Rev (33 page)

Let’s face it, you can’t just walk away.

Maybe I was overlooking something. I assumed Saylor didn’t feel the same way I did. But, she had everything to lose even staying with me as long as she did. I doubt that was some kind ruse, ploy, or gambit she was playing. Plus, she didn’t seem the type.

What attracted me, other than her obvious physical allure, was her genuine openness. What you saw was what you got. And that was fine by me. More than fine. Holy fuck, she was everything I wanted in a girl, ever. Period. Done.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Great. Lexie again. Not now...

“Hello Dean.”

Oh, Shit.

I don’t know what’s scarier, a mob boss or his consigliere. This guy’s name was Marty. Just Marty, no bull-shit, no pretense, just the look in his eyes that said you’d be much better off doing what he recommended.

“What’s up Marty,” I said, looking right into his old, dark, leathery-skinned face. This guy was old school. He’d worked for Roman’s father and you bet your ass he spoke for Roman now.

“Hope you had a good time Dean. Running around with Ace’s pretty little thing.”

“Yeah. Saved some memories for later. Took a couple selfies. But you wouldn’t know what that is Marty, you old vampire.”

Marty grinned, his long canines emphasizing my point. “Well, she’s a nice piece of ass, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Always a class act Marty,” I noted, tipping my beer to him and taking a swig.

“Alright, well, enough chit-chat.”

“Yup.”

Marty waved to two big guys by the door. He had back up if he needed it. But he knew he wouldn’t. I was rash and reckless, but I wasn’t stupid. “So you know what happens next right?”

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

“Hey, Dean, no hard feelings, right? I always respected you. But we all got jobs to do.”

“True.”

“And you knew this had to end eventually, right? I gave you a couple days, to get it out of your system.”

I stood up and nodded. “I appreciate that Marty.”

“We gotta go, kid.”

“Yeah, let me just finish my fucking beer.”

Chapter 22

Finally, after hour of slogging through the summer heat, I saw Dean’s house up the road.

I’m so glad I didn’t wear sandals.

I looked down at my white sneakers and shook my head. A worthy sacrifice; and if my feet could talk to my shoes, I’m sure they’d be profusely thankful. But, I anticipated a long session with a cup of laundry detergent and a soft-bristle brush.

When the driveway came into view, it confirmed my assumption that Dean wouldn’t be home. His silver sports car wasn’t there and the house was dark except for the small light he always left on near the front door before locking up. 

So I passed through the rocky driveway, out behind the house, and onto the beach. The ocean stretched endlessly straight ahead, and the soft glow of the full moon bathed the little cottage in the most beautiful light. It was painted a dark and weathered grey, but under that light I saw dark purples and greens.

It reminded me of Dean’s eyes. They were dark, almost black. The first impression was that they were an inky shade of brown. But then, when I stared longer, really looked at their intensity, I noticed the deep violet colored ring around the outside. I began to see the blue and green flecks and the medley of color.

I have to talk to him.

I needed to know why Dean stood me up at the aquarium. I needed to know why he didn’t answer his phone. Most of all, I needed to know whether all we had was one night shared under exceptional circumstances.

I had this sinking fear that was it. That it was just the danger, the excitement, and the arousing pressures of our situation. That we’d acted out on all sorts of heady feelings, but there wasn’t much underneath them. I had no idea if Dean was having second thoughts now that we’d broken the tension.

But, oh my god, it was so delicious when we did. I couldn’t imagine another night like that. It might kill me. But I needed it more than anything.

So I had to try. I had to talk to him. I had to figure this out. And if it broke my heart, if we didn’t have a future, then I had to go. I had to get out of here as fast as possible. I couldn’t be near someone like Dean and not have him. I couldn’t survive that kind of ravenous longing.

Not like I’ll ever forget. Not like going far away will make it feel any better.

I climbed the staircase up to the porch and located the window in the middle. It was slightly ajar, giving me just enough space to reach my hand in and grab the crank. I pulled the handle around a few times until the window was open enough to fit through.

I reached into my purse and grabbed a small hairpin, pressing into the small space between the screen and the window frame. I felt for the small plunger pins that were recessed into the screen frame. Pressing on one and wiggling the screen, I was able to pull the entire screen out without causing any damage.

I climbed through the window, popped the screen out, and turned on the lights. Dropping my purse on the couch, I rushed to the fridge for a glass of water. Holy shit was I thirsty. I drained three glasses and walked to the shower, dropping my clothes on the bathroom floor and turning the water on full blast.

After a three-hour walk, it felt amazing. The warm water rushed over my body, washing away everything down to the tormenting unease in my mind. The steam seeped deep inside my body, relaxing, almost sedating.  I took a series of long, full, comforting breaths.

Then there was a knock on the door.

Dean…

I yanked the handle off and grabbed the nearest towel. Wrapping it around my body, I rushed to the front door and looked through the peephole.

Another knock, loud and hurried.

Why would Dean knock?

I squinted, realized the front door light wasn’t on, and reached for the switch. Another knock echoed through the house as a bright halogen bulb flooded the front entryway.

I gulped. He was dressed in a blue suit with an ear-to-ear smile across his face and his hair slicked back with a wet sheen. It wasn’t Dean. It was Ace.

Chapter 23

I always like the drive down Beach Road on Figure-Eight Island. It’s not a drive I took very often since Roman Carmichael was the only rich guy I knew. And you had to be rich to live there. I mean, all those $10-$20 million houses lining the beach just blew my mind.

It almost didn’t make sense. The way I saw it, you lived on the beach for the simple life. The Ocean air, the sand, and the salty air—it was a way to get back to the basics. The beach was an escape from the trappings of this crazy world. You came back to your old, battered, basic, simple little cottage and life seemed a lot more manageable. You could do some thinking. Get away in your head as much as you were getting away in that vacation sense.

But on Figure-Eight Island, you lived on the beach to show off. You sat high above the roaring waves in your inlaid marble dining terrace and popped expensive bottles, musing about your recent art installation purchase with your snobby friends. If you asked me, I’d say that’s not getting away. That’s not living on the beach.

But hell, it was still magnificent. I didn’t envy these rich guys. More money, more problems. But I couldn’t pretend it didn’t make me feel a certain way passing those mansions with their massive 12-foot windows and bright, chandelier lit interiors.

I imagined that was the idea. Someone took a drive out here to Roman’s house and they started to realize something. Roman Carmichael wasn’t a gangster. He didn’t count his greasy millions in some dingy warehouse, hiding away. No, Roman Carmichael was a boss. He drank thousand-dollar glasses of scotch with senators and donated heavily to charitable causes and political campaigns. Roman was an integral part of the community and influenced the very foundations of society.

I did wish the scenic drive were under better circumstances though. The guys sitting on either side of me were no strangers to rampant steroid abuse and of course Marty was in the front seat with his custom Sig Sauer tucked every so noticeably in the breast pocket of his Italian cashmere blazer. So, as I exited the vehicle and walked across Roman’s heavily watered, lush green lawn, I knew I was in for another longwinded speech, and I’d better listen. Like any powerful megalomaniac, Roman Carmichael loved to talk. I just hoped I’d be alive when he was done talking.

“Dean, how are you?” Surprisingly, he answered the door himself.

I glanced at the two meatheads flanking me. “Things are a little strained right now, Roman. Hoping to get some air, take a breather, you know…” I pointed my thumbs to either side.

“Right,” Roman acknowledged. He waved his free hand and the two goons stepped back. In his other hand was a drink—something caramel brown and probably expensive. “Care for a drink?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Think it’s been one of those days.”

As I passed into the Marble Foyer, I glanced up the staircase and saw Astrid Carmichael leaning against the bannister.

Fuck, she really does look just like Saylor.

Except, sharper, colder, as if she had a bitter edge. Saylor was open, soft, and enchanting, whereas Astrid’s allure was in her hardened lines—like she was a masterfully honed ice sculpture. You could see where Saylor got her beauty, but the differences between mother and daughter were obvious in just the first impression. It made me realize, in that instant, how special Saylor really was.

“Dean, do you know what the word legacy means?” Roman asked, pouring me a perfect measure of Scotch from one of his many crystal decanters.

“I think I have some idea,” I noted. We’d passed into his study and the view of the ocean was breathtaking. The house was on top of the upper part of the dunes. I assumed it was more on the high part of the island housing price range, so I savored the majesty of the moment. Best-case scenario, I probably wouldn’t be back for another visit. And, I probably wouldn’t be buying my own mansion on the beach anytime soon.

“You were in the Marines, Dean,” Roman continued, “so I imagine you would. ‘Legacy’ comes from the Latin ‘Legatus,’ which means ‘person delegated.’”

“Fascinating,” I quipped, immediately regretting my frivolous tone. Roman might be a gentleman crime lord, but he didn’t act polite to encourage or in any way tolerate my smart-ass behavior. I had to watch it.

“Right.” Roman let a moment of silence pass as a sort of cautionary suggestion that I reflect on my tone. “My point is this Dean: My family was here long before the laws of this country, and we’ll be here long after. And the reason is legacy.”

“Roman, with respect, I just want to know what my options are right now.” I took a sip of the Scotch.

Holy shit that’s good.

“The Carmichael family was shipping cotton to England well before 1776. Then came India, the Civil War, a global economic shift. We survived. We became the largest tobacco leaf supplier in the United States. And then, when the federal government made things difficult, we moved on, we adapted. Did you know that over half the gambling river boats in this country are run by Carmichael Industries or its subsidiaries?”