“It was great seeing you,” I say. And I mean it. Though our relationship has changed, I’m still glad I came.
—
I catch a cab back home from Benito’s, spending the whole trip thinking about the past and my parents. I owe it to them to find out what happened. I owe it to myself. Sighing, I rest my head on the back of the seat as I watch the city creep by. It’s late, but the street is still congested with traffic and there are people everywhere. Do these people ever sleep? Like I can talk. I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s rest.
It takes nearly forty-five minutes to reach my apartment, and once I’m inside, I waste no time in making myself at home. Loosening my shirt, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over the back of an armchair.
I pour myself a Scotch and walk over to the window to gaze out. The skyline is stunning. My drink in hand, I open the balcony doors and step out. I have the perfect view of her bedroom from where I stand. I’m far enough away that in the dark there is no chance of her seeing me, but I still feel like a creep spying on her.
Tonight is the perfect example. As she sweeps across her room, peeling off her shirt I stand there unable to look away. Her hands grip the hem of her tank. Slowly, she lifts it up. My heart pounds as I watch it rise. But then she stops, turning around to face the window. It’s as if she senses someone is there, watching her. I slink away to the corner of the balcony as she lowers the drapes. With the light from her lamp I can still make out her shadow.
I swallow hard as she peels off her tank, letting it fall to the floor. Her body is amazing. Even though all I can see is her shadow I want her, more than ever.
Fuck. Snap out of it.
Angry at myself, I yank open the balcony door and go inside. My hands are clenched into fists beside me and I know I need to relax before I go crazy. I walk into the bathroom, run the shower. While the water heats, I strip out of my clothes and stare at myself in the mirror. My usual way of dealing with my pent-up sexual tension is to run. Back home, I’d run for hours, every night. Here I didn’t want to risk being seen.
Groaning, I lift my head back and let the water run down my face. It’s too hot, but I don’t care. I almost enjoy the pain of the hot water scalding my skin. At least I can feel something other than her.
I can’t get her out of my head. I imagine her in front of me, undressing for me. That long, willowy figure on display for my eyes only. God, the things I want to do to her would have me arrested in some countries.
My hand travels down south. I groan as I grab hold of my erect cock. Fuck, I’m so hard. Thinking about her always gets me hard. I move my palm up and down my length, using my other hand to prop myself against the glass of the shower. I can picture her, kneeling in front of me, her tongue teasing me. I imagine her lips closing around me, those stunning blue eyes staring right into my soul.
“Fuck,” I moan, my body convulsing as I release against the stream of the water. Shaking, I straighten my body. I feel exhausted, like I could sleep for hours, but I know it won’t come easy. Sleep never does. Without the aid of alcohol or prescription meds, I haven’t slept a full night since my parents died. I’m plagued by flashbacks and nightmares that my mind just can’t let go of.
I know I should talk to someone, but I’m too proud to admit I need help. Nobody knows how much I struggle—not even Lucy or Giovanni. As far as the world is concerned I’ve moved on from my tragedies, but that’s far from the truth.
Stepping out of the shower, I reach for a towel and dry myself off. I’m ashamed that yet again I’ve allowed myself to go where I know I shouldn’t. Why do I feel so damn guilty that I jacked off thinking about her?
Because it isn’t right. Because you’re obsessed with something you’ll never have.
The voice is right. I know that, but knowing and believing are two completely different things.
—
By the following evening, I’m exhausted from keeping an eye on Lucy. It’s amazing how tiring surveillance work can be. I spent nearly ten hours parked on my ass in the same seat in a café unsuccessfully trying to study. In the end, I gave up on the idea of getting any of my thesis done and did some research on my father.
I’m no closer to knowing what happened, nor did I uncover anything I didn’t already know. Not that I’m surprised. The kind of information I’m looking for isn’t going to be easy to find. All I need is one little piece of the puzzle to fall in my lap so I at least have a starting point.
In an effort to get somewhere with my plight, I contacted a private detective who works in a neighboring village to mine in Sicily. It’s a long shot as to whether he’ll even help me, but I need to try something.
I collapse on the sofa in front of the television, determined not to move for the rest of the night. Well, that was the plan until my stomach begins to rumble. I glance at the clock and see it’s after eight. I decide to order a pizza because I can’t deal with anything else. After ordering I fumble through my wallet for a twenty and see the scrap of paper with Stefanni’s number on it.
What the hell. It will do me good to have some female company.
Picking up my phone, I punch in the number.
“Hello?” she says. Her voice is sweet and innocent. I close my eyes and try to picture her face, but all I see is Lucy.
“Hey. This is Pietro. From the coffee shop?” I add. I cringe at how awkward I sound. She giggles and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad sign.
“Hey, you. I didn’t actually expect to hear from you. But I’m glad you called.”
“Me too,” I say. “So, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out.”
“Sure. I’m not working tomorrow night, if that’s good? I know a cool little bar where some great bands play.”
“That sounds great,” I say, relief flooding through me. She gives me the details and we agree to meet there at eight. I end the call and stare at my phone, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt, like I’m cheating on Lucy.