There was no music tonight. Nothing to distract her.
After the boys left for the dance, Haven spent the evening drawing and thinking about her life. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she’d allowed herself to grow jealous. She longed to be the pretty girl in the pretty dress, going to a dance with the other teenagers.
Tired of wallowing, she crawled out of bed to go downstairs. She headed to the kitchen for a drink but froze when she turned on the light and realized someone was there.
Carmine sat on the counter beside the fridge, his shoulders slouched and a bottle of liquor in his hand. Their eyes met, and even from across the room she could see the passion. A lot of soul lurked beneath his hardened exterior.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.
“You’re not interrupting, Haven. It’s not like I’m fucking doing anything. I’m just sitting here, drinking myself into a coma.” His tone startled her. She considered walking away, but he spoke again before she could. “I sounded like a dickhead, didn’t I?”
Without answering, she brushed by him to open the refrigerator door. She pulled out the jug of orange juice and set it on the counter, reaching past Carmine to grab a glass from the cabinet.
He spoke then, his breath fanning out against her. “Get me one, too.”
A shiver ripped through her as she grabbed a second glass, unable to stop her reaction. Haven poured them both some juice and put the jug back in the fridge.
Carmine’s behavior confused her, but a naïve part of her craved his company. Now that he was there, she had a distraction. And maybe she’d even have the music again.
He tipped his bottle of liquor, grunting after he pulled it from his lips. “Ugh, that’s rough,” he said, his voice gritty. He poured some in his juice, hesitating before dumping a bit in hers. “I don’t like drinking alone.”
Alone. Haven knew how that felt.
She sniffed the drink, scrunching up her nose. “What is it?”
“Why ask me? You can read, so fucking read the bottle.” Her eyes widened, and he groaned. “I sounded like a dick again. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Irritated, she chugged her drink. It still tasted like orange juice, but a bitter edge to it burned her throat. Carmine stared at her as she set her empty glass onto the counter.
“La mia-fucking-bella ragazza.” He chuckled, guzzling his drink. “You have potential, tesoro.”
She smiled. “Thanks, I think.”
“It’s a compliment,” he said. “And you’ll get more where that one came from if you do it again.”
He hopped down from the counter and poured two more glasses of juice, adding some liquor to both. Haven took a deep breath as she picked hers up. It was a lot stronger the second time, the burn harsher. She barely got half of it down before pulling the glass away with a cough. “Goodness, that’s strong.”
“Yeah, I loaded that one,” he replied. “Don’t chug anymore. If you do, you’ll pass out, and I’d really like some company.”
A swell of emotion shot through her, the longing returning. He wanted her company, too.
He held the bottle up. “And it’s Grey Goose vodka, in case you’re still wondering.”
They went up to the third floor to Carmine’s bedroom. He set his drink on his desk and sat in the chair, but Haven hesitated in the doorway, unsure of what to do.
“You can sit anywhere you want,” he said, sensing her dilemma.
She took a seat on the edge of his bed and anxiously took a sip of her drink.
“So let’s play a game or something,” Carmine suggested. “How about twenty-one questions?”
Her nerves flared. She had no idea what that was.
He took notice of her bewildered expression. “We take turns asking each other questions until we hit twenty-one. Only rule is you can’t lie. I don’t give a shit what it’s about—just no lying.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “You go first.”
Her hand trembled as Carmine gazed at her from across the room. He sighed and stood, taking her glass and setting it on his desk. After pulling out his keys, he unlocked his bottom desk drawer. “How do you feel about drugs? And that doesn’t count as my question. I just wanna know before I do this.”
“Uh, I don’t know much about them.”
He pulled out what looked to her like a cigar and lit it, the room filling with a pungent woodsy odor. He brought it to his lips and inhaled as he crouched down in front of her. “The weed will relax you, okay?”
She nodded, transfixed by his proximity.
“I’ll make it easy on you,” he said. “Just inhale and hold it as long as you can.”
He brought it to his lips and sucked in deeply as he leaned toward her. Haven’s heart raced as he cocked his head to the side, pausing with his lips an inch from hers. She inhaled as he exhaled, the smoke from his lungs infiltrating her system. She closed her eyes as everything clouded, only letting go when she needed air.
Exhaling slowly, she opened her eyes to see Carmine still in front of her, his staggering expression burning more than the smoke. “Question one—how did you practice reading if you weren’t allowed to have any books?”
She blushed. “I took a book that belonged to my first master.”
“That embarrasses you?”
“I confessed to being a thief.”
He sat down again. “Yeah, well, you live with a career criminal. Thievery doesn’t faze us.”
“You’re a career criminal?”
He looked at her with confusion. “No, I meant my father. You know, with what he does in Chicago.” She didn’t know, and that struck him. “Shit, I figured . . . It doesn’t matter. Ask something different.”
Still confused, she pulled out something random. “How’d you get that scar on your side?”
“Christ, you’re not gonna take it easy on me, are you?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I got the scar when I was eight, bullet ripped through my side.”
Haven thought maybe he’d fallen or cut himself—but she didn’t think he would say he’d been shot.
“Like I said, we’re more alike than you think,” he continued. “I shed blood over shit that wasn’t my fault too.”
Could they really have things in common? “Why were you shot?”
He shook his head. “It’s my turn. Do you have any secret talents?”
“Well, I like to draw, but I don’t know if it’s a talent.”
“Will you draw something for me?”
She smiled. “You already asked your question.”
He waved her off. “Fine, your turn.”
“Why’d you get shot?”
“Can’t say, because I don’t really know,” he said. “Ask something else.”
She hesitated. “Well, why did you attack that boy at the game?”
“Because Nicholas deserved it. But knocking him down is nothing compared to what happened last time we saw each other.” He muttered something under his breath before continuing. “So will you draw a picture for me?”
“Maybe someday.”
“Someday? What does someday mean?”
“I’ll draw for you the same someday you let me clean your room,” she said. His mouth flew open like he was going to argue, so she cut him off by asking her next question. “What did you do to Nicholas before that was so bad?”
“Shot at his truck. The gas tank sparked. They accused me of attempted murder, but whatever. I honestly didn’t try to kill him.”
Haven was stunned he’d been so violent toward the boy when he’d seemed nice to her.
“What did he say that made you smile?” Carmine asked.
“He told me a joke about a deer.”
He rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t count as my question. Have you ever been kissed?”
She shook her head slowly, feeling inadequate. “That probably makes me seem immature . . .”
“Not at all. I shouldn’t have asked that one.” He nervously shifted around in his seat. “Hell, I haven’t either, technically speaking, since I don’t kiss on the lips.” He paused again. “And that probably makes me seem like an asshole, that I can have sex with them but not kiss.”
“How many girls were there?”
He dropped his head at her question. “A dozen and a half plus two or three, maybe.”
“So twenty or twenty-one?”
He peeked at her. “You’re quick at math. And that’s ridiculously high, I know.”
He looked upset by his own answer, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he regretted some of those girls. She smiled, trying to be reassuring, but he just groaned. “New subject. Question number . . . whatever fucking number we’re on. When’s the most afraid you’ve been?”
“Maybe in your father’s room.”
Carmine nodded like he expected that answer and turned away to grab his drink. “Your turn.”
“Where’s your mama?”
She blurted it out, and her hands covered her mouth as Carmine froze, his glass midair.
“Chicago,” he said, setting his glass down without taking a drink. He turned back to her, his blank expression surprising her as much as his answer.
“Chicago?”
“Actually, it’s Hillside, a few miles outside of Chicago.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway,” he said, “what’s your favorite color?”
“Green.” Her cheeks flushed as she answered. She lay back on his bed to avoid his gaze.
The bed moved as he sat beside her. Her eyes shot to his as he stared down at her. “Your turn.”
“What’s your favorite color?” She was too flustered to think of anything else.
“I’m torn between deep brown and this shade of pinkish red right now. Looks kinda like my tie.”
Her blush deepened, and she had to look away from him as her heart raced.
“My turn,” he said. “Why’s green your favorite color?”
“Pass,” she said.
“You can’t pass.”
“But you didn’t answer some questions.”
“Fine, I’ll ask something else. Why are you embarrassed about your favorite color?”
Her brow furrowed. “I passed on that question.”
“No, you passed on why green was your favorite color. Now I wanna know why green being your favorite color is embarrassing. Two completely different things.”
He spoke matter-of-factly, as if it were just that simple.
“I think you’re cheating,” she said. “So I pass again.”
Carmine laughed as he relit his cigar. Haven was mesmerized at the calmness of his expression as he inhaled, and goose bumps popped up on her skin at the sight of him. Maybe it was the intoxicants, but something made her feel at ease. She felt safe there, and as frightening as that was she basked in the sensation. Because never in her life had she truly felt safe with someone—not even her mama. She couldn’t protect her.
