I’ve been circling ideas about how I can honor Lorraine’s memory as well as move forward, and the first step is making sure I have this collection ready, and that her mother doesn’t get a fucking dime of Lorraine's money.
I was so frozen in place when she screamed those vile things at me at the funeral, my own guilt and shame fueling me. But no more. I won’t allow her to come for my family or me, or exploit her daughter any further for her own gain.
I hear the front door open, and look at my phone. It’s four in the morning. Curiously, I walk down the stairs, and the moment I spot him placing his helmet on the corner of the kitchen counter, my jaw drops.
“Is that blood?” I demand as he removes his leather jacket awkwardly, revealing a deep red spreading from the shoulder of his shirt.
“You stayed up for me?”
“No, you fool, I was working. And don’t avoid my question.”
“Well, that’s progress,” he says as he tries to pull me in for a hug, but I shove at him.
“Don’t come back bleeding as if it’s the most mundane thing in the world.”
“Be careful, sweetheart, you almost sound like you care.”
I place Borris down and look for the first aid kit. “Take your shirt off. What happened?”
“I got shot,” he says, as if it’s nothing but a scratch.
“Again?” I wince, and he chuckles as he comes to stand behind me and then pulls me in, shirtless and bleeding.
“Well, it wouldn’t beagainif a certain little someone hadn’t shot me in the leg in the first place. For what it’s worth, you should see the other guy. He’s tied to a chair, unconscious. Anyway, I came back to change clothes before going out again.”
“I thought you had somewhere else to stay,” I chastise over my shoulder.
He smirks. “Can’t blame a man for using a bullet wound to get a little attention.”
I’m so used to showing men indifference, but he hangs off me, as if soaking in the sympathy. But when I come face-to-face with the wound on his shoulder, I blanch. It looks deep.
“It’s fine,Cattivella. I don’t need your kit. I have my own in my room. The bullet just grazed me. To be honest, you were a better shot than the asshole anyway.” He laughs as he presses a kiss to my cheek before he goes to walk away, but I catch his other arm.
“Sit down and tell me where your kit is.”
His smile stretches as he goes to sit on the sofa, and I walk toward his room. “Don’t you dare sit on that fucking sofa. On the barstool. Now.”
I hear him chuckling behind me, but he does as he’s told. “It’s in the closet, on the top shelf.”
It’s easy to spot since it’s one of the few items left behind. I’d been in such a flurry packing his shit into a bag last time that random clothing awkwardly hangs or has dropped to the floor. Yet here he is again, as if he were never gone.
“Who said you were welcome back here anyway?” I make a point to say as I walk out. “We never discussed that.”
“But I’m bleeding.” He pouts.
“That’s because you’re reckless, and that doesn’t mean you just walk in here like you own the place.”
“I missed you, too. How was your day? You’ve been upstairs working on your collection?”
I want to really whack him sometimes. It’s a miracle I only ever shot him once. A pang of guilt floods me at the thought.
“I’ve been thinking about… potentially publishing Lorraine’s books and incorporating them into my collection.” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since Dante, and I discussed Lorraine’s death, and I felt thatweight in my chest lift. I want her to always be in this world somehow.
“What do you need?” Dante asks seriously. I look up at him as I place the kit on the counter.
“Are you in the business of publishing?” I ask rhetorically.
“I’m in the business of getting things done. If you want to do this, then it’ll take us no time at all. We can have it organized for your collection. You focus on the paintings, and I can work on this.”
