He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Okay?”
“I get it. You’ll go to work and I’ll figure out how to protect you there.”
“Good.”
“Can we loop back around to your first point?”
Cashmere cooly gazes at me. “Okay.”
“When are you going to understand where I’m coming from?” I twist in his direction and climb up the bed towards him, stopping just at the edge of the towel, but I can tell my presence affects him. His lips part and his pupils dilate as his breath hitches. “You’re not a toy to me. You’re not a trophy or a trinket or anything so superficial.”
“Whatever.”
I grab his wrist, lifting it to my lips and brushing his soft skin against them. “Ownership is a funny word. Haven’t you ever wanted to belong to someone? Someone who would protect you, adore you, worship you?”
Love you?
The two words bounce around my head. I’m not sure I’m capable of love, but if anyone could get me there, it’s gotta be Cashmere.
“At what cost?” he asks, jutting his chin definitely. “I lose my freedom.”
“Freedom of what? To fuck whoever you want? Then yeah, of course. No one will ever touch you again but me. What other freedom are you so concerned about losing?”
Gently, he pulls his arm away. “I’m not having this conversation.”
“Why? Because you’re intrigued by me?” I scoot closer. “I’m locked in, Cashmere, orbiting around you, and I’m hard toshake. You’ll see eventually. I’m everything you’ve ever wanted.”
I see the spark of fear in his eyes. He might be a little afraid of me, even. Because I’m a hitman, or is there another reason? I’d like to think it’s because I’m tapping into parts of him he thinks he successfully hides behind his walls.
“Let’s play a record,” I suggest, sliding off the bed. “What’s your favorite?”
“La Bohème. It was my mom’s favorite opera.”
Good enough for me. I’ve never listened to an opera but there’s a first time for everything. I find the record and carefully unwrap it. We set the turntable up on my dresser, and I attached my speakers to it for better sound.
As the crackle that only a vinyl record can produce fills the space, I see the tension drain from Cashmere’s face. A man’s voice booms, and I have to admit, it’s very nice.
Cashmere closes his eyes, leaning back on the pillows slightly. “My mom loved opera,” he says softly. “She used to call me herpetit monstre.” He laughs softly. “Her little monster.”
“Were you a difficult child?”
“No. Just the opposite, which is why she thought it was so funny. She called me a little terror too.” He opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on me. “But I was a docile, obedient child. Look at me now.”
I desperately want to know what happened to her, but when I saw how his eyes clouded in the car earlier, I decided to let him get there in his own time.
“Her name was Priscille. My father, he was this big, strapping man, and my mom was this little jewel of a woman. They were a beautiful couple.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Adriano. I’m told they fought over what to name me until my mother saw a character in a book and convinced my dad to break tradition. So I have an unusual first name, two family middle names, and, of course, my dad’s surname.”
I’m practically holding my breath at this point. Will he tell me more?
The music swells into a crescendo and Cashmere is silent as the song finishes and fades. “I have to tell you anyway,” he says softly. “Because of who my stalker might be.” He inhales deeply then blows it out slowly. “My name is Colson Diego Emmerich de Sousa.”
“That’s a mouthful. A very beautiful mouthful.”
“Thank you.”
