Page 8 of Threads That Bind Us
“I’ve got a confession,” he says, placing the flute on the lacquered wood in front of me.
My smile grows.
“You don’t know how to make a French 75?”
“I’m not a bartender.”
My jaw drops a little, and I wave my hands in his direction, half accusatory and half defensive.
“But you’re standing back there! Behind the bar!” I’m yelling at him a little, but I’m also laughing, and he seems embarrassed and oddly pleased. Color tinges his ears again.
“One bartender at Catalina’s, remember?” he asks, gesturing toward the sign Sammy showed me earlier. “Sammy’s a friend. I was just visiting.”
This guy and Sammy seem like exact opposites. I’ve known them collectively for like twenty minutes, but where Sammy is gregarious and fun and easily likable, this man seems more reserved and calculating. Like he wants to know you before you know him.
“If you’re just visiting, why’d you serve me the club soda?” I accuse playfully, running my finger over the rim of my water glass. His eyes flash as they follow the motion, and I can feel myself flush at the attention.
“Not sure.” He shrugs, backing away to where Sammy is now gawking at him. “But I’m going to keep serving you.”
Chapter 4
Charlie
Ican’t fucking believe it.
It’s physically painful to rip my gaze from her, but I turn to make my way toward Sammy, calculating the odds of her showing up here. I feel almost euphoric.
Even though I never saw her face clearly, I know it’s her. The freckles, the hair, the same inexplicable pull in my gut toward her. It’s been months, but I think about the woman in the alley almost every day.
When I finally yank myself back to the present, Sammy’s staring at me like I’m a ghost, which, considering the month I’ve had, isn’t unreasonable. I haven’t felt like myself in weeks, but something settled in my chest the moment I laid eyes on her.
I wrap my arms around my friend, hugging him even though he’s still frozen with a bottle of tequila in his hand. Patrons are staring at me solely because of the state of shock Sammy’s in, and I laugh as I let him go.
“Da quanto tempo,” I say, shaking his shoulders. Something in him snaps, and he drops the bottle on the bartop to throw his arms around me.
“Carlo Costa, as I live and breathe!” He pulls away to graspmy face in his hands like my Nonna did when I was a kid running around Bari.
“I am going to kill my sister for telling you that,” I grumble, shaking him off. No one calls me Carlo in the States, not even my parents. I’ve been Charlie my whole life, save for time I spent with Clara and our cousins under our grandparents’ tutelage in Italy.
“Better stock up on silver bullets, or wooden stakes, or whatever kills something as terrifying as Clara,” Sammy responds, turning back to the bar to pour the shots he abandoned. “Speaking of terrifying things, you look at least seven times more menacing than the last time I saw you. What the hell happened?”
Hard question to answer. Sammy vaguely knows who I am,whatI am. He knows my line of work creates monsters. It’s a testament to our friendship that I don’t bristle at the question. People have lost tongues for less.
“You mean the tattoos?” I ask, my hand automatically moving to the olive branches I had inked into my throat last fall. I glance over my shoulder to catch my redhead staring at my ass, and sparks light under my skin.
“Amica,” Sammy starts in a bad Italian accent, “your ink cannot surprise me at this point. No, you look more… serious?” He pours a mug of some local craft beer and reconsiders. “No, determined. And for a man of your inclinations, determination is worrisome.”
“Only for the other guy,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. But he’s right. The last few weeks have changed the way I see myself, my future, and the fate of the family.
Sammy slips down the bar to take a few more orders, and I take the opportunity to look back at her again. She’s turned on her seat and propped her elbows on the bar to watch the crowd, and the neon lights flash against her skin like watercolors.I grab her book out of my back pocket and raise my eyebrows at the cover. Two lingerie-clad women, covered in blood, their bodies pressed against one another, sharp teeth exposed. Intriguing, but not really what I’m here for. I flip open the back page.
The list is a little depressing. Whatever the situation she’s contemplating, it’s clear she’s got strong feelings about both Ana and Ben. It’s also obvious she’s backed into a corner. And that she’s already made up her mind.
I’ve spent my entire life reading body language, unintentional signals, truths and lies we can’t help but reveal. When I watched her from my post behind the bar—and I had been watching her for far longer than she realized—I couldn’t see indecision. She wasn’t considering; she wasconfirming. It was in the set of her shoulders, and the way her eyes narrowed at the page instead of wandering or closing in thought.
I want to slither into her mind. To lay my head in her lap and listen to her tell me about every decision she’s ever made. To know if she made a similar list before she killed the man in that strip club alley.
“Reading Baby Red’s book?” I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of Sammy’s voice.