"Well, he kinda rushed off about five minutes ago and left me alone in his house."
"Was it a call? Another virgin?"
"No, nothing like that." I pause and squirm on the mattress. "I don't think..."
"Oooh,go snoop around his house." He claps. "Take pictures. Send them to me."
I roll my eyes. "No."
He squeals with excitement. "Go into Xander's room. Steal me a pair of his underwear. I'll wear them when I feel pretty."
"Oh my God, Toni."
"What?" he says. "Would you prefer to analyse why he left until your fanny dries up?"
I tuck the sheets between my thighs. "Not really."
"Do you think it has something to do with hiswork?"
I sigh. "I know it has something to do with his work."
"You need to talk to him about it." I want to tell Toni what happened the last time I tried that, but it doesn’t feel right betraying Max's trust. Talking about it isn't going to change anything. It's not just a job. I don't think he can just quit because his girlfriend doesn't like that kind of behaviour.
These deeds are part of his responsibility, his duty as the son of Luca Butcher. He's the son of a gangster. For him, corruption and intimidation are the norm, a privilege and burden of his last name. I wonder if he's ever asked to break free of it. Hating the thought and wishing I'd never had it, I also wonder if helikesbeing a gangster.
I imagine the power can be intoxicating.
"I can’t." I snatch my phone and mute the speaker before pressing it to my ear. "We can’t really talk about this here."
"Well, why did you call then?"
I yawn, snuggling deeper into the bed. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
"That's gross. I love you too."
I eventually fall asleep with the phone wedged between my cheek and pillow. My body rolls further towards the edge of the mattress as I hear movement around the bed. Caught in slumber, it takes me a while to draw my consciousness back into the waking world.
My breathing must have changed, though, because I hear Max's deep, raspy voice. "Go back to sleep, Little One."
I settle back into the mattress, spooning my Max pillow tightly to my chest. Sleep numbs the feelings and questions I have, and I begin drifting back into my dreams.
With a slight thump, his shoes come off. His keys jingle. His jeans drop to the floorboards and then something metal clinks onto the bedside table.
My eyes snap open and I stare dead ahead.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Oh my God.
I know what that sound is. It's not like I've ever heard a gun being placed on a bedside table before, but I still somehow know.
I know he keeps his gun in a safe. At least, he did in Bali. The last time I saw it placed out in the open was after he'd passed out with another woman pressed to his body. A little unease stirs me further to suspicion. Is he drunk? It must be late.
The bed dips as he moves in behind me and envelops me with his big, warm body. His chest presses against my back. His hot breath feels like warm silk on my neck. The smell of whiskey, smoke, and shoe polish surrounds me. Despite theheat radiating off him, I'm suddenly freezing. I pull the blanket up, trying to get warm again.
I'm left in two states of mind. One wants to slide out from beside him and investigate. The other wants to fall back to sleep in his arms. I'm supposed to be at peace with the gun. I like the gun. It keepshimsafe, him in control.
My eyes close. Wiggling my toes, I slide my feet along the soft sheets. I try to concentrate on how his beautiful body is pressed to mine, try to remind myself how lucky I am to even be in his bed. Reminding myself I'd promised not to ask questions, I try to follow him into slumber.
