Silas Page 17

  “Gracie!”

  She is the only person in the world who calls me Gracie but because she comes complete with this whole Dolly Parton type persona, including hair and figure to match, she is allowed to. It also helps that she is pretty much the only friend from high school who never deserted me throughout all the trials and tribulations of Mum’s illness. Basically, Cinderella Dawson, yeah, no shit, that’s her name, is a total sweetheart. So she gets to call me Gracie as much as she likes. But not without a little teasing.

  “Cinderella!”

  She laughs.

  “You are the only person in the world other than my mama who gets to call me that, you know.”

  “Hey, you are the only person in the world, and that includes my dead mama, who gets to call me Gracie.”

  She laughs.

  “I’ve missed you. What are you doin’?”

  “At the moment? Waiting for my luggage.”

  “Right. Where are you staying? You gave up your room, didn’t ya? You’ll be holing up in the Atlantis for a bit?”

  I snort.

  “I wish. I ain’t got no money for that, honey. I’ll be finding myself a nicely unhygienic hostel for a couple of nights and hope I can find someone in desperate need of a roomie somewhere by the weekend. It’s that or ringing my dad.”

  “Fuck that,” Cindy says decisively. “Come stay with us. There are, like, four billion rooms in this house. You’ll love it.”

  A lump forms in my throat.

  “Who is us?”

  “Ah, yeah, you missed that. You remember the job interview for PA I went for as a bit of a joke?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, I got the job. And it comes with its own friggin’ apartment. It’s, like, mostly the basement under the main house plus half the first floor. It’s friggin’ huge.” There is a pause, long enough for me to watch my suitcase go around the belt and disappear into the belly of the airport again because I just don’t know what to say. Cindy is being a lifesaver, but at the same time I suddenly feel distinctly like a stray that people keep taking in.

  “Gracie?” Cindy asks into the silence and suddenly her tone changes from bubbly-excited to serious, dropping the traces of fake Southern and going straight into pure DC. “Honestly? I could do with the company. It’s a great job but there isn’t a ton to do. I can’t go out, though, because I still need to be here on standby all the time. And there isn’t really any other staff. He’s quite the recluse. He basically sits up there being clever on the computer and I’m down here being less clever on the computer. So I barely see anyone. I’m bored out of my mind. Come on, stay with me, find your feet, tell me stories of England.”

  I still hesitate, and she sighs.

  “You can pay me rent if you want to.”

  I smile. She knows me so well.

  “Okay. Give me the address.”

  Silas

  She’s been gone twenty-four hours when I finally manage to pick myself up and kick my arse to the gym.

  When I got home from the airport yesterday, I just curled up with Luna and Sol on the bed that still smelled of her, stared at that stupid arse curtain of mine, and shut down. Stayed catatonic until Kalina came home and brought me some Kolasc on a plate, which I ate only to be polite and that turned to dust in my mouth. She was followed by Mum who came up later and gave me a hug. A fucking hug. From my mother. And it’s not even Christmas, New Year or my birthday. I escaped the house after that to go for a swim, but I couldn’t face the gym. Bright lights. Other people. All that shit.

  But today I’m here, working through my programme, even asking around for a sparring partner, but nobody wants to take me on. Bunch of pussies. I’m about to go back and kick the shit out of the sand sack when the door opens, and Diego’s blond mop appears in the doorway. He looks around, taking in the Shoreham Gym and Martial Arts Academy, and I can see in his expression that he thinks it’s a decent enough place but a tad small. Arrogant git.

  We make eye contact across the floor, and I cross my arms in front of my chest, standing my ground. If he wants to talk to me, he can come over to where I am standing. This isn’t the club. Here, he is not my boss.

  He grins at me in understanding, shucks himself out of the thin tan leather coat he is wearing over the dress pants and waistcoat of one of his infamous beige three-piece suits, and hangs it on a hanger by the entrance. Then he takes off his poncy Italian leather shoes and stashes them in the outdoor shoe rack like a good boy. He pads over to me on socks. They are black with some sort of pattern. As he comes closer, I see that they have pictures of the Roadrunner all over the left one and of Wile E. Coyote all over the right one.

  I can’t help but feel amused. Roadrunner was Diego’s nickname in the ring when we were youngsters. Because he would tap out and run off. I like that underneath the guy with the stupid wannabe mafia rebrand there is still good old George who is big enough to own his rep as a bit of a coward, albeit on his socks.

  He nods at me when he arrives in front of me.

  “Silas.”

  “That’s my name.”

  “Good to see you, man. How’s the bruising coming along?”

  “Gone,” I say and lift my vest to show him.

  “Good,” he says, examining my abdomen closely. “So you’re ready to face your bro-”

  He catches himself.

  “Rowan next week?”

  I shrug.

  “That’s the plan.”

  There is another thoughtful silence on his part, and I’m starting to wonder what the point of him showing up here is. So I ask.

  “Why are you here, George?”

  He doesn’t even give me a look for using the name he hates so much, and that gives me pause more than anything else. When he finally looks up, I see something I can’t quite identify in his eyes. Then it hits me.

  It’s concern.

  Well, shit.

  “I don’t know,” he answers slowly. “It’s all got a bit out of hand, this thing. Your brother, sorry, Rowan is training like a man possessed. And he looks good, man. He’s a beast. But what concerns me more is Cecil. I tell you old O’Brien is out for blood. Yours, to be precise. He must really fucking hate your guts. I overheard him offer Rowan 50k on top of the prize money if he knocks you out proper.”

  He pauses and looks over my shoulder into the distance to gather his thoughts, while I reel at the fact that a fucker like O’Brien can just lay fifty grand on the table as if it were Monopoly money, while my mum works herself to the bone for peanuts. But what else is new. Apparently a lot, as I find out when George starts talking again.

  “And Cecil has, like, completely taken over the whole show. I mean, I was never gonna keep it a surprise or anything. Half the fun was always gonna be the lead up. You know, Dad and him sitting in the pub for weeks on end beforehand, yaddering about it, egging each other on with their wagers, all that crap. But I didn’t anticipate Cecil completely taking control. I was just gonna put up a ring in the garden, straw bales or something, nothing fancy. Fight on grass, like the good old days. After dinner. But now he’s got Dad to have the pool pumped out and mats put down in there. The pool, Silas.”

  “The easier to wash down the blood,” I say sarcastically, and he looks at me, nodding gravely. “Well, great. Thanks for giving me the heads up,” I add and turn away.

  His hand lands on my shoulder, and I look back at him.

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Silas. I don’t want anyone to die on my watch. In our fucking house. I need you to win this. So nobody gets killed.”

  I glare at him.

  “Who says I’m not gonna lay him out permanently.”

  He frowns.

  “’Cause you’re a fighter, man, best we have, but you ain’t a killer. And that’s a good thing.”

  I nod and start walking away. I hate to admit it but I’m kind of touched by his faith in me.

  “Anything I can do, man, just let me know,” he calls after me.

  I
start shaking my head with my back still to him but then I have an idea. He’s the Roadrunner, but he’s better than nothing. I turn back fully and flash him a grin.

  “I could do with a sparring partner. None of these pussies here wanna take me on.”

  His eyes go wide for a second.

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  I just keep smiling until he sighs.

  “Fuck me. Great. Got any spare kit?”

  Of course I do.

  Grace

  Four days after moving into Cindy’s, I’m already doing my third shift behind the bar of the Atlantis since coming back, and I realize that I’ve kinda just slid back into my old life as if it were a slipper.

  Only now I’m rooming with a friend I like rather than some idiots I hate. Cindy didn’t lie. Her apartment is massive, the spare room I’m in about twice the size of Silas’ bedroom, and the guy she works for pretty much a hermit. But a nice one. Cindy introduced us first thing and asked if it was okay for me to stay. He said it was her apartment and if it made her happy to have somebody there, she was welcome to let me move in with her permanently. Then he told her she shouldn’t let anyone take advantage, though, and should definitely charge me rent and keep the money.

  I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s a good-looking guy despite being an ubergeek and he clearly has a shit ton of money, so he is probably on all those ‘most eligible bachelor’ lists. Ergo he should have a load of women and general entourage hanging around all the time, but as far as we know he hasn’t had a single visitor since he hired Cindy three weeks ago.

  I’m not surprised. He’s so cripplingly shy he couldn’t even look me in the eye for longer than a second when he shook my hand. When he talks to Cindy, he’s mostly talking to his shoes, too. Unless he’s giving her advice, like making me pay rent, or showing her how to do something on the computer. Then he’s quite authoritative. But the rest of time? Heaven help. It would be cute if he was younger but in a man in his early thirties it’s kinda heart-wrenching to watch.

  His name is Leon, but he is about as far removed from a lion as you can imagine. More like a really sweet black-haired, blue-eyed, skinny kitten. If it wasn’t for the fact that this is her first ever proper non-temp job and I wasn’t cramping her style, I know Cindy would be all over that. She likes the long and lanky vampire type. She’s always looking for the Nick Cave to her Dolly Parton.

  Me? I’m not looking for anyone or anything anymore.

  Before I set off for England, I had this grand idea that in that month I would finally figure out what I want to do with my life. Mum didn’t leave me any money, but she left me brains. I just don’t know where and how to apply them. But rather than clarity, England has brought me a hurting heart and the feeling that I’m living the wrong life.

  I miss Silas so much I feel it as physical pain sometimes.

  On that thought, I stop wiping the bar down and look around the empty room. It’s lunchtime, there is one couple in the far corner, drinking wine, and that’s the whole extent of my customer base so far. It’s a good thing the Atlantis pays me an actual wage and I don’t have to survive just on tips. With a deep sigh, I turn away and I start busying myself with cutting lemons and limes for later on in the evening.

  I don’t really think about how stupid an idea that is until I hold the knife in my hand and the memory starts flooding my entire body. Memories have been doing that a lot lately. Mostly at night when I can’t sleep but also often in the daytime during mundane tasks. It’s like you can take the girl out of the boy’s life but you can’t take the boy out of her soul. Or something like that. This time it’s Silas showing me how to chop bell peppers, hand over hand, his hard cock pressing against my ass, his breath in my neck, his scent engulfing me.

  Five nights ago.

  An ocean away.

  “Hey Grace, you okay?” Vince asks me. “You’re crying.”

  He’s standing by my elbow and handing me a napkin. I take the napkin and dab at the tears I hadn’t noticed were running down my cheek until he mentioned them.

  “I’m okay. Just tired. Still struggling with jetlag, you know.”

  “Hmm.”

  He studies my profile.

  Vincent Scerri is in his late forties and he’s been the bar manager at the Atlantis since I was a little girl. He was one of the few Atlantis employees who used to come to the apartment after Mum got too sick to carry on working and check in on her. He squeezed my hand at the funeral when I needed someone to squeeze my hand since my father hadn’t come, worried it might upset his wife.

  Vince is about as much family as I have in the world, other than Cindy, though funeral handholding aside we’ve never been touchy-feely or heart-to-hearty. Which makes it even more disconcerting when he leans in and sniffs the air around me.

  “I smell bullshit,” he says.

  It’s shocking because I don’t think I’ve ever heard him cuss or use a word like that. He’s way too softly spoken and polite. So I turn and look at him wide-eyed.

  “Vince!” I scold him.

  He takes a step back and examines me, unrepentant.

  “You’re not jetlagged,” he states dryly as he shrugs. “I’ve got four sisters and three daughters. I know tears. Those aren’t tired tears, they’re love tears, missy. You’re in love. Makes me wonder who the lucky fella is and why it is a crying matter.”

  He holds up his fingers in a ‘wait a minute’ gesture then pours a couple of glasses of Pinot Gris, shoves one at me and points to the table nearest the bar.

  “Let’s sit,” he demands.

  I follow him, sipping my wine on the go. We never drink on the job and I feel naughty.

  “You’re not gonna fire me for drinking, right?” I joke while I plonk my butt in a chair opposite him.

  He raises his glass.

  “Talk, bellissima.”

  So I do.

  I’ve told Cindy a little about Silas, of course, but I tried my best to make it sound light-hearted, a fun holiday hook up. Under Vince’s serious stare I feel like Mum’s kinda listening in, so I’m honest. All the way honest, including telling him about the underground fights and Silas’ entanglement with Brighton’s bad boys. I can see Vince’s face grow more and more serious as he listens to my story. When I finish, he nods gravely.

  “Well, I can’t say your mom would have approved,” he says slowly, and I think, yeah no shit, Sherlock, but before I can retort, he softens the blow. “But this Silas character must be pretty damn special if he has you all tied up in knots like that because you, Grace Turner, are one smart cookie and far from easily impressed.”

  Vince calling me a smart cookie makes me smile properly.

  “Yeah, right,” I say dismissively to mask how pleased I am with his compliment.

  “You say he is a good man?” he asks, and I nod. “You say he made you happy?”

  I nod again.

  “So what’s a little illegal fighting on the side?”

  “Vince!” I exclaim, my eyebrows shooting up, shocked for the second time tonight.

  He grins.

  “Hey, I’m Italian.”

  That makes me laugh out loud. Vince is like the nicest, gentlest guy I know and there is no way he has any connection to anything mafia. Besides, we’re in Washington, D.C., we don’t have organized crime here, we have politicians for that. And I happen to know that the Scerris have been in DC for five generations. They are a family of shoemakers, making made-to-measure luxury shoes. Both of Vince’s brothers still maintain the family business. They are as quiet as he is. He lets me finish laughing, and then his eyes turn soft.

  “Seriously, Grace, you like this guy?”

  “Yeah, I do, did, whatever. Where are you going with this?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he answers cryptically. “But you sure should.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I frown at him, and he points at the door.

  “Get outta here, Grace. You should have neve
r come back in the first place. Go max out your credit cards and get yourself another flight.”

  He repeatedly jabs his finger in the air in the direction of the exit, sternly, as if I were a recalcitrant child.

  “Go back to England, go back to your man.”

  I stare at him aghast.

  “I can’t just go back there. I can’t leave here.”

  “Why on earth not? You got dual citizenship, have you not?”

  “Well, yeah, it was important to Mum that–”

  He sighs as he cuts me short.

  “Yes, I know, belissima, it was important to her that you’d keep the connection to her roots. You seem to forget, your mom and I were friends. If you’d been christened, like I wanted you to be, I would have been your godfather.”

  “Really? An Italian godfather? Now that would have been cool.”

  I grin at him, feeling the wine warming my cheeks.

  “We’re digressing. You’re missing my point, Grace. So I will spell it out for you. What exactly is keeping you in DC?”

  “Mum,” I answer angrily. “Don’t you get it? Mum is here.”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hands.

  “Your mom’s gone, Grace,” he says gently but firmly. “She’s in a hole in the ground in Oak Hill Cemetery. She doesn’t need you anymore. Here or anywhere.”

  I try to pull my hands out of his grasp, but he won’t let go.

  “She would want you to follow your heart,” he carries on. “She’d dance with joy if she knew you’ve fallen in love with an Englishman.”