Swan Song (13 page)

“Do you want the sweet” he asks, his voice husky, “or the sour?”

“I want the truth.”

“I had to know what you tasted like.”

I chuckle, leaning my head back against the wall. “You want to hear something crazy? I think that’s your sweet.”

“It is. I warned you.”

“I remember,” I reply tersely. I sigh, finding his eyes in the dark. “Well? How was I? What’d I taste like to you?”

He watches me from the shadows for a long moment, but I don’t squirm. I wait and when he blinks long and hard – the sheen of his eyes disappearing briefly – I jump. “You taste like trouble.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you.”

“Do you know what Tommy talked about the entire train ride here from New York?” he asks suddenly.

I push him back gently, my grin fading to a frown. “I don’t want to talk about Tommy.”

“You,” Drew says plainly, ignoring my protest. His hands fall from my body and I feel my stomach bottom out. His voice drops down, deep and intimate. “You and all the many ways he’s had you. How he owns you.”

My chest heaves with angry, hot breaths that do nothing to sustain me. Instead they burn me inside, singe me to ash until I’m aching from head to toe, inside and out.

“He wasn’t lying,” I grind out roughly, my voice quavering with rage and embarrassment. “Tommy is a lot of rotten things, but he’s not a liar.”

Drew casually steps back before furrowing his brow and shaking his head up at the sky. “Nah, he’s a dog marking his territory, is what he is. He’s pissing all over everything trying to keep anyone from sniffing around what he wants. You know what that tells me?”

“That he’s disgusting?”

“That what he wants, doesn’t want him.”

A small flare of relief lights up in my chest before dying immediately in a dreadful feeling in my stomach. “Is that why you kissed me tonight? Are you pissing too, Drew?”

He takes his time returning his eyes from the sky down to me. He’s stalling. “I don’t know what I’m doing where you’re concerned. That’s a pretty ugly feeling for me. One I don’t particularly enjoy. And, yeah, maybe I’m pissing. Maybe I’m circling around you and marking you as mine because I don’t want you anywhere near Two Thumbs or any other guy inside that club.”

“You told me to sing my song to them because you didn’t want to hear it!” I protest, getting angry.

“I
don’t
want to hear it,” he replies scathingly. “I don’t want anything to do with Adrian Marcone. I don’t want the girl on stage or the name in the lights, and I definitely want nothing to do with the girl Tommy is so proud of fucking. I want
you
,” he pointed at my face. At my minimal makeup, my hair long and down, my dress simple and soft. His voice drops, calming and going dangerously still. “I want Addy.”

“You don’t know her,” I whisper shakily. “No one does.”

“No, I don’t, but I want to.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel so damn good when I’m with her. I know her when I see her and I miss her when she’s gone.” He runs his hand over his hair, freeing it from the confines of the pomade and giving the wind purchase to rustle through it, dark and restless. “I’ve thought about you every day since I met you. Every. Single. Day. A song on the radio, the color of a woman’s hair on the street – they remind me of you. I saw a Christmas display for sweet and sour Naughty or Nice candy and immediately thought of you. I stood in line in a candy store to buy them. Picture that if you can. Me in a candy store surrounded by kids.
You
did that to me.”

I shake my head faintly in protest and the movement turns into a convulsion. Suddenly I’m shivering violently, either from his words or from the cold. Regardless of the cause, Drew reaches for me. Slowly his hands tug at the front of my coat until it’s closed, then he starts working the buttons one by one, his rough hands brushing against my body as he moves. He’s looking down, watching his work intently, and the power of his attention makes me shudder. It’s a strange thing feeling so breathlessly intimate while a man
dresses
me. He’s hiding my body, but the act of it, the intent of keeping me warm and safe behind it, is what melts me down to a puddle on the glistening ground under my feet.

“There’s a girl in New York,” he says quietly. Unapologetically. “I visit her once a week. I have for years.”

“You have sex with her once a week,” I correct, fighting the flinch that twitches like live electricity in my body.

He finishes with my coat, his eyes meeting mine. “That bother you?”

I watch him, considering. “A little. Does Tommy bother you?”

“Yeah,” he says deeply. “A little.”

“Why did you tell me about her?”

“Because I want to be honest with you.”

“Neither of us can afford honesty.”

“No, we can’t. But if we give it to each other equally, maybe it won’t cost us anything.”

I take a shuddering breath, watching the cloud of smoke that leaves my mouth on the cold air hover in front of his face for a moment, obscuring him and distorting him until I can’t even be sure it’s his face anymore. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s Birdy, the other half of him that I have no idea about. Can I handle that? Can I stand Birdy being in New York with the girl he visits every week while he’s doing the job he does? Can I stomach only stolen moments with Drew, the man who makes me sing inside and makes me wish so hard that it hurts?

I’m wishing for so many things in that moment. I wish I had never set foot in Cicero. I wish I were free of the Cotton Club, of Tommy, of Ralph and Al and the drugs and the cops and the war. I wish I was where I wanted to be because,
dammit
, it feels like I’ve been struggling to get there for far too long. Ever since I was a kid in a corn field, I’ve been wishing and reaching and dreaming, and where has it gotten me? How close am I to everything I wanted?

Am I even sure what I want anymore?

“Addy—“ he begins.

“When will I see you again?” I interrupt, blinking away the blur and focusing on his face. On the scars and fine lines. On the glow of his eyes and the cut of his jaw that I’m seeing so differently now. It’s more square than I first thought. Everything about him is so much more cut and clear and precise than I first imagined. He’s more handsome than I originally gave him credit for, or it could be I’m seeing something else that just makes it seem that way. Some deeper part of him is endearing itself to me and changing my perception. It doesn’t matter to me. I see what I see, and what I see is a beautiful man. Cracked and fragmented, but so strong and solid. Tested and true.

“When do you want to see me?” he asks.

I lean forward and kiss him softly once. “Tonight.”

I feel him smile against my mouth. “You have too many roommates.”

“I’ll come to you,” I whisper, kissing him again, my eyes falling closed. “Tell me where to be and I’ll wait for you.”

“No one can know where I’m staying, and if anyone ever found out, you’re the last thing I want them to find there.” He threads his calloused fingers into the tresses of my hair falling around my neck, rubbing the pad of his thumb over my pulse. “You’re contraband.” He kisses me slowly, deeply. “Addictive and illegal.” One more kiss before he presses his thumb against my chin to tilt my head back so he can examine my face. His expression is dark, almost sad. “You’re going to be a problem.”

“You could walk away again,” I suggest, hoping to God he doesn’t take my advice.

He chuckles silently, a grin creeping crooked over his lips. “Don’t you think if I could, I would? Do you think I want to fuck with Tommy Giordano when he’s this wound up over you?”

I take hold of his hand against my throat, squeezing it warmly in mine. “It’s not me he’s pent up about. It’s Adrian. It’s the act.”

“He doesn’t know the difference.”

“He might have a better idea after tonight.”

“I think
you
definitely do.”

I nod, lowering my eyes. I examine the rough fibers of his wool coat hanging dark and long down his solid frame. He’s strong under there, I know it. Powerful. He’s killed with that power, and that should terrify me but I don’t run. Instead I step closer until our bodies are pressed together again. Until his hands come up to my arms and run slowly up and down them, warming me. Enveloping me. Protecting me. “I’m caged,” I whisper to his shoulder.

He hums in agreement and the deep tone reverberates through his chest into mine. I feel it in the skin of my face where it’s resting against his, his rough stubble scratching and tickling with every movement. We stay that way for too long. So long that I know he’ll be late for the meeting he needs to get back to. So long that I start to feel safe and comfortable, nearly content. So long that he breathes in my scent at my neck and my blood flies through my veins in a wild rush as his lips brush across my skin.

I sigh, tilting my head back and releasing the full white puff of my warm breath into the air above my head. I watch it disappear, rising like a cloud in the sky peeking out between the buildings, and I wish I could see more of it. I remember a bigger sky. Full and blue and bright. I remember lying on my back in the tall grass that tickled against my skin, poked through my thin dress as the wind ruffled my hair, and I sang to the sun. To the clouds and the stars and the moon, unbalanced and befuddled by the constraints of infinite possibility. I thought I was trapped. Sequestered in a tiny town with no shine, no prospects, and no chance of being anything but a pretty girl in an ugly prison.

I hadn’t known what ugly was yet.

I hadn’t known what a cage could truly be.

I lean back and run my hand over the rough brick of the building towering above me blotting out the sky and the West and the world, and I wonder at how cold it is. How very much like steel.

“I have to go,” he says, suddenly putting distance between us. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

Yes.

“No. I’ll be alright.”

He nods thoughtfully, watching me. “Lock your door when you get there. Every lock you have. In fact, make sure your windows are locked too.”

“I’m on the third floor.”

“Lock them.”

“Okay, alright, I’ll lock everything.”

“Good.”

I hesitate, knowing I shouldn’t ask questions, but I do it anyway. “Something is happening, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, his eyes hard and his tone dead. He’s not Drew right now. He’s Birdy. He’s the gangster.

“With the Canadians?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“And you’ll be there? With Tommy and the boys?”

“Yes.”

I take a shaky breath, my hands sweating and itching in the center of my palms. “How many questions are you going to answer?”

“How many are you going to ask?”

“I’m afraid to keep going.”

“I told you I wanted to be honest with you,” he answers simply.

“I hadn’t realized just how honest.”

“Do you have any more questions?”

“No,” I reply adamantly, because I really believe he’ll answer me and there’s such a thing as knowing too much in this world. Knowledge is not power. It’s a noose around your neck.

“Go home, Addy,” he tells me gently, kissing me once more before walking toward the street.

It hits me that he’s leaving. He’s leaving and I have no idea when I’ll see him again. Or
if
I’ll see him again.

“Be careful,” I call after him.

He doesn’t respond, and in the blink of an eye he’s gone.

I’m alone.

Chapter Sixteen

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

I wake with a start, sitting straight up with my heart clamoring in my chest. I breathe quickly as I survey the dark bedroom for the source of the noise. Rain is falling outside hard, angry, and cold, pelting the window with flecks of ice that click off the glass in a somnolent chorus with Rosaline’s gentle snores.

She sleeps like the dead next to me in the bed we now share, the wall across from us where we found Alice’s body sitting ominously vacant. We could have gotten another bed or brought in a cot. Hell, we could have put a dresser there and made this side of the room less cramped, but we never did. The spot sits empty, the only occupancy is the dark misshapen stain on the floor that haunts the space with the last of the liquid life that spilled from Alice’s body when she left us.

BOOM! BOOM!

“Adrian!” Tommy shouts through the door.

My fright turns immediately to anger at the sound of his voice. I groan as I throw my legs out of the bed down onto the cold floor. I hurry past the spot, careful to keep my eyes straight ahead, and I burst into the living room with venom on my tongue.

“Get lost, Tommy!” I shout back.

“I’m not playing with you. Open this door right now.”

“Not a chance.”

I hear the distinct
click
of a gun cocking, then the brush of metal on metal.

“I’ll blow the damned lock off,” he warns me severely, his tone dripping with danger. “Open the door.
Now
.”

My heart is in my throat again because I believe he’ll do it. He’s that kind of crazy.

I take a deep breath to calm myself, to steady my voice. “I’m opening it. Stow the gun.”

“I’ll put it away when you open the door.”

“Before or after you accidentally blow my hand off?” I snap. “Put it away, Tommy.”

Metal scrapes metal again and I count to three, hoping like hell he actually did holster the gun. I reach out with unsteady fingers to flip the lock but leave the chain in place, then pull the door open only a crack.

Tommy is there filling the doorframe in a dark jacket saturated by the rain. It drips off the rim of his hat and splatters on the floor of the hall. His face is in shadow but I can feel his angry eyes on me, burning into me. The worst part is, he doesn’t smell of liquor. He’s completely lucid, meaning this visit is no accident.

When he spots the chain in place I hear an angry snarl in the back of his throat. I step back just in time to avoid being smacked by the door as he rears back and kicks the door all the way open, snapping the chain easily. 

“Move over, we’re coming through,” he commands gruffly.

With the door open and his body removed from the frame I can see behind him into the hall. It’s filled with glistening hats, shadowed faces, and dark coats. The sight sends my temper into overdrive and I push against Tommy’s chest, trying to shove him back.

“No!” I shout forcefully. I’m not strong enough to push him back, but I stop him before he gets all the way inside. “Not a chance, Tommy. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you and your boys can go have a party someplace else. You’re not coming inside.”

His eyes go dark as he looks down at me, flickering to where my hands push roughly against him. I’m only holding him at bay because he’s letting me, we both know it. If Tommy wants in, he’s coming in, but I’ll be damned if I let it happen without a fight. I’ll take a hit before I let it happen.

“Did you hear that, boys?” he asks quietly, his voice sharp as a razor. “Adrian would rather watch him bleed out in the hallway than let us in.”

I look anxiously past him. I can’t see anyone well enough to recognize them, but I see several heads hovering behind him. One is slumped down and missing a hat, a shock of dark hair matted by rainwater shining in the light. Two other men are holding him up, all of them dripping wet. A puddle grows on the floor, tinged inhuman watery pink color, like pastel paints for a child.

It’s been three days since I saw Drew in the ally and he told me something was going down. I didn’t bother to ask him when, but I’m pretty sure I’m getting the answer to that unspoken question right now. Whatever they did, they did it tonight.

And it did not go well.

I shudder as I skirt past Tommy, no longer caring if he comes inside. All I’m worried about is who the blood belongs to. Whose dark hair is covered in shards of icy rain. I step into the hall, my feet slipping over the painfully cold water, and I slide to a halt in front of the slumped figure. Carefully, I lift his face with my fingertips, my breath trapped in my chest. It bursts out of me when I see the pale, flawless face resting in my hands.

It’s Mickey.

My relief is short lived. It’s not Drew, but this is bad. Mickey has always been sweet to me and he’s been so good to Elisha. To all of us girls. He’s as much of a gentleman as any of these mobsters can manage, and the thought of losing him cracks my heart in two with a violence that I find surprising.

I look at the men holding Mickey up and discover Hal’s face staring grimly down at me. “Bring him inside, Hal,” I tell him quietly. “Put him on the couch.”

He nods in reply, his face unchanging.

I step aside to let the men pour into my apartment. They go by in an unrecognizable blur and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m wearing nothing but a men’s nightshirt that barely reaches the tops of my thighs in a group of strange men. Once they’re inside, I lock the door and hurry to the bedroom where I jostle Rosaline roughly.

She snorts loudly, opening her eyes and staring at me in bleary annoyance. “Wha—what are you doing?” She blinks rapidly at me pulling on a pair of flowing yachting pants and a thick cardigan that I quickly button to the top over my breasts.

“We have company.”

“What kind of company?”

“Club kind.”

She’s out of the bed in an instant, yanking a robe on over her nightgown and scowling at me. “Why are they here?”

“Mickey is hurt. I think he’s been shot.”

“Oh my God.” She frantically ties her robe tight before rushing out into the living room.

I’m close on her heels.

The men have laid Mickey out on the couch where Lucy usually sleeps. Tommy and Hal pull his coat and shirt off, ripping and tearing it into strips.

“We need water. Clean,” Tommy says to no one in particular.

I rush to the kitchen to grab a pitcher, fill it with tap water, and hurry it out to him.

He takes it and pours a generous amount on a strip of Mickey’s shirt. “You got any hooch?”

“I have some whiskey,” Rosaline replies shakily, her eyes unwavering on Mickey’s face.

His eyes are closed, his skin pale. I watch his chest and fall in shallow gasps. The bullet wound in his stomach, something I’m relieved for. A chest wound could hit a lung or your heart, killing you almost instantly. A stomach wound I knew was more likely to kill you slowly, probably from infection before anything else. If we were very careful, if we took care of him the right way, he could pull through this.

“Get it,” Tommy told her. He looks to one of the guys hovering near the door. “Murray, call the doc. There’s a phone in the hall.”

I hurry to the bedroom to grab a towel, handing it Tommy. He takes it without looking at me, not saying a word, and I watch as he presses it to the wound hard. Mickey twitches, his face pinching and a strangled moan escaping from the back of his throat.

“Will he be okay?” Rosaline asks nervously, handing Hal the brown bottle of whiskey.

“We’ll see what the doc says,” he replies. His voice is dead as his eyes were in the hall.

Rosaline comes to stand next to me on the opposite wall where we’re out of the way but ready to help if we’re needed. We watch Hal and Tommy alternately clean the wound and apply pressure, eliciting pained reactions from Mickey that both break my heart and make it sing with relief that he’s alive enough to make them.

Murray returns to report that the doctor is on his way, then the room falls silent except for the sound of Mickey’s labored breathing and occasional moan. I survey the room, doing a quick inventory. Tommy and Hal kneeling by the couch, tall Murray by the door, Benny, the stout Pol who runs the gambling at the club standing next to him, Cal, a young guy with hard eyes, and beside him is Drew.

My body turns to stone when my eyes settle on his. He’s in the corner across the room from me, standing apart in the shadows with his gleaming steel eyes locked on my face. I look back, my blood flooding my veins with excitement and relief. I wish I could run to him, to tell him how happy I am that he’s alright. Throw myself into his arms and feel the rumble of his chest as he laughs at me, smell the familiar scent of him that I’ll never understand – but I know I can’t.

After a moment, his stare starts to unnerve me. He’s not looking
at
me. It’s like he’s looking
through
me.

Or behind me.

I surreptitiously turn my head to check the wall and immediately understand what he’s looking at. The postcard I’ve tacked to the wall. The one with the worn edges from the endless times I’ve read it and run my fingers over it. When I turn to look at him again, his face hasn’t changed, but his eyes have. They’re on my face, intense and penetrating as though he’s demanding answers from me, ones I’m not allowed to speak.

The doctor shows up. Same old German with the crazy hair and thick accent. He barks orders at the boys and puts Rosaline and I to work as his nurses. Rose immediately jumps into the fray next to him, unafraid of the sight of blood. I become the runner, fetching fresh water and being sent in search of a blanket. I scour the apartment and come up dry. Feeling frustrated, I make another pass through the bedroom and finally find one tucked in the bottom drawer of the dresser. It’s Lucy’s and she’ll be livid that it’s being soaked in gangster blood and ruined, but I’ll find a way to buy her another one.

I turn to head back into the living room and come face to face with Drew, his eyes level with mine, scaring the living hell out of me.

“Jesus, Mary!” I whisper shout, my breath leaving me in one painful punch out of my lungs. I’m gagging on my heart, it’s leapt so far up into my throat.

“You kept it,” he whispers, his words barely audible. “Why?”

“Because it was from you,” I answer breathlessly. Honestly. “It was all I had of you and I wanted to hold onto it.”

I’m surprised out of my mind when he kisses me. With the crowd in the other room, this is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done in my life. When he pulls me against him, I feel fear – real and tangible. It’s a powerful force that leaves my legs weak and makes me cling to him for support while it’s his embrace that’s scaring me the most. Anyone could walk in at any second and see this, and there’s only one person here who wouldn’t immediately run and tell Tommy. If Tommy saw it with his own eyes, Drew and I could join Alice’s ghost haunting this bedroom for the rest of eternity. Nothing but a shadow left on the ground to remember us by.

Drew steps back abruptly, but he doesn’t go far. His eyes stay on mine and he pulls me out of myself. Out of the apartment and the morbid truths that plague me. “Stay with me tomorrow night,” he tells me roughly, his voice low and full of gravel. Full of so many things.

“You’ll tell me where you’re staying?”

“No. I’ll give—“ Abruptly his eyes leave mine, going unfocused over my shoulder. He shoves me toward the door before disappearing behind it, hidden in the dark corner, out of sight of the living room.

Hal appears in the open doorway. His face is pale and drawn. He looks exhausted and just plain beat down and I’m hoping to holy high heaven that he’s too distracted and tired to see my heart thrumming wildly in my chest and the pink flush on my cheeks.

“Hey, Aid, you seen Birdy?” he asks, his eyes wandering around the dark room.

I cock my head. “Who?”

“Birdy. You know. Stocky guy from New York. Ugly mug.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Come on, you know him. You danced with him on Halloween. Andrew.”

“Oh, Drew,” I exclaim, feigning surprise. “No, I haven’t seen him since that night. Was he here?”

“Yeah, by the door, but now he’s gone. Tommy’s lookin’ for him.”

“Must’ve stepped out for a smoke or something. Here, take this,” I tell him, handing over the blanket. “It’s the thickest one I could find. It should keep him warm.”

“You’re a doll, thanks.” He takes the blanket from me then hovers for a second. My palms begin to sweat. “Thanks for all this, ya know? I know we shouldn’ta come here, Mickey wouldn’t want to drag you into anything ugly like this, but the club ain’t exactly safe right now and he was getting so cold—“

“Hal, it’s fine,” I assure him.

“It’ll mean a fine mess for you and Rose if anyone saw us come in and Tommy wasn’t exactly quiet.”

“I don’t care about all that.” I step forward, pressing his hands firmly on top and bottom of the folded blanket. “I care about Mickey making it through this because that’s all that really matters, yeah?”