Authors: Mary Calmes

Acrobat (4 page)

Sometimes he would fall asleep and I’d be up writing—it was publish or perish, after all—or reading, and then Dreo would be at my door to collect him.

He was taller than my own six one, and I had to tip my head back to meet a gaze that was so dark brown it looked black. He had thick brows, so the effect together with the deep-set eyes was altogether dangerous. He shared glossy black hair and olive skin with his nephew, but whereas Michael was handsome, Andreo was scary. The clothes, his heavy black leather jacket over a sweater or dress shirt, always somehow reminded me of all the mafia movies I had ever seen. It was probably simply that he was Italian, spoke Italian, and came and went with a posse of other men. I had seen too many Pacino movies, and I could own that.

Whenever he came to my door to fetch his nephew, Andreo Fiore was always appreciative that I had kept the young man company. The first time he’d ever come to collect him, about a week or so after they moved in, he had started peeling twenties off a wad he had retrieved from his pocket.

“What are you doing?” I asked, squinting.

He looked confused. “You took care of him for me.”

“Which I enjoyed,” I explained, gesturing at a picture of me and my son Jared on the table where I dropped my keys when I came home every night. “My boy’s all grown up, but I remember what it was like to help with homework and talk about girls.”

He nodded, and I smiled.

“So it’s fine, I enjoyed his company. He can come over if he wants.”

“
Grazie
,” he said.

And those had been our only spoken words for another six months. I saw Michael, I talked to Michael, and we got to be friends. He actually knew more about Chaucer and Milton and Shakespeare than a lot of my students and laughed on the rare occasions when he helped me read essay questions. Some nights he’d come by, and we’d have dinner and watch
Monday Night Football
or we’d walk to get dinner—Chinese, my favorite, or burgers, which was his. Sometimes we would even see Andreo out, and when Michael tugged me after him—I never wanted to intrude—we’d say hello. Everyone with him, men and women, were always nice, but Andreo always sort of got rid of us, politely but firmly.

Now, when I passed him in the hall, I got a head tip, no words then, but he always thanked me when he picked up Michael. Sometimes after the exchange of pleasantries, he would ask me a question about work, what my plans were for the weekend or for whatever holiday we were closest to, or he’d compliment my home. It turned out that he was a fan of my hardwood floors, the exposed pipes in the ceiling, and my overstuffed, welcoming-looking furniture. I wondered about him, about how a twenty-eight-year-old man made enough to support himself and his nephew, living somewhere I never could have afforded at that age. The lofts in Lincoln Park were upscale, our building had a security system with a key fob and intercom to buzz you in, and even though I wanted to ask, it was more curiosity than a burning desire.

“Nate?”

“Sorry.” I smiled at Michael. “I hope your grandmother will be okay.”

He reached up and touched my jaw with light fingers. “This looks kind of bad. Did a doctor look at you?”

“I’m fine,” I assured him, taking his hand in both of mine and holding it tight for a moment. “So hey, tomorrow I’m having dinner with someone, but Wednesday night I have tickets to the opera, and I want you to come with me, all right? It will be a little shot of culture for you, and Mrs. Chang said she’d give you extra credit if you wrote up your experience.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“When did you talk to Mrs. Chang?” He scowled.

“I ran into her at the ballet last week.”

“You did?”

“I did.” I smirked.

“Shit, I knew I should have never introduced you guys at the school carnival last month. God, what a nightmare,” he groaned.

“You need the extra credit.”

“Whatever.”

“You have to dress up.”

He groaned louder.

“So do you want to go?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Always.”

“Fine, I’ll go.”

I chuckled over his disgust, like he was doing me a favor instead of the other way around. “So you have to ask your uncle if it’s okay.”

“Ask me if what’s okay?”

We looked up and Andreo Fiore was there, towering over both of us, all six four of him, broad-shouldered, muscular, and V-shaped, making me look small by comparison and Michael absolutely puny.

“Nate’s gonna take me to the opera on Wednesday night.” He gagged.

“If it’s okay with you.” I smiled, standing up, feeling better when I was closer to his height.

“Are you sure?”

“Course.” I leaned over and tousled Michael’s thick hair. “I’ll see you then. Come around six and we’ll eat first, all right?”

He nodded, beaming up at me. “Thanks, Nate.”

“Sure.”

“Nate.”

I turned to look at Dreo and into his amazing eyes. They were really something, hot and wet, deep and dark.

He tipped his head at me. “What happened to you?”

“He saved a lady from gettin’ mugged,” Michael answered for me.

“Oh?”

Dreo Fiore’s brown-black eyes were not like any others I had ever seen, and sometimes, just for a second, I got lost there.

“Nate?”

“Oh, yeah.” I smiled. “You know, close by that park down off Pearson?”

He nodded.

“Some guys had her against that chain-link fence by the vacant lot.”

“What guys?”

“Those same guys that are always there.” I sighed. “They always yell stuff and—”

“They yell at you?”

“They yell at everybody.” I chuckled. “But I never thought they actually moved, you know? I thought they were all bark, but I guess not.”

His eyes slid over me. “How many?”

“Like three, but one ran when I got there.”

“I see. So did the police pick anybody up?”

“I have no idea.”

“You walk that same way every day, huh?”

“Most of the time, and it’s really lucky I did today.” I smiled. “But let me let you guys go. It’s a school night, and Michael needs to get home, get in bed.”

“
Sì
,” Dreo agreed.

“Nate?”

I turned, and there was Sean smiling at me, topcoat on, laptop bag hanging at his side.

“You ready to eat?”

“Yeah.” I sighed, lifting my arm for him.

He came forward, moving into the embrace, and I introduced him. “Sean Cooper, I’d like you to meet my friends Andreo Fiore and his nephew, Michael.”

“Pleasure.” He smiled at them both, shaking each hand in turn.

I watched Sean take in Dreo and not like what he saw.

“Let’s go,” Dreo snapped at Michael, grabbing his arm, steering him toward the elevators.

We watched them leave.

“Spooky guy.” Sean grinned, leaning closer.

I realized I’d been right and not imagining things. Sean had been intimidated, or maybe even scared, by Dreo Fiore. “Really? Michael scared you?” I teased, wanting to soothe whatever concern he had.

“Funny.” He chuckled, slipping an arm around my waist. “Now come on, I’m starving. You promised to feed me.”

“Yes, I did. Tell me where you live.”

“In Lakeview, you?”

“Lincoln Park.”

“Okay, so we can eat somewhere in the middle,” he said as he tightened his arm around me. “Or you can just take me home with you.”

Oh, the man was very good for my ego.

T
HE
diner had good home-cooked food, and I had pot roast and he had swiss steak. It was nice, talking to him, and as I listened, I found myself completely charmed. His family, friends, his career, all of it was interesting and fun. By the time we finished off our meal with coffee and pie, it was late. Since I had to teach in the morning and he had to be back on call at nine, we decided to call it a night.

It was raining outside, and as we stood under the canvas awning in the downpour, he told me that he’d really had a great time.

“So where are we going tomorrow?” I asked.

“I’m going to wine you and dine you,” he promised, and I watched as he caught his breath as he stared at me. “And then take you home.”

“Oh,” I teased. “I was hoping for more.”

“To my home,” he told me, laughing. “God, you’re an ass.”

I reached for him, took his face in my hands, and bent him toward me. The way his eyes closed, the long, thick lashes brushing his cheek, the sigh that came out of him… man, I was blind.

When my lips closed over his, he parted them instantly and my tongue met his in a wicked, wanton tangle. The whimper in the back of his throat was very sexy, and when I deepened the kiss, I felt him jolt against me, his hands fisted in my sweater.

I mauled his sweet mouth and understood at that moment how wrong my dear friend had been. The man wanted desperately to submit to me. There was no top in him in at all.

“Jesus,” he gasped, breaking the kiss to breathe, staring at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “Forget what I said, Nate, just come home with me now.”

But I didn’t want rushed, I wanted real, so I leaned back in and told him so in his ear before I kissed him again. I put him in a cab a minute later. When my phone rang as I was in a cab traveling in the opposite direction, I smiled before answering.

“Not sick of me yet?”

“Nate,” he breathed out my name. “Why didn’t you put me over your desk when I used to come by your office when I was your student?”

“Because that would have been unethical,” I teased. “And you’re all about the ethics, right?”

He laughed, and it was a good sound.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Definitely. I’ll be the guy on your front stoop at seven sharp.”

“I can’t wait,” I assured him.

“Thank you for saying that. The honesty is really nice.”

“Same here.”

“God, I really don’t want to say goodnight.”

“Then say you’ll see me later, since you will.”

“Okay.” He took a breath. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good.”

I couldn’t stop smiling even after I hung up.

Chapter 3

T
HE
auditorium was a sea of blank stares. I had to make them understand, because only my grad student, Ashton Cross, seemed to be following what I was talking about, as was evidenced by the eye rolling.

“Okay,” I told the room, “so we’re talking about just switching out two characters from two of Shakespeare’s plays and then writing either about what the plays would look like with those new protagonists in place or writing them into one pivotal scene.”

Nothing.

A girl in the back raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“Is this going to be on the test?”

Dear. God. “An exercise like this, yes.”

Middle of the second row.

“Yes?”

“Is there an example we can reference?”

“No, I want to see what you come up with. Have fun with it.”

“So there’s no reference, then?”

“Correct”

Front row on the left.

“Yes?”

“How will we know if it’s right?”

“It’s open to interpretation.”

Ten hands up at once.

I looked over at Ashton, snarky beast that he was, small and blond and perfect, the kind of man that both women and men dreamed about at night. His expression held nothing but disdain for them and sympathy for me.

I picked one of the many hands in the air. “Yes?”

“Are we supposed to have read more than the plays you had us read?”

I wanted to say, “As lit majors, I would hope so,” but I refrained because being a sarcastic asshole was no help to anyone. “It would have been helpful” was what I said instead.

He looked distraught.

After class Ashton was venting about how most of the papers he’d just read didn’t even reference other sources.

“You realize that most of these kids haven’t read Virgil or Plato or even Homer, for crissakes. I mean, Jesus, Nate, you need to flunk them all. How can they understand what they’re reading if they don’t get the mythology behind it, or the history?”

“You’re very scary,” I assured him. “They’re only juniors.”

“When I was a sophomore, I was already taking your tragedy class, and—”

“I pity the kids that take classes from you when you’re a professor.”

“Novelist,” he enunciated for me. “I’m going to write books, not teach idiots all day like you do. God, I’d have to start doing drugs again.”

“Shakespeare while high?” I chuckled. “Really?”

He growled.

“Just take deep breaths.”

His gorgeous cobalt-blue eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a date.”

“That’s impressive, actually. How do you know that?”

“You’re all shiny and happy today.”

I smiled, stuffing books into my courier bag.

“Congratulations, by the way.”