Mafia Girl by Deborah Blumenthal Read Free Book Online Page B

the dishes, then go up to my room. I do homework, shower, wash my hair, and put on pj’s. I make a show of kissing my parents good night before I climb into bed. I hear them come upstairs and I wait while they take turns in their bathroom, watching under my door until the hall is dark.
    I wait to give them a chance to fall asleep, and then I get up and quietly dress in jeans with a red tank top, low enough to show serious cleavage. I toss sling backs into my bag and slip into ballet flats that will not ratt-a-tat-tat on the wooden floor. I creep down the stairs and go out through the basement so they won’t hear the front door.
    Thomas is parked down the block from my house in a dark cul-de-sac where the streetlight is broken. I’m now convinced that before he worked for Clive’s family, he must have trained with Scotland Yard because he’s good and blind when he needs to be. I walk down the street slinking away from the streetlamps.
    I get in the car and Thomas winks at me. No rant about me leaving the house at eleven or the idiocy of going to uptown Manhattan alone. I can only imagine what a loser he’d think I am if he knew I’m headed for a bar filled with lowlifes because I’m blind with longing for the cop who busted me.
    “Thank you, Thomas.”
    He looks at me through the rearview mirror. “My pleasure, Gia,” he says, a small smile on his face that makes me wonder whether he did stuff like this when he was my age.
    “Do you think I’m crazy?”
    “In a good way,” he says finally.
    I cross my arms over my chest, a wordless hug.
    To fill the silence, Thomas puts on Jefferson Airplane, which Clive says is Thomas’s favorite oldies group.
    Don’t you want somebody to love?
    Don’t you need somebody to love?
    Is this particular song at this particular moment a coincidence? Or are there no such things as coincidences?
    When we get there, he parks at the end of the street.
    “I’ll wait here for you,” he says, giving me a compassionate—or maybe a pitying—smile.
    “Thank you, Thomas.” I make my way to the front door and check my watch. Eleven thirty. Do you know where your arresting officer is?
    The blasting music hits me like a slap. Some group I’ve never heard of. I immediately case the bar. The lineup this evening is even more depressing than last time. Half the place seems hung over and the other half would look better if they were. And there is no one who remotely resembles gorgeous Michael. I detour to the unisex bathroom with the gag-worthy urinal and apply more sparkly pink lip gloss before leaning over the sink and staring at myself in the mirror to use up an entire sixty seconds.
    I unlatch the squeaky door and head for an empty spot. And then stop. Cardiac alert. He’s leaning against the bar, a glass of something like scotch on the rocks in front of him. Panic wells up in me because it never occurred to me to come armed with a smart, edgy, übercool conversation opener. I brace myself against the wall and study him.
    Perfect profile.
    Straight nose.
    Sharp jawline.
    Strong mouth.
    His body is cut under a charcoal T-shirt. No cutesy message on it. Michael Cross does not buy souvenir T-shirts or wear clothes to show the world where he’s been. It’s none of your goddamn business.
    I keep staring. Does he know he’s one of the most beautiful men on the planet? No. He’s too troubled. I doubt that he spends much time admiring himself in the mirror. The only thing I can’t envision is where I fit in. Maybe because I don’t. He won’t let me. I wonder about the kind of people he would open up to and draw a blank.
    As if he hears me thinking he turns and our eyes lock. He tilts his head slightly, an almost unconscious show of surprise. I lick my lips and swallow, unable to hold back the slightest smile.
    What do I do now? Crap. What was I thinking? Why am I here? My brain flatlines.
    Out of nowhere, someone drunk and annoying comes up to me, cutting off my clear view of