Chapter 3

Not much has changed with the Rusty Anchor.  Sticky flooring, flashing neon signs, and inebriated construction workers numbing their sorrows with cheap whiskey are all still present.  A great spot to vanish.

 I've been drinking Irish whiskey by the glass and attempting to block out the private investigator's statements for the past two hours.  non-publicity-loving silent partners.  What is meant by that?  Could Dad be up to something?  Is Dom here?

 I can't stop thinking about Dom's face when he almost kissed me, which is much worse.  The warmth in his gaze.  

 Again, my phone buzzes.  Papa.  Number six message: Where are you?  I'm beginning to worry.

 I don't pay attention.

 “An additional round?”  The bartender, who is Tommy?, gives me a look that is a mix of sympathy and worry.

 “Why not?”  I proudly give him my glass while speaking in a barely audible slur.  "There isn't really anywhere better for me to be."

 My cell phone rings.  Father once more.  I put it on voicemail, and it immediately begins to ring.

  "Jesus," I say softly as I grasp it.  "I just—"  "I'm fine, Dad."

  "Your father isn't involved."

  Dom's deep, rough, and incredibly serene voice comes at me like a freight train.  I feel my heart pound.

 Dom?  How did you—" "Vincent has been phoning all the time.  In what location are you?

 "The Anchor," I say as I take a sip of whiskey.  Come on over here.  I'm enjoying myself while being tragic and inebriated.

 "I'm coming to pick you up."

 It is there.  the order.  My back grows rigid.

 "I don't require that you—"

 Press "Click."

 My eyes are fixed on the telephone.  The normal Dom.  rude.  excessively controlling.  It's angry.  And regrettably irresistible as well.

 A quarter of an hour later, I sense him walking into the bar.  The atmosphere has changed.   When I turn around, I see his height, his tenseness, his tight mouth, as though he were going to kill someone.

  He'll be across the room in three steps. “We’re heading out.”

 Not a request.   This is when my sass comes in.

 "I haven't finished."  I raise my glass in toasting fashion.  "I can manage myself, anyway."

 Can you? "Because you appear to be attempting to drink yourself into insanity from where I am standing."

 Perhaps I am.

 His mask fractures for a half-second, and his eyes flash with pain.

 "Izzy, this isn't the answer."

 "How would you know about that?"  They're sour words.  "When was the last time your entire life fell apart in a week?"

 "You would be shocked."

 His voice stops me with its rawness.  I see it when I look attentively at him—weary anguish concealed beneath those angry eyes.

 Now softer, he says, "Come on."  "Come with me home."

 An instinct tells you to fight.  But it seems like he thinks I'm worth preserving.  I feel something from that.

 “All right”.  I take a step off the stool.  It tilts on the floor.  With experienced ease, Dom stabilizes me by putting his arm around my waist.

 An electric spark is ignited by his touch.  Unthinking, I lean into him.

 I hear him murmuring, "Easy," but I feel his voice more.

 We arrive at his van.  When he opens the door, I hesitate.

 "Why did you come at all?"

 Vincent expressed concern.

 "That wasn't my question."  As I take a step closer, I observe his eyes.  “You were concerned.  Embrace it.

 "Climb onto the truck."

 “Make me.”

 There is a wildness in his eyes.   He approaches me with a step, stops, and then backs off as though I've stung him.

 "Avoid this."

 "Achieve what?"  In order to trap him against the vehicle, I pursue him.  “Tell the truth?”

 “You’re intoxicated.”

 “Not that inebriated.”  I stand up, my mouth near his ear.  "I know what I'm doing exactly."

 He holds my shoulders in his hands.  I think for a moment that he will shove me away.  Rather, he keeps me there with his eyes burning.

 He claims that this is incorrect, but he doesn't seem to be persuaded.

 "Because Dad?  Since you believe I'm still a young girl?

 Since I'm meant to keep you safe, not—

 “Don’t want me?”

 Blow.  The words carry a tremendous burden.

 He says, tormented, "Izzy."

 Express it.  Claim that you don't want me.

 He's not able. 

 "It's not possible."

 What a thrilling triumph.  "Unable to say it, or unable to let go of my desire?"

 "The two."

 Without warning, I give him a kiss.

 He tenses.  Then he gives me a deep, gritty sigh and gives me a kiss.

 It's not charming.  Hot, desperate, and messy.  In my hair, his hands intertwine.  The side of the truck collides with my back.  He has a lot of muscle, heat, and untamed enthusiasm.  I don't want to, and I can hardly breathe.

 He murmurs, "God, Izzy."  "Why are you treating me this way?"

 I draw him in closer as I gasp, "What are you doing to me?

 He picks up the phone.  Excellent timing.

 We disintegrate, panting.  He appears to be broken.  So do I.

 Then he pulls out his phone and yells, "Fuck."

 How are you, Dom?  Via the speaker, Dad's voice echoes.  “Have you located her?”

 Dad sounds relieved, and I feel a knot in my stomach of guilt.  I've been out here playing risky games with his best friend, and he's been worrying constantly.

 Reality hits us like a freight train as Dom looks at me.

 He answers in a gruff voice, "Yeah."  “I located her.  We are en route home.

 "In 20 minutes, we'll arrive."  His eyes are unreadable as he ends the call.

 "This must never occur again," he declares.

 “Isn’t it?”

 I'm serious, Izzy.  Here it is—

 "This is what I know."  I lightly pat his face.  "What will we do about it?" is the question.

 Press "Click." I hear the distinct click of a camera shutter from somewhere in the shadows beyond the parked cars before he can respond.  Like a gunshot, the sound pierces our post-kiss haze and causes us to both freeze.

 We both go cold.

 "Did that reach you?"  I whisper, my heart pounding.

 Dom's body is tense as he scans the darkness.  "Climb onto the truck.  Presently.

 I see a guy vanishing into the shadows as I clamber inside.

 Someone was observing.

 Photos were taken.

 Dom's glum expression also suggests that we have a problem.