Heartless (17 page)

A
ce

“
G
ood to see you
, Ace.” Lou meets me at a coffee shop Sunday afternoon. “Jesus, it’s wicked hot out here today. You staying cool, Ace? You doing all right?”

I take a seat across from him, feeling the stare from a group of women sitting at a table a few feet away. Ever since I shaved, I’ve been “spotted” more often. I’ve even signed a few autographs, mostly for kids, because I keep going back to that night when I made Aidy’s nephew cry, and I can’t have that on me again.

“You look really good,” Lou says, finally noticing the shaved look I’m sporting. “Glad you lost that furry animal on your face. Never been a fan of those things.”

I smirk, snorting through my nose, and sit down with my black coffee in a to-go cup.

“Well aware of that, Lou.”

“Seriously though, there’s something lighter about you, and it ain’t got nothing to do with your looks.” He pulls his cup of coffee closer. “What’ve you been up to? You getting out of the city much?”

I nod. “Just the other weekend. Hit up the lake house.”

“Good for you. You do some fishing, did you?”

“A little.” I take a sip of coffee and stare out the window to my left, watching a couple stroll by holding hands. They’re laughing. Completely blissful and carefree. And up until Aidy came into my life, I’d forgotten what that felt like.

Lou studies me, his bushy gray eyebrows rising and falling and his head tilting every angle.

“You . . . you, uh, meet someone, Ace?” he asks.

“What?” I glance away, brows meeting. “Nah.”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

It’s not that I’m ashamed of Aidy. Quite the opposite. I’m just not in the mood to be grilled by this big galoot.

“What’s her name?” Lou grills anyway.

I lift the Styrofoam cup to my lips to hide a smirk. “There’s no girl, Lou.”

“Ah, fine. I won’t bother you about this girl who supposedly doesn’t exist,” Lou says with a side wink, swatting his thick-knuckled hand at me. “That’s not why I wanted to meet you anyway. Just wanted to see how you were doing since I was in town, run some things by you.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Well, I’ve got some buddies who have this satellite radio show, and they’re looking for a host. It’s seasonal, and it’s mostly major league talk, but I think you’d be perfect for it, and damn, kid, I watched you on Smack Talk the other day. You’ve got a face for TV
and
a voice for radio. Ever think about heading that direction?”

“Nah.” I rotate my cup and then lift it, swirling the contents in the bottom. “That’s not me.”

“Well, you’ve gotta do something.” Lou’s voice is a little bit louder now. “You can’t sit around all the time wasting away. Write a book and go on a tour, coach a Little League team, hell, coach in the majors. You know, you could be an actor if you don’t like live television.”

Smirking, I shake my head. “I’ll leave the acting to Matteo.”

“Fair enough.” Lou exhales, eyes bugging out of his head as he blows a heavy, coffee-scented breath across the table. “Anyway, your future’s still bright, kid. Just wanted to come here and remind you of that.”

“Thanks, Lou.”

“Find a way to do what you love, even if you ain’t pitching balls no more,” he adds. “Follow your heart.” Lou stands, tipping back the last of his coffee. “I gotta go now, kid. You keep in touch. I want to meet this girl sometime, all right? Be good to her. Don’t screw it up because she makes you happy. I can tell. And if you say she doesn’t exist, you’re full of shit. I’ve known you a long time, Ace. I see clear through you.”

He pats me on the back, giving my good shoulder a squeeze, and yanks a dusty baseball cap from his back pocket, securing it on his head before he leaves.

Walking home a few minutes later, I think about texting Aidy. We spent Friday evening together, and she stayed over. Saturday she met with a few clients, and then we met at Finnegan’s for pizza with Wren and Enzo and Chauncey.

I should leave her alone for a day.

As much as I want to spend every waking second of every day with her, I don’t want to push her away. I don’t want to lose her. I’ve done that before. I’ve loved someone so intensely it scared them, it pushed them away.

I refuse to do that to her.

So we’ll take things slow, one deliciously enjoyable day at a time, and see what happens.

A
idy

T
wenty-two
.

The number of times I’ve had sex with Ace since our first official date.

Eighteen.

The number of times I’ve stayed the night at his house since our first official date, so basically every other night.

Seven.

The number of real dates we’ve been now. Real, get-all-dolled-up, dinner and a night on the town type of dates. Hand holding. Door holding. The works.

Three.

The number of times I’ve caught myself daydreaming about a future with this man, which is completely ridiculous because I’ve never been one to fantasize about the ring and the dress and the house and being tied to one man for the rest of my life.

One hundred.

The likelihood that I’m one hundred percent obsessed with Alessio ‘Ace’ Amato.

I ring his doorbell on a Friday night, takeout in hand. We have five more episodes of season three of our old West ghost show to watch, and we’ve had this Friday night in planned for a couple of weeks now.

Ace answers with a towel wrapped around his waist and a smile in his eyes. God forbid he smiles with his mouth once in a while.

“Hey,” he says, opening the door and leaning in to steal a kiss.

I think he’s my boyfriend now.

But I don’t know for sure.

We’ve been on several dates now. We screw like rabbits. And he doesn’t seem to get annoyed when I respond to all of his text messages within seconds because I’m too impatient to play games with him.

He knows I like him.

I tell him all the time, dropping hints every chance I get and doing sweet little things that I know he appreciates, like not complaining when he wants to watch some stupid action movie and trying really, really hard to learn more about baseball because despite the fact that he pretends like he’s over it, I know the love of the game is still there.

Plus I told him all about Wren’s surprise pregnancy and how the wedding got moved up, and he didn’t even flinch when I asked if he’d be my date to Wren and Chauncey’s friends-and-family reception at Luciana’s on Fifth.

Anyway, Ace does plenty of sweet things for me. He’s sent me flowers a few times, always a different arrangement, never predictable. And he bought me a toothbrush to keep at his place. I even have my own drawer in his dresser, and I keep some extra clothes and pajamas in there despite the fact that whenever I sleep over, pajamas are pretty much out of the equation. Just last week, Ace bought my favorite organic cinnamon toothpaste because his mint paste makes me gag.

And he tells me he likes me too.

But it’s always just that.

“
I like you, Aidy
,” he usually says. “
You’re different
.”

I try not to think about his love for the girl from the notebook compared to his lust for me. For all intents and purposes, maybe he didn’t write those things after all. It is possible that I’m wrong. And it is possible that I’m reading too much into things. A few nights ago, we were lying in bed, and I almost brought up the journal again. It was on the tip of my tongue. And then I breathed in his mossy scent and kissed his full lips as he buried his fingers in my hair, and I remembered how happy I was and how magical this whole thing is, and I didn’t want to throw it away all over something he’d probably deny anyway.

The day Ace tells me he loves me,
if
he tells me he loves me, I’ll die and go straight to Heaven, like one of those cartoon characters lying on the ground with a bouquet of flowers in their hands as their ghostly spirit rises high above them.

“What’d you bring?” he asks, his hand on the small of my back as we head upstairs.

“Your favorite,” I say. “Corned beef and cabbage pizza from Chauncey’s.”

“God, I love you,” he says, his hands sinking into my hips as he leans in and kisses the spot just beside my left ear.

My heart flutters and then sinks hard as a stone. He doesn’t
really
mean he loves me. He only loves that I brought him his favorite food.

I ignore it, instead choosing to revel in the sensation of his hand creeping up the back of my thigh just before we reach the top step. A sly smile slinks across my face.

“Okay, well, you enjoy your pizza,” I say. “As soon as you’re done, you know where to find me . . . naked . . . in your bed.”

I throw the box on the island and it skids across. Tugging my blouse off to reveal the sheer black lace bra I bought especially for him this morning, I toss my shirt at him and saunter down the hall. Practically feeling his eyes on my ass, I know it’s just a matter of time before he makes the right decision, and I grin to myself.

“Fuck pizza,” he growls, a prelude to the determined trod of his footsteps. When his hands wrap around my waist from behind, I smile even bigger.

Ace loves me more than his favorite pizza.

That’s got to count for something.

* * *

I
thought
about letting him sleep in Saturday morning and creeping out just after the sun came up. But he looked so damn hot lying there all half-naked and peaceful. I stole a kiss, dragged my hand down his chiseled chest, and then whispered into his ear, letting him know I was leaving and I’d get a hold of him later. After that, I took the train home, showered, and headed out to a full day of appointments.

By noon, Ace had texted me, asking what I was doing that night.

If I didn’t know better, sometimes I’d think he was more obsessed with me than I am with him.

And yet he still keeps me at arm’s length, and in many ways I still feel like I hardly know him. I know he’s great in bed. I know he’s athletic and bossy. He doesn’t whine about anything. Ever. He’s quiet more than he talks, which is where I come in, and he loves pizza and beer. He has an agent named Lou, whom I’ve yet to meet, and I spoke to one of his brothers, Matteo, on the phone once when we were lying in bed and Ace’s phone rang. He seemed nice.

YOU COMING OVER?

I glance at my vibrating phone as soon as I leave my last client of the day. It’s almost four o’clock. I’ve been running all over Manhattan since eight a.m, subsisting mostly on coffee and a single, day-old muffin one of my clients so generously offered me. I’m exhausted.

I fire one back: I’M STARVING. WILL YOU FEED ME?

He responds within seconds: I’M ASSUMING YOU MEAN ACTUAL FOOD BECAUSE YOU’RE CERTAINLY NOT STARVED FOR SEX.

My lips curl up at the corners: WHATEVER. JUST FEED ME. SOMETHING TELLS ME I’M GOING TO NEED MY ENERGY TONIGHT.

Last night we had sex twice. In a row. The man is a machine, barely needing any downtime. He says he’s never been this way with anyone before: only me.

My legs ache and my shoes cut into my heels when I walk. Up ahead, a Yellow Cab is parked, so I grab it before anyone else does, and I hitch a ride to Lexington Avenue.

* * *

“
A
re you my boyfriend
?” I ask when Ace answers the door Saturday night.

He jerks his neck, taking a step back, mouth smirking. My question amuses him.

“What?” he asks.

“Are we dating? Am I your girlfriend? What are we?” I place my makeup case at the foot of the steps inside.

Ace reaches for my hand and closes the door behind me. “Where’d this come from?”

“I was just thinking on the way over here. We’ve been hanging out almost every day for a while now. And you’re coming with me to my sister’s wedding next week. I’m not sleeping with anyone else, and I like you a lot. Like,
a lot
a lot,” I say. “Is the feeling mutual or am I one of those women who overcompensate for their insecurities by making assumptions about relationship statuses?”

“Jesus, Aidy, you’re not insecure,” he says, sucking in a long breath and dragging his thumb along his bottom lip. His mouth curls into a signature Ace half-smile.

I want to bite it. And then I want to kiss it. And then I want to climb up his Adonis body like a cat climbs up one of those catnip trees. God, seeing him gets my body so worked up into a frenzy. Every. Single. Time.

“And you’re not making any assumptions,” he says. “I like you too.
A lot
a lot.”

I smile.

“You want to be my girlfriend?” he asks.

Nodding, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Clearly.”

“Fine,” he says. “You’re my girlfriend.”

I kiss him. Hard. Harder than I’ve ever kissed him before.

He hoists me up, and I’m weightless in his arms. Carrying me up the steps, I kiss him again and again, my hands caressing his smooth face. I slide off of him when we reach the top, my fingers greedily tugging at the hem of his shirt.

I want him, and I want him now.

He stops me, placing his hands on mine. “I’ve got groceries being delivered any minute. I thought I’d make us dinner tonight and then maybe we could go out and see that movie you’ve been wanting to see. The one with Ryan Gosling and that girl from that other movie with that guy . . .”

“Really?” I squeal, doing a slight jump. “You’ll see it with me? God, we really are boyfriend and girlfriend now.”

He smirks, “Anyway, I just got back from the gym a little bit ago, I’m going to hit the shower quick.”

“Seriously?” I sigh. It’s not fair that a man can go to the gym and come back smelling like testosterone and pheromones and the
good
kind of sweat, and a woman leaves the gym walking home in a three-foot bubble of gym-stench and praying she doesn’t run into anyone she knows on the way. “I could eat you alive, you smell so good. It’s not fair.”

“Just make yourself at home,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

“Always do.”

Ace disappears down the hall, and I cozy up on his couch, flipping through channels on his TV and hoping I can find the latest
Real Housewives of Whatever
marathon because I’m so behind.

Score.

Found one.

I settle in, watching two women go at it. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think one of them talked to the other one’s daughter behind her back and the one is pissed off about it and accusing the other one of manipulating the daughter into not liking her fiancé? And it all happened in St. Barths last New Year’s Eve?

Something like that anyway.

God, I need popcorn for this.

A commercial plasters the screen, and my fly-like attention span wanes. I find myself focused on the photos that line Ace’s fireplace mantle. Rising, I move closer, examining each one like a detective attempting to unearth clues. I don’t see a single woman in any of these photos besides an older, middle-aged lady with jet black hair flanked by a bunch of strapping and audaciously handsome young men. The woman, who is clearly his mother, wears a proud smile, and the son standing to her left, Ace, has his arm wrapped tight around her shoulders.

The show comes back on, and I settle back into the warm indentation waiting for me on the sofa cushion when the faint chime of the doorbell interrupts the fight that’s about to break out on screen.

I don’t hear the shower running anymore, so I think Ace is out, but I doubt he’s appropriate yet, so I pop up and tromp downstairs to get the groceries.

“Just a minute,” I call out, taking the steps two at a time and almost tripping over my makeup case, which I forgot I’d left at the bottom of the landing.

Flinging the door open, I expect to be met by a man in a grocery store uniform lugging several bags worth of food.

Instead it’s a woman.

Hair the color of onyx.

Eyes like wild violets.

“Who are you?” she asks, a single brow arched.

I stand before her paralyzed, unable to speak.

The thumping of Ace’s feet coming down the stairs behind me almost drowns out the pounding of my heart in my ears.

“Kerenza,” Ace says. “What are you doing here?”

Kerenza?

It’s
her
.

It’s “K.”

I was right. I was right all along.

The woman with the violet eyes stares at me, her glare cold and incredulous. She looks at me like I don’t belong here, like she didn’t expect to see me and she wants me gone. I know women can get territorial sometimes, like yippy little harmless Chihuahuas, but this woman looks to me like she could be quite the opposite of harmless.