Use Me (Caldwell Brothers)

A source close to Baker states that he believes Mazzini killed his sister by overdosing her on heroine, and that Baker tried to stop the murder and met the same fate, but fought back.

Mazzini denies that he had anything to do with his sister’s death, but repeated, “I should have done it when they started dating. I should have killed him then.”

Mazzini is being tried as an adult.

Silence.

I look at the picture that is without a doubt him, but younger, in a school uniform and tie, with shorter hair. And he looks... happy.

“Tate?”

“I’m here,” I say quietly.

“Is it him?”

I clear my throat. “Yes. Yes, it’s him.”

“You need to stay away from him,” she says matter-of-factly.

I start to reread the article.

“Tatum Longley, stay away from him. He’s dangerous,” she warns.

“I know.”

“No. No, that’s not the response I am looking for, Tatum. Tell me you’ll stay away. Tell me that now. Get on a plane and come home. Forget the book. Forget the costs. Forget the muse. Forget what I’ve asked of you. Come home. This isn’t a bad boy you can win over and change. This man is a killer. He’s done time. Tatum Longley, you need to come home now. I’ll get the ticket.”

“I’ll call you later,” I tell her, not listening to a word she says. I simply continue to stare at the picture of the young man in front of me.

Before she can reply, I hang up the phone.

I read and reread the article. By the fifth read, I am still in as much shock as the first time. Then I google his name and sit for hours, reading articles and watching news clips.

When I am exhausted, I lie back, holding my phone against my chest and staring at the ceiling, thinking about Michelangelo.

In all the pictures plastered all over the news before that day, his eyes were so full of life, his smile inviting, his presence grand. After the murders, it was all gone.

The picture and tape of him in court, he didn’t give eye contact. He didn’t even look at his father, and that poor man looked devastated, and rightfully so. He lost two children that day. And if the allegations about Angelo and his sister are correct... Well, I can’t imagine what Michelangelo Mazzini, Sr. must have been going through.

I found it odd his mother wasn’t in any of the pictures or tapes. Tomorrow, I decide I will go to a public library and do some research and find out why.

My phone dings. I pick it up and look at the screen. It’s a text from Melanie.

Forget about him, Tatum. Don’t do that to yourself. Do what you went to Detroit to do, and come back as soon as you can if you must stay there. Call me when you have let this all sink in. And please, Tate, please don’t beat yourself up about this. And don’t you dare give up on you. You may not believe in a happily ever after, but dammit, I do, and I know there is no one more deserving. I love you. Call me tomorrow.

After picking things up, I climb into bed and close my eyes. Then I roll to my side and hug my pillow, thinking about what I came here to do.

I fight back the tears that come from the unknown and the known. Inhaling, I can still smell his faint scent. It calms me when the reality is that he should scare me. Only, deep in my soul, he doesn’t.

What a mess.

What. A. Mess.

Chapter Eleven

As I walk back to the gym and the wind blows, I see a few snowflakes fall. It reminds me that, even though it’s spring, it doesn’t mean we are out of the cold.

I remember nights my old man would stay and work overtime at that factory. Maria and I would sit up and watch The Tonight Show, eat popcorn, and laugh. We didn’t have much, but life was good.

Life was good until it wasn’t.

The past two nights... Fuck, they have been good nights. Really good. But as life goes, all good things must come to an end.

Tatum, Legs, the woman who writes what she wants from me, the woman who wants to use me, the woman who will soon find out who the fuck I am—the damned—and then... Then I will be just a guy who came on her soft, trim, little belly.

Fuck, that was hot—her begging for my come, begging for my release, making it happen.

But that’s it, right?

Does it even matter?

Not anymore, it doesn’t.

The headlines splashed all over the papers said I was guilty of a heinous crime. Murder in the first degree. I killed a man in cold blood while my sister lay dying after drugs were forced into her veins.

A boy who had a future given to him, served to him on a silver platter, her boyfriend was the epitome of a privileged fuck. He didn’t even give a second thought to his actions or just how good he had it.