It’s not something he’d want to hear. Hot, handsome—yes, but beautiful? No. He wouldn’t want to hear that. He is, though. Beautiful and not half as scary when he smiles.
I know more about Nico than I’d care to admit aloud. Since we met two weeks ago, I’ve paid more attention to what his grandmother, Rita, says abouthimin particular when we play Bridge. Her grandsons are her favorite topic.
“You may have pulled a short straw there but you got a long one in talent. Why do you play old songs?”
He likes old songs. Aerosmith is his favorite band. Or used to be when he was younger. Rita doesn’t know much about what he enjoys now.
“I don’t always. You only heard me play when I had to clear my head. Classics work best. I like all kinds of music. New-age computer-generated music’s great for a party, but not what I listen to when I’m alone.”
He stops, putting one of the earphones dangling from the collar of his t-shirt in his ear before he hands me his phone. “So what’s your alone music? Show me.”
The distance between us is less than a foot. The heady scent of his cologne assaults my nose, his chest in my face.
Literally.
Even in three-inch heels, I’m eye level with his pecs. I hold the phone, unsure what to play. I like intimate music. Slow, emotional, a little dark. Not necessarily old, just full of emotion. Inhaling a deep breath, I pull up one of my playlists on Spotify.
“Left Alone” by Allan Rayman fills his ears a moment later. The song is heavy, the lyrics full of meaning. I know every word. Watching Nico listen to Allan’s raspy voice and slow melody, I realize the lyrics fit him perfectly.
A lone wolf.
It’s unnerving how he never looks away from me, but I’m at ease despite the intimate atmosphere. I avert my gaze first, watching him save my playlist to favorites.
“Give me your phone.” He tugs the cord until the earphone pops out. “Your playlist for mine.”
“Oh, okay. That’s fair.” I open my bag, and the pepper spray peeks out of its small confinement.
Nico grabs the can, inspecting the label and expiry date. “Why do you have this, Mia?”
He uses my name a lot. It’s intimate... like we’re in bed in the heat of the moment, and he’s trying to draw my attention.
“Better safe than sorry.”
“I don’t like repeating myself, kid. Most people don’t buy pepper spray unless they feel threatened, so I’ll askagain. Why do you think you need to have this on you?”
“No reason.”
He’s silent for a whole minute, grinding his teeth before he exhales in a sharp gush. “You’re a lousy liar. This...” He shoves the can back in my purse, “...is shit. If you need it, get something with a better range.”
That’s what Cody told me when I showed it to him a week after the incident that forced me to buy it.
One evening. One date. A scarred psyche forever.
The triplets were there the night Asher Woodward spiked my drink and dragged me out of the club. They never acknowledged my existence before but came looking for me when I disappeared from the booth opposite theirs. They found me just in time. Twenty seconds later and Asher would’ve gotten what he wanted.
Once Cody pulled him away, I puked all over Colt’s shoes. He still finds it funny. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only time the triplets saw me throw up. During the past year, they held my hair at least half a dozen times.
“Cody said the same thing. He wanted Shawn to get me a taser, but I don’t think I’d have the guts to use it.”
Shawn is Nico’s oldest brother and Deputy Chief of police in Newport Beach. There’s also Theo, who designs games, and Logan, who took over the largest construction company in The OC once Grandad Hayes retired.
“A taser?” Nico seethes. “And you think I’ll believe you don’t have a reason for that can in your bag? Why do you need it?”
“I don’t. Cody’s overreacting.” I nip the topic in the bud by handing him my phone, so he can save his playlist in my Spotify library.
A moment later, we’re walking again, the atmosphere no longer casual. I don’t like the sudden silence or his obvious exasperation. I guess he saw right through my lie.
The entrance toQcomes into view when we round the corner. Colt casually leans against the wall, phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He lifts his head, probably hearing my heels clicking. The triplets are alike, but they’re different from Nico. Shorter by about three inches, skinnier—maybe because of their age, and lighter in complexion.
