“To do bad things,” I say seriously. When your life is as controlled as mine, you need to plan these things. Tonight is supposed to be the night.
He looks down, a strange smile on his face. “Let’s start with the whiskey. If that’s not enough, we can knock over a bank or something.”
I smack his arm. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Never.” His eyes meet mine, and I see that he’s not laughing at all. “I’d rob a bank if you wanted me to.”
My stomach twists at his solemn tone. “I’d rather you stay safe,” I whisper.
He reaches a hand toward me like he’s going to cup my face, only half an inch away he freezes. I can almost feel the heat of him, and I remain very still, waiting to see what he’ll do next.
He shoves his empty glass onto the bar and walks away.
I let out a breath. What is that about? Lately we keep having these moments where it seems, like he’s going to touch me. But he never does. I want to touch him too, but I don’t. I wouldn’t know where to start. I can’t even imagine how he’d feel. Would he be like the whiskey, leaving a trail of fire? I’m scared to find out.
He’s on the couch, so I join him there. Not touching, just sitting beside him.
“Gio, I’m worried about Honor.”
He doesn’t look at me. “She’s strong. She can take care of herself.”
“Yeah, but Byron is a jerk.” And even she can’t fight the tides. That’s what men like Byron are. Tsunamis. Hurricanes. Natural disasters.
“Your dad wants someone who can take over. That’s pretty much guaranteed to be an asshole.”
He’s not saying anything I don’t know, but it’s still frustrating. It’s too dark to see his expression. I can only see the shape of him beside me, his neck and shoulders limned by moonlight. “This isn’t the eighteenth century. This is Las Vegas.”
“Marriage isn’t about that. Not here.”
It’s about making alliances. It’s about money. “He should make you the next one in line.”
At least Gio has been around for years. His dad is trusted here, even if he’s not high ranking. This Byron guy hasn’t even been in Las Vegas very long. And he’s a cop. I learned from an early age not to trust cops—even dirty ones.
Gio shakes his head. “No, thanks.”
“Why not? You’d be good at it.” I can tell he’s biting his tongue. “What?”
“Good at killing people?” he asks softly.
I flinch. Most of the time we skirt around what exactly my father does. And technically Gio is a part of that. I’ve never asked him if he’s killed someone. For all I know, he already has robbed a bank. He’s still in high school, so they’re keeping him light. But once he graduates high school, they’ll want to induct him. I’d almost rather he did leave then. Even though it would kill me to see him go.
He shakes his head. “Anyway, if it were me being groomed, I’d have to marry Honor. And I couldn’t do that.”
The thought of him marrying my sister makes my stomach knot. He’s only a couple years younger than her. It’s actually not a bad idea. “Why not?”
“Because I like her sister.”
I go very still. There’s only one sister. Me.
“What did you say?” I whisper.
“You heard me.” He leans close. He reaches for me—and this time, his hand does cup my cheek. The feel of him is shocking, startling, impossibly coarse and warm at the same time. He runs his thumb along my skin, rasping against me. My eyes flutter closed.
The old leather of the couch creaks as he leans forward. He must be inches away now. His breath coasts over my lips. Goose bumps rise on my skin. I’m waiting…hoping…
Suddenly his lips are against mine, warm and soft. God, I’ve seen those lips smile and twist and curse a blue streak, but I never imagined they could be this soft. Nothing like whiskey, with its fire. This is a gentle heat, a caress, and I sink into him, let myself go lax.
One second later, he’s gone. Not touching me at all.
My eyes snap open. “Gio?”
He looks tormented. I may not have felt the whiskey burn, but he did. Pain flashes through his eyes. He stands and walks away. “No, Clara. That was wrong. I was wrong to do that.”
“But why?” How could that be wrong? That was the best thing that ever happened to me. On a night when I wanted to be bad, I experienced my first kiss. It’s the best bad thing I could have imagined. And it tasted so sweet.
He’s still shaking his head, so vehemently I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince—me or himself. “You’ve been drinking.”
“One drink,” I say, kind of insulted. I may be new to this, but I’m not drunk.
“One drink is enough.”
“You had one drink too,” I point out, accusing.
He laughs, the sound unsteady and harsh. “I’m bigger than you.”
I don’t know if he means the drink affects him less or if it’s just another reason why the kiss was a bad idea—as if he might have overpowered me. But there is no reason why this is a bad idea. I’ve wanted him to kiss me forever. And judging by the way he kissed just now, he liked it too. Unless…