скачать книгу бесплатно
“Oh, come on,” Dannie said, taking the straw off her nose. “We know you better than that.”
“Seriously. I’m the perfect wife. The perfect mother. The perfect daughter. The worst thing I’ve ever done is wear this skirt, which is definitely too short for me. Gimme a light.”
“Dare it is, then,” Roseanna said, dragging herself to a sitting position.
“What? I told you—”
“No way. You’re lying,” said Cecilia. “But that’s okay, because I have the perfect dare for you.”
Grace raised her eyebrows.
“Go over there and give your underwear—” Cecilia pointed toward the bar “—to him.”
Grace sucked in her cheeks.
The guy looked as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ. Black turtleneck. Black leather jacket. Dark, brooding eyes. He sat in a pool of light shining down from the ceiling as if he were some sort of fallen angel. The most gorgeous in-the-flesh man she’d ever seen.
Gorgeous, and young.
“Nun-uh. He’s a baby,” Grace said.
“All you gotta do is give him your undies, Grace. It’s not like you’ve never given a guy your undies before, right?” Dannie’s smile was evil. Evil and smug.
Grace wobbled to her feet. Damn. He might be young, but she wasn’t that old. She still had decent legs and a not-so-bad ass. “Fine. Consider it done.”
She marched to the ladies’ room, only to find a line a mile long. While she waited, she had plenty of time to reconsider her decision. There was something slightly sinister about that man.
She could always go back to the table and make up a story for the “truth” portion of the game. Surely she could come up with something suitably shocking.
Grace looked over at her friends, who watched her with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. No. She couldn’t lie to them. Way back when, they’d all sworn on their posters of Jon Bon Jovi. No lying at truth or dare. It was a matter of honor.
But there’s no way I’m telling them the truth.
Her own parents didn’t know about her arrest, and she intended to keep it that way. It had been a youthful indiscretion, and now that she was a hair past youthful, there was absolutely no need to be indiscreet. Especially since she just did it again—and this time, she definitely knew better.
So?
So she’d take the dare and go give GQ her underpants.
She slipped into the bathroom and balanced against the toilet paper holder as she stripped off her underpants, happy that she’d worn a decent pair without holes. Sometimes following motherly advice paid off at the oddest moments.
Stuffing the panties deep into her pocket, she fought her way out of the bathroom and through the crowd that had suddenly grown up around the bar. She tried not to look obvious as she slid in next to the Roman god, elbowing a pouty waif off of the bar stool beside him. The girl attempted a threatening look.
Grace laughed. “Please. I’ve shaved parmesan thicker than you. Get going.”
The girl slinked away to a group of equally emaciated friends.
Grace ordered a margarita from the bartender, took the cigarette Cecilia had given her out of her pocket and stuck it between her lips.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?”
Adonis smiled, his teeth shining like Chiclets in the bluish light. “Sure.”
He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and sparked it, holding the flame out in front of her. “How you doin’, sweetheart?” He pronounced it “sweethawt” in a perfect South Philly accent.
She leaned in and sucked the flames into the cigarette, drawing the smoke deep in her lungs. It wasn’t at all as pleasant as she remembered.
“Just a minute,” she rasped, holding up a finger while she hacked into her palm. And into her sleeve. And into the hair of the girl next to her.
GQ handed her the margarita and she sucked down half of it.
“Grace.”
“What?” he said. He looked confused.
“My name. It’s Grace.”
“Yeah. I’m Nick. Nick Balboa.” He affected a slur and shadowboxed the air. “Youse know, like Rocky?”
“Right. Were you even born when that movie came out?”
“Almost.”
She grinned, aware that she probably looked incredibly dopey but for some reason was unable to stop.
Now what?
She decided that since this was a game of truth or dare, she’d just tell him the truth.
“Nick.”
“Yeah?”
Damn, he was good-looking. The dimple on his chin momentarily distracted her.
“Nick, I have a confession. Do you see those women over there?” She pointed to her friends. They all stared back like they were watching a bad reality TV show. All except Roseanna, whose head was back on the table.
Nick nodded.
“They dared me to come over here and give you something.”
Nick grinned. “Like what?”
“Like my underwear.”
He didn’t look the slightest bit surprised. She guessed women offered him their underwear on a pretty regular basis, much as they did Tom Jones.
“I have to give you my underwear,” she continued, “in order to satisfy some sick need they have to humiliate me.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
She sidled closer, and dangled her panties in front of him so the girls could see.
Nick gave her panties an appraising look. He crumpled them up and stuck them in his pocket. Then he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. “Wanna give your friends something better to watch?”
Oh, my.
“Like what?”
“Like this.” He leaned in close, and she shut her eyes. He smelled of leather, Aramis and tequila, three of her favorite things. She knew what was coming, but she was afraid if she looked she’d chicken out. And she really didn’t want to chicken out.
The DJ was playing the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven,” and the beat reverberated through the bar beneath her elbow. Nick’s lips were mere inches away.
What was it the Romans used to say?
Oh, yeah. Carpe diem.
Saturday, 12:17 a.m.
Goodbye Girls
When they finally came up for air—about thirteen minutes later—Cecilia was standing behind them.
“You okay?” she asked.
Grace nodded.
“How are you getting home?”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“Okay.” Cecilia winked at Nick. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he said. Rose Frost lipstick smeared his lips.
Cecilia returned to the table and waved to Grace. She made a fist and held it to her cheek like a telephone receiver, mouthing the words, “Call me.” Then she and Dannie slung their arms around Roseanna and dragged her through the crowd toward the door.
“Your friends leaving?” Nick asked.
“Apparently.”
For a split second Grace thought maybe she should leave with them, but when she tried to stand up, the room spun.
Nick kissed her again, stroking her arms with his palms. It was like kissing Vinnie Barbarino, Scott Baio and Rob Lowe, all rolled into one. Just a teeny bit surreal.
Nick slid his hand down to hers and linked her fingers in his and—
Stopped.
He stopped kissing her.
He brought her left hand up between them and looked at her fingers.
The diamond band Tom had given her for their tenth anniversary refracted the spotlight above them like a disco ball.
“Nice ring. You married?” Nick asked.
Damn. Why had she worn it?
Oh, yeah. To discourage this very thing. After all, she was a sensible lady. A mother. A woman who wasn’t quite divorced. She shouldn’t be picking up strange men in bars.
The momentary wave of guilt she felt was quickly replaced by drunken defiance.
She slid the ring off her finger and dropped it into Nick’s drink. “Not anymore. Now kiss me.”
CHAPTER 3.5
Saturday, 12:49 a.m.
Lady in Red
Who was the babe?
Pete watched Balboa with the blonde in the red jacket for almost twenty minutes. He’d never seen her before, but that didn’t mean anything. Balboa always had a roll of cash in his pocket and a girl on his arm. Often, both appeared from nowhere.
Problem was, this one didn’t quite look like Balboa’s type. His recipe for the perfect woman was forty-five percent silicone, forty-five percent collagen and ten percent ink.
This one, while the clothes she wore weren’t exactly conservative, they didn’t come close to some of the anti-apparel he’d seen before. Her breasts actually looked real, too, and she didn’t have one visible tattoo.
Something was up.
As time went on, the crowd at the bar began to thin. Pete moved to a spot behind Balboa and the female. The woman stood to flag down the bartender, and Pete watched as Balboa’s hand cupped her rather spectacular ass.
Life could be so unfair.
Pete ordered another club soda from the waitress and leaned against a column.
If he had to guess, he’d say that Balboa had the memory key on him. According to Pete’s sources, Balboa had come straight here after meeting with the Russian’s competition, Johnny Iatesta, in Trenton. The asshole. Two years of wheeling and dealing, and the guy was going to screw him? No way.
All Pete had to do was stick close until the horny couple left the club.
He yawned. When in the hell were these two going to get a room?
Just then Balboa slipped something into the pocket of the woman’s red jacket. Drugs? Money?
The memory key.
Balboa whispered something in her ear, and they sucked face for another five minutes before she broke away.
