows in confusion only a moment before I remember Twitch has a habit of watching me.

I blurt out, “Do you still watch me?”

So much for sliding the questions in there. My mind slaps its forehead.

Picking up a bread stick, he leans back in his chair and stares at me. Taking a bite of the carby goodness, he nods once. So I ask more gently this time, “When was the last time you watched me?”

Swallowing his mouthful, he sits straighter in his chair. “Today. You and Nicole did some shopping.”

 
I was not expecting that. Mumbling, “Okay,” I watch as he takes a packet of chocolate buttons from his pocket. Already open, he shoves a handful into his mouth and chews.

Distracted from my train of thought, I utter through a small smile, “I don’t get it? You don’t seem like the colorful chocolate buttons type.”

“Yeah, well, it’s better than going through a shitload of crack.”

That shuts me up. The smile falls off my face.

“I was an addict. I saw what it was doing to me and I quit. Cold turkey. Made Happy take me to the Kimberly’s in W.A., lock me in a cabin, and guard the door at gun point. I told him if I tried to leave, to shoot me.”

Happy? No way. I scoff, “That’s harsh. As if he would shoot you.”
 

Chewing another handful of chocolate, he barks a laugh. “Damn, girl. He emptied an entire clip around me, forcing me back in.” His smile fades, his face falls, and his eyes lose focus. “You have no idea what withdrawal is like. I swear I could’ve killed someone for a hit that first day. I spent three days puking, feeling as if I was dying, and clawing at my skin. I scratched at my whole body, opening wounds all over. It wasn’t pretty. I pulled a nail clean off just for the distraction. It was fucked. But it’s over.”

My mouth gapes. “Are you telling me you performed a DIY rehab on yourself?”

He nods solemnly.

I can’t believe it. Most of the kids I meet on the street are addicted to something or another, and it takes intense rehab, sometimes for months to get them out of the habit. Some even go back to using. So hearing that Twitch forced himself to rehabilitate…

Its remarkable. Truly remarkable.

I’m beyond impressed with his self-control.

 
This is the most he’s ever told me, and while I’m on a roll, I ask on a whisper, “Why me?”

This question makes him uncomfortable. I know this from his sudden squirming, and for a moment, I wonder if I pushed too far, too early. That’s when he answers, “Because you’re you.”

He says this as if that should explain it all. But I’m not satisfied with that. I ask, “How long have you been watching me?”

Looking me in the eye, his stare intensifies, “A long time.”

Clearing his throat, he leans forward and says things I never expected to hear. “When you’re an addict, becoming addicted to things is easy to do. And that’s a bit what I’m like. I have an addictive personality. So I stopped drugs, but got hooked on candy. Then I started going to the gym once a week to work off the candy. But it became an obsession. I need to work out three times a day. Then with you…” His gaze softens. “I told myself I would watch you the one time…” He trails off. And although I don’t get it, I understand what he’s saying.

It should be making me sweat,
not
making my heart swell the way it is. “I’m an addiction?”

He responds quietly, “The worst one. There’s no cure for
that
addiction.”

I respond breathily, “Oh.”

Suddenly frowning, he states, “I’m not a good person.” Leaning away from me, he adds, “You think a person like me deserves your type of goodness? No. I’ll tell you right now that I don’t.” Seeming frustrated with himself, he bites his thumbnail. “The thing is, I’m selfish. And I don’t give a fuck about what I deserve. All I care about is what I want. And I want you so fuckin’ bad that I’d do almost anything to keep you.”

Alarm bells ring in my head, but my heart flaps its hands their way, shushing them.

Once again, “Oh.” So quiet, I barely hear myself.

My mouth opens, ready to ask another question, when I spot Joe leading two men our way, their arms full of plates of food. A bubble of laughter pops out of me, and Twitch turns to look their way. He smiles and shakes his head.

Joe has one waiter bring over another table for all our plates. Each time he places one down, he explains in detail what the dish is and which part of Italy it originated from. We have steak, pasta, gnocchi, soup, a cheese platter, and thinly sliced prosciutto.

It looks heavenly.

Leaving us to eat with nothing more than a wink, I don’t wait for Twitch as I dig in to the gnocchi with rosé sugo. I love gnocchi. I think gnocchi is seriously underrated. And this gnocchi is light and fluffy, like little cloud pillows that melt in my mouth. I believe my view needs to be vocalized. “Gnocchi is so delicious. I think it’s one of the most underrated foods. People should know how delicious gnocchi is.”

Twitch chews on his forkful of pasta and garbles, “I think you just like saying
gnocchi
.”

With an almost regal nod, I confirm his suspicion with a quiet, “That too.”

We talk a little more, much to my delight, and I find out that Twitch was a runaway who ended up in juvie for four years until his sixteenth birthday. I’d love to say this is an unlikely story, but working my job, I see it all the time.

“What were you in juvie for?” I ask, nibbling on some provolone cheese.
 

“Assault and battery.”

“That’s a long time for a child to go to juvie for assault.”
 

That’s when he adds vaguely, “Assault and battery of a police officer.”
 

My lips purse. Yeah. That’d do it.

Rolling up a slice of prosciutto, I fiddle with it longer than I should. “And the tattoos?”

He shrugs. “I got my first one at juvenile hall when I was fourteen. Then it became an addiction.” He wiggles his brows at the word
addiction
. “We didn’t have the right tools to make em look any good though. We used pins and pen ink. More often than not, they got infected.” He laughs, “A lot of the basic tattoos I had covered with new ones, but I still have some that mean something to me. They’re important. I keep ‘em to make sure I don’t forget.”

Although my mind grips me by the shoulders and shakes me while screeching, “
Forget
what
? Ask him! Please, ask him!
” I don’t ask. It seems too much for tonight; so with a smile, I let the conversation drift into a comfortable silence while we eat.