The Promise
Page 39
He stopped looking unhappy and looked something else entirely when he said gently, “Yeah, honey.” He put the donut in his teeth again, nabbed his keys, pushed them in his pocket, came to me, then took the donut out of his mouth before he wrapped his fingers around my hip and bent to me, going deep where he touched his mouth to my neck. He lifted to look in my eyes and whispered, “Be back.”
“Okay,” I whispered too.
He shoved the last of the donut in his mouth, disappeared out the door, and I stood there thinking how easy that was.
Maybe I should have asked for my phone the day before.
Or the day before that.
I was still thinking on this when Ben came back in with my purse. He didn’t bring it to me. He took it to the table, dumped it there, then he came to me.
He got close, and for some reason, I didn’t brace. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t move a muscle.
This meant that when he lifted a hand to curl it around the side of my neck and dipped his head, I was an open target.
It also meant that when the lip touch I was expecting became something else—his mouth opened, mine opened with it, and he was able to sweep his tongue inside—I was able to taste the miraculous flavor of donut and Benny.
My stomach dipped again.
Almost before it began, his lips and tongue were gone. Then his fingers were digging in my neck, his were eyes looking into mine, and he whispered, “Later, baby.”
“Later,” I whispered too.
His eyes smiled. His fingers squeezed. Then he let me go and moved out the door.
I stood in his kitchen, staring at the door, knowing that could be my life.
Ben, off to the restaurant to make sure some supplier didn’t jack him around after giving my neck a squeeze, me a sweep of his tongue that left the taste of him in my mouth, and I’d watch him go out the door after a “Later, baby,” which meant I’d get him back.
And I stood in Benny’s kitchen, staring at the door, knowing I wanted that life. Knowing I wanted it so bad, it was an ache. Knowing I’d wanted it since I was a little girl. Knowing I wanted it even more thinking I could have it with Benny.
But the pain came when I remembered I’d never have it.
On that thought, I heard the front door open and Mrs. Zambino shouting, “Francesca Concetti! Shake a leg! We gotta pick up Phyllis and I don’t wanna be late!”
I took in a deep breath.
Then I went to my purse, made sure my charger was in there because, Lord knew, after days with no charging I’d be screwed, and I did this shouting, “Coming, Mrs. Zambino!”
* * * * *
I sat in my chair at the alley and watched Mrs. Zambino make her approach and let her ball fly. The ball spun down the lane quickly, listing to one side, then crack! She hit the pin so hard, it slammed across the lane and she got the split.
I jumped out of my chair, arms up, mind ignoring the not-insignificant ping of pain that hit my wound, and shouted, “Go Zambino!”
As she and all her posse did when someone got a strike or spare, which was frequently, she turned and instantly started shaking her ass, hands lifted in front of her in jazz hands position, forearms swaying, mouth chanting, “Wowee, wowee, wowee.”
Her posse were all doing the same dance and chant as she moved through them, giving double high fives.
She came to me and her look of joy turned severe.
“Francesca, sit down,” she snapped.
“You rock,” I told her.
“I know,” she replied. “Now sit down. I do not need the entire Bianchi family blaming me for you having a setback due to my stellar performance at the bowling alley.”
I sat but kept my head tipped back and did it grinning at her.
She dropped gracefully into the seat next to me as I declared, “I’m taking up bowling as soon as I’m fully recovered so I can be you when I grow up.”
Her eyes did a scan of my head before she decreed, “You’ll need to learn to tame your hair and use blush as an accent rather than a war stripe if you wish that to become so.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still riding the high of your split,” I told her. “Even you being mean and cranky is not going to pollute that high.”
Her mouth twisted in an effort not to allow me to see her smile.
“I saw that!” I declared, lifting a hand and pointing a finger at her mouth.
She shooed my hand away and stood up, moving toward the seating area at the back of the alley, calling, “Give me my Pepsi-Cola, Loretta.”
As any bowling minion would do, Loretta handed over the queen’s drink.
I turned my eyes to the alley, still grinning, as my phone in my hand rang.
I had managed to get a call in to my old boss and assure him I’d be taking care of business. I’d also managed to get a call in to my new boss to let him know I was still alive and planning on being down in Indianapolis to take the job as soon as I was able. Finally, I had managed to text a number of friends to let them know I was good.
Then I got sucked in by the bowling.
I lifted my phone, looked down at it, and saw a number I didn’t recognize. Since it could be something important about a work thing (old or new), I took the call and put it to my ear.
“This is Frankie Concetti.”
“Babe.”
It was Benny.
My stomach dipped again, a major whoosh, and he hadn’t even kissed me.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“Mrs. Zambino just nailed the split,” I shared.
“Impressive,” he murmured, humor in his deep and easy voice.
God, he was killing me.
“Supplier didn’t jack us around,” he told me. “Got what I needed to get done done, so I can come and get you.”
“No,” I told him. “I wanna stay ’til the bitter end. Zambino’s posse is kicking ass and taking names, but they do this dance and chant every time they get a strike or spare. I wanna see how they rub it in when they beat the shit outta their opponents.”
His voice was full of laughter this time when he said, “So the answer to my earlier question is, yeah. You’re havin’ a good time.”
I didn’t confirm that because I didn’t want to admit to it for a variety of reasons.
He knew one of those reasons because he muttered, “Crazy-stubborn.”
Whatever.
“Get your calls made?” he asked.
“If I say yes, when I get home, are you gonna confiscate my phone again?”
“No.”
“Then yeah.”
That just got me his laughter.
“Okay,” I whispered too.
He shoved the last of the donut in his mouth, disappeared out the door, and I stood there thinking how easy that was.
Maybe I should have asked for my phone the day before.
Or the day before that.
I was still thinking on this when Ben came back in with my purse. He didn’t bring it to me. He took it to the table, dumped it there, then he came to me.
He got close, and for some reason, I didn’t brace. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t move a muscle.
This meant that when he lifted a hand to curl it around the side of my neck and dipped his head, I was an open target.
It also meant that when the lip touch I was expecting became something else—his mouth opened, mine opened with it, and he was able to sweep his tongue inside—I was able to taste the miraculous flavor of donut and Benny.
My stomach dipped again.
Almost before it began, his lips and tongue were gone. Then his fingers were digging in my neck, his were eyes looking into mine, and he whispered, “Later, baby.”
“Later,” I whispered too.
His eyes smiled. His fingers squeezed. Then he let me go and moved out the door.
I stood in his kitchen, staring at the door, knowing that could be my life.
Ben, off to the restaurant to make sure some supplier didn’t jack him around after giving my neck a squeeze, me a sweep of his tongue that left the taste of him in my mouth, and I’d watch him go out the door after a “Later, baby,” which meant I’d get him back.
And I stood in Benny’s kitchen, staring at the door, knowing I wanted that life. Knowing I wanted it so bad, it was an ache. Knowing I’d wanted it since I was a little girl. Knowing I wanted it even more thinking I could have it with Benny.
But the pain came when I remembered I’d never have it.
On that thought, I heard the front door open and Mrs. Zambino shouting, “Francesca Concetti! Shake a leg! We gotta pick up Phyllis and I don’t wanna be late!”
I took in a deep breath.
Then I went to my purse, made sure my charger was in there because, Lord knew, after days with no charging I’d be screwed, and I did this shouting, “Coming, Mrs. Zambino!”
* * * * *
I sat in my chair at the alley and watched Mrs. Zambino make her approach and let her ball fly. The ball spun down the lane quickly, listing to one side, then crack! She hit the pin so hard, it slammed across the lane and she got the split.
I jumped out of my chair, arms up, mind ignoring the not-insignificant ping of pain that hit my wound, and shouted, “Go Zambino!”
As she and all her posse did when someone got a strike or spare, which was frequently, she turned and instantly started shaking her ass, hands lifted in front of her in jazz hands position, forearms swaying, mouth chanting, “Wowee, wowee, wowee.”
Her posse were all doing the same dance and chant as she moved through them, giving double high fives.
She came to me and her look of joy turned severe.
“Francesca, sit down,” she snapped.
“You rock,” I told her.
“I know,” she replied. “Now sit down. I do not need the entire Bianchi family blaming me for you having a setback due to my stellar performance at the bowling alley.”
I sat but kept my head tipped back and did it grinning at her.
She dropped gracefully into the seat next to me as I declared, “I’m taking up bowling as soon as I’m fully recovered so I can be you when I grow up.”
Her eyes did a scan of my head before she decreed, “You’ll need to learn to tame your hair and use blush as an accent rather than a war stripe if you wish that to become so.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still riding the high of your split,” I told her. “Even you being mean and cranky is not going to pollute that high.”
Her mouth twisted in an effort not to allow me to see her smile.
“I saw that!” I declared, lifting a hand and pointing a finger at her mouth.
She shooed my hand away and stood up, moving toward the seating area at the back of the alley, calling, “Give me my Pepsi-Cola, Loretta.”
As any bowling minion would do, Loretta handed over the queen’s drink.
I turned my eyes to the alley, still grinning, as my phone in my hand rang.
I had managed to get a call in to my old boss and assure him I’d be taking care of business. I’d also managed to get a call in to my new boss to let him know I was still alive and planning on being down in Indianapolis to take the job as soon as I was able. Finally, I had managed to text a number of friends to let them know I was good.
Then I got sucked in by the bowling.
I lifted my phone, looked down at it, and saw a number I didn’t recognize. Since it could be something important about a work thing (old or new), I took the call and put it to my ear.
“This is Frankie Concetti.”
“Babe.”
It was Benny.
My stomach dipped again, a major whoosh, and he hadn’t even kissed me.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“Mrs. Zambino just nailed the split,” I shared.
“Impressive,” he murmured, humor in his deep and easy voice.
God, he was killing me.
“Supplier didn’t jack us around,” he told me. “Got what I needed to get done done, so I can come and get you.”
“No,” I told him. “I wanna stay ’til the bitter end. Zambino’s posse is kicking ass and taking names, but they do this dance and chant every time they get a strike or spare. I wanna see how they rub it in when they beat the shit outta their opponents.”
His voice was full of laughter this time when he said, “So the answer to my earlier question is, yeah. You’re havin’ a good time.”
I didn’t confirm that because I didn’t want to admit to it for a variety of reasons.
He knew one of those reasons because he muttered, “Crazy-stubborn.”
Whatever.
“Get your calls made?” he asked.
“If I say yes, when I get home, are you gonna confiscate my phone again?”
“No.”
“Then yeah.”
That just got me his laughter.
