Devil's Plaything (Playthings, #1) (8 page)

“I very much enjoy being in your greedy little palms,” he said with solemn seriousness, gaze boring into hers.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, saw the way her tongue darted nervously at the corner of her mouth as she broke eye contact, flicking a quick glance over him, feminine appreciation clear in her eyes. But just as quickly, she looked back up, smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“We agreed, none of that, sir. Besides, asking questions is much more exciting!”

“I need to do a better job,” he said and smiled, her enthusiasm infectious.

“Okay, down to business. It’s a dumb question, but do you have a last name?”

“Are you going to Google me, Julie?” He couldn’t help but tease, and he also couldn’t deny what this meant any longer. He was about to make himself real.

And she might very well reject him, recoil in disgust, and shut him out of her life forever.

“DiCosta.”

“Hmm. D’yavol DiCosta.” She rolled the words on her tongue, and he tried to squelch the warm glow in his gut at the sound. “I like it. Not what I was expecting.” She continued at his questioning glance. “Well, between your accent, your coloring, and some of the words you say, I figured you were Eastern European.”

“I have no accent.”

She laughed and patted his cheek. “Of course you don’t.”

“No one has ever told me that before.”

“Duh, they’re probably scared. Besides, it’s very light, and I mostly only hear it when we’re...” Her little titter and the blush that burned deep red under her brown cheeks was adorable. “Fucking.”

The word was grating to his ear. What he and Julie did was so much more than that, but he couldn’t put it to words, so he let the curse stand.

“My mother was Russian, but I was born here. Don’t know where DiCosta came from. I assume my father, but I never met the man, so I can’t say for sure.”

“I never met my father either.”

The offhand statement confirmed that she, like he, had long ago gotten over the absence.

“I’ve never heard your name before. Does it mean something?”

“Yes, the rough translation is devil.”

“Why would your mother name you that?” Her tone was cautious, worried, and he could understand the reaction, though in this case it was misplaced.

“Don’t worry,
nebesa
, it’s nothing mean. She said when she was pregnant it felt like a tornado inside that like old cartoon, the Tasmanian Devil, so she named me Devil.”

Memories of those earlier years with his mother flooded his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“You said ‘was’ earlier. Did she pass away?”

He felt his smile falter. “Yes.”

“And you were in the system at some point, right?”

“Yes.”

Could she see something in him, tell what he really was?

“It’s okay, D’yavol. I just know the look. It’s hard to tell foster home or juvie, but we all wear it, even when we’re grown.”

“You, too?” he asked.

“Yeah, foster homes, but this isn’t about me.”

He supposed he’d been too taken to really look, had just assumed that her resilience was a gift from good parents, but it made sense and was probably why she didn’t seem too scared of much of anything.

Saying nothing, she reached out to rest her hands atop his, thumbs stroking his knuckles. After a few moments, she said, “Your hands feel like mine, but different, so I think you work with them...”

“Heh.” He breathed out on a sigh. Different indeed. Her hands were rough from honest labor; his were roughened by violence, an outward reflection of the darkness within.

“So what do you do?”

He looked at their entwined fingers, her hands work-roughened but still gentle, so fragile-seeming in his, and considered her question for a moment, not quite certain how to answer. But he’d promised her the truth, and the truth was what he’d give her.

“I hurt people, Julie.”

Confusion clouded her clear brown eyes.

“That’s very vague, D’yavol. Bad doctors hurt people. Shady bankers hurt people. Dishonest politicians hurt people. So what do you mean?” She’d stopped moving her thumbs, and her tone was firm, almost strident. But she didn’t pull away. That gave him more hope.

“It means I hurt people. I beat them up for money.”

“Like a bouncer? Or what, you, like, kneecap people who owe money to the mob?” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“No, though I was tempted.”

Her eyes bulged, and he felt himself shrugging.

“The money’s good, but I couldn’t make myself punch degenerate gamblers. I fight in private matches.”

“Like a fight club?”

“Sort of, but for money. And for enjoyment. I really, really enjoy it.”

He wouldn’t look at her, unwilling to see the revulsion in her eyes, but as her silence stretched, he felt the tension rising, and he had no choice but to look at her to break it. Face impassive, she looked at him, but he couldn’t read her expression.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay? Just ‘okay’?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t like the idea of people hitting you but...” She shrugged. “You look like you can take care of yourself. Should I be worried?”

“So that’s it? You don’t think I’m some kind of monster?” The disbelief was apparent in his tone, even to himself.

“Those guys that night. They’re monsters. You’re not,” she said with finality. “Who convinced you that you are?”

Her brown eyes were imploring, and the tenderness in her words stung more than any reproach would have. He didn’t deserve her kindness.

He pulled his hands away, tried to put as much space between them as the small space would allow.

“I killed someone, Julie,” he said on a broken whisper, relieved despite everything to have finally said it out loud, something he’d never done with anyone else. He flinched when he felt her arms slide around his shoulders, the soft crush of her body against his.

“Tell me,” she said and squeezed him tighter.

He looked away and started his story.

“After my mother died, I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I stuck around the neighborhood. I was a big, rambunctious kid, and you know how it is. I wouldn’t have made it in foster. I landed with one of my mom’s old boyfriends, a real nasty son of a bitch. He used to smack me around a little, but after a couple of years, it got pretty intense, and I told him that I’d kill him if he ever touched me again. He couldn’t let that pass, so he came at me, and we started going at it. Hard. He beat me like I never had been before. Or since, for that matter...

“Something in me snapped. I got the upper hand, and I just kept hitting him... I remember the blood on my hands, but mostly I remember how
good
it felt.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing really. I called the cops. They looked at me and said it was justified. I got sent to a group home that may as well have been a detention center. No family would take me in, not that I blame them. I did the classes, got way better at hiding when I was up to no good, aged out, and eventually started fighting.”

There, he’d laid it all out. The next move was hers.

Long minutes passed in silence, but he remained still, as restless as he was inside. Then she caressed his cheek and pulled him close to her.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

He flinched, automatically wanting to reject her sympathy.

“Nothing happened to me.”

“A person you trusted abused you, and now you carry around the guilt of having defended yourself. That’s something, D’yavol.”

Conviction shone in her eyes.

“You’re kind, Julie, too kind to see the truth. I know what I did, what I am, and still to this day I fight.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Her words were hard but not angry. “It’s probably easy to see yourself that way, imagine that you’re some monster so you don’t have to try. We’re a lot alike, you and I, and I can see you, even though you try to hide. You’re only a monster if you chose to be. So what are going to choose?”

You
, he thought, but rather than speak he held her in his arms for a long, long time.

When she spoke again it was to say, “So do I still get to ask questions?” her eyes again bright with excitement.

He laughed and nodded, and off she went.

Later, as they lay, limbs entwined and quiet murmurs giving way to sleep, she whispered, “You asked what I was thinking earlier. I just wondered why someone like you, someone so special, would spend time with plain, old, ordinary me.”

Because I love you
.

The words were right there, a breath away from her ears, but weakness and fear, unlike any he’d ever known, stilled his tongue.

T
oday was the day!

Julie was up with the sun, practically counting down the seconds before D’yavol arrived to pick her up for their very first date. He’d been so polite when he’d asked, calling her, even though he’d only had her phone number for two days, and asking if she’d be kind enough to accompany him to dinner that Saturday evening. She swore she could even hear an undercurrent of nervousness, which was hilarious after all the things, physical and emotional, they’d shared. Still she’d been so excited she hadn’t even been able to play coy, maybe pretend she had to check her calendar. Nope, she’d said yes almost before he’d gotten the words out. And, cruel man that he was, he wouldn’t even give her hint about where they were going, not even when she’d badgered him. He just said she should wear evening attire, which for her meant her all-purpose black dress.

She’d laid it out last night, but now, in the harsh light of morning, it was the saddest, drabbest thing she’d ever seen. It simply would not do. Oh God, where could she get a dress on such short notice?

Inspiration struck, and she went to her purse and grabbed her phone.

“Somebody better be dead,” Shayla said as she picked up after the second ring, her hoarse, throaty voice revealing she’d been asleep.

Julie felt bad for waking her but pushed past it. Things were fairly dire here.

“Shay, sorry for calling so early, but I need you.”

“Julie, hey, what’s up?” she asked, her voice clearing and her tone alert.

“Not to be dramatic, but I’m having a fashion emergency, and I need a doctor.”

“Ha! It’s too early for bad almost puns, but fashion emergencies are my favorite kind. Is this man-related?”

“Um, well, I have a... date tonight, but my only decent dress looks like I’m going to court or a funeral.”

“You’re in luck, my friend, because the doctor is in—don’t ever repeat that, Julie. Get dressed. I’ll be there in thirty,” she said and hung up.

And she was there in twenty-five, the sour look on her face as she scrutinized Julie’s dress reminiscent of the expression she wore when confronted with a particularly gruesome injury in the ER.

“I’m gonna call it. Despite our most valiant efforts, the patient expired in 1991,” she finally proclaimed.

“Come on, Shay. It’s not that bad!”

“No, it’s even worse. But you called me, and we can fix it. What time is the date?”

“Seven.”

Shayla looked at her watch. “Awesome. The shops are still closed, so we can get breakfast and coffee while we formulate the plan of attack. Away,” she said with a flourish, pushing Julie toward the door.

Julie hesitated a moment, unsure of what “shops” Shayla was referring to. She had more of a women’s-department body and a dollar-store budget, and “shop” sounded small and expensive.

“Um, Shay, where are you taking me. I have certain requirements—”

“Girl, hush. Have you seen the wagon I’m draggin’? I got you.”

Thirty minutes later, they sat at a small table in popular local café, eggs, bacon, and pancakes on the way. Julie had originally ordered a bagel, but Shayla nixed that, telling her she’d need a good breakfast to fuel her as they shopped. For a moment, Julie was a little nervous, but then Shayla narrowed her eyes, focused on her like a laser, and then she got
really
nervous.

“So you and Albert hit it off?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, he’s nice.”

“But you’re not going out with him, right?”

“No, it’s someone else. I’ve been... seeing him for a little while.”

“I knew it! Trying to hold out on me,” Shayla said, oblivious to the people looking over at their table.

“Shh!” Julie said.

“Sorry!” Shayla exclaimed even more loudly, before looking around sheepishly and lowering her voice. “Sorry,” she practically whispered. “So it’s old boy from the ER right? The big, hunky white dude?”

Julie felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

“What makes you say that?” she asked, her playing-it-cool voice so unconvincing it made her nervousness crystal clear.

Shayla, showing the sensitivity and perception that made her the best doctor in the ER, backed off. “It’s okay, Julie. I’m sorry to tease. It’s just I saw the way you looked at each other that day. You both looked like you’d seen the same ghost, so I kinda put two and two together.”

“But you never said anything.”

“Well, I didn’t want to upset you, but when you called this morning, I got a little hyped. I’m just jealous is all because that man is h-o-t. But seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Julie tilted her head and raised a brow at Shayla.

“Okay, you know I can’t keep my mouth shut, but I’ll refrain from asking the really pertinent questions about stuff like how big his cock is and how much money he has.”

Julie almost spit out her coffee, and the tension that had formed in her stomach dissolved as she laughed. Besides, she needed a new attitude about this thing with D’yavol. They were transitioning, or at least she thought they were, and discussing your mate with friends was only normal. If she wanted her and D’yavol to be something more than a late-night connection that could easily be construed as just a hookup if looked at from the right angle, she needed to treat it differently, and talking to Shayla was a good start.

“That was him,” she said. “It’s been... complicated. But fun. Good,” she added hastily when she saw Shayla purse her lips in that way she did before she got wound up. “And we’re trying to take things to the next level, which is why I desperately need your help.”