Stripped Down Page 3

  A flood of memories came back to me. A thousand lost moments I held deep inside my heart when I needed them. Sammy’s head bent in prayer the day I first saw her, wearing a white dress and gloves as she knelt on the prayer bench and black streaks stained her perfect face.

  Then later, years later, that day in the library, her breath heavy, her bottom lip wet, plump like a grape on the vine, her scent fresh, hot as I leaned closer, wanting her so much, having her want me, but knowing it was a sin.

  God, how I’d wanted to be a sinner that night.

  “You should leave,” she said, pulling me from my memories, reminding me where I was and why.

  “I will,” I told her, tired of the distance that my guilt and her anger had put between us.

  Her uncle was old and mean. He’d be dead soon, and Sammy would be left with only her grief and rage. If I didn’t intercede, there would be nothing left of her but bitterness. I knew firsthand she held too much fire for that to happen.

  “On one condition.”

  “I don’t need to meet your conditions,” she said, not bothering to look my way when she answered.

  I sent Angelo a grateful smile. It was a blessing to have such diligent staff. He unraveled every secret, gave me every advantage I needed. “Your lease is up next month on the children’s center, correct?”

  Sammy jerked around, finally showing me her full face, more beautiful than I remembered. Even more striking than it had been when she screamed at me on the street outside Così Buono weeks ago. “What did you do?”

  I leaned forward just to get a whiff of her scent. It had been too long. “Trying to make amends.”

  She stiffened when I reached for her, my courage failing me when Sammy squeezed her eyes shut as though the idea of my touch would be torture.

  “Believe it or not,” I told her, leaning back against the pew again. “I’m trying to help.” I pulled out a card from my jacket pocket, offering it to her as the choir at the front of the church began to sing another hymn, this one calling congregants to their seats. “We have a lot to discuss. When this is over.”

  She didn’t take the card, just stared down at it.

  I placed it on the pew next to her leg before standing, offering a nod to my sister when she turned in her seat, her gaze searching for me. “Thank you again, Sammy, for paying your respects. It’s always good to see you.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  I leaned down, grinning when she looked away from me. “Don’t worry, amore mia. You will one day very soon.”

  2

  Sammy

  Parasites are bloodsuckers. They latch on to you, sinking beneath the surface of who you are, and hold tight. They don’t loosen their grip. They don’t allow any separation from the host until they’ve gotten their bellies full or their needs met.

  The particular parasite wrecking my life was the most dangerous kind. He came in a well-constructed package—chiseled cheekbones and full lips, a perfect, straight nose, and dark, impossibly black eyes. Strong, supple shoulders and strength in every movement. Worst of all, my little parasite had a mission, one he didn’t seem eager to relinquish… Me.

  Johnny Carelli came with my uncle’s job. He was the legacy of the man Uncle Patrick considered a dear friend, and I had stupidly been duped by his smile and charm.

  As a naïve kid, I’d fancied myself in love with him. Back then, I’d convinced myself I’d never feel that way about anyone else in the world, and then, not long after he’d wrecked me, I did.

  Over a decade later and I was still seeing shades of that bastard everywhere I looked.

  “Your uncle called,” Indra said, slipping into my office with her arms weighed down with a stack of bright-green T-shirts. She laid the bundle on the corner of my desk before she flopped into the chair next to the door. “For the third time. What gives?”

  “He found out Johnny talked to me at the funeral.”

  Indra sat up, her dark eyebrows curling up her forehead until they disappeared behind the bangs that fell into her black eyes. “The Johnny? Not the one who…”

  “The same one,” I said, waving a hand to silence her before she started asking for details. Indra always wanted details. “And before you start, he was just trying to mess with my head. He owns this building.”

  She opened her mouth, her eyes widening further, but she didn’t ask whatever question bubbled on the tip of her tongue.

  I leaned on my elbows, slumping against the desk. “He was teasing me like he always does. He’s working an angle. He’s always got an angle. When I find out what it is, I’ll tell him no, maybe smack him across the face again like I did a few weeks back. And then he’ll get bored and be off harassing some other poor woman.”

  “But, Sammy…” Indra had the same look on her face she got when she was working a theory. Those never led me anywhere good. That look, in fact, frequently led to tequila nights at some karaoke bar in Chinatown with Indra screaming Alanis Morrisette at the top of her lungs and ended with me holding back her thick hair while she puked in a toilet. “What if he’s genuinely sorry about you and all that…stuff.” I cocked an eyebrow at her, not bothering to lower it until she made that ridiculous grin leave her mouth. “I’m just saying. People change.”

  “People can change,” I told her, picking up a few of the T-shirts as a distraction. “But Johnny Carelli is not ‘people.’”

  She fiddled with the collar of her striped button-up as she watched me closely, her attention sharp and penetrating. She was always looking me over, watching for slips and cracks in the veneer she swore I wore. But there was nothing around me except for the tightly constructed wall time and discipline had created. Johnny had begun to lay the first bricks. I finished the rest the longer the hurt he left inside me grew. My defense was solid by now. Nothing would crack it.

  “So, if he’s not people, then what is he?” she asked, still watching me.

  “Proof that I’m not perfect.”

  “That’s not proof. Besides, I don’t believe that for a second.” Indra stood, stretching her arms over her head before she turned to leave. A small sliver of brown skin peeked between her untucked shirt and her fitted designer jeans she likely picked up at a consignment shop. “Well, Miss Not-So-Perfect, call your uncle. I’m tired of taking his messages. He already thinks I’m corrupting you with my bad Indian juju.”

  “He does not.”

  “Sammy, he sends me a book of novenas and rosary beads every year for Christmas.”

  “He sends everyone the same gift,” I said, folding the shirts into a small pile that I stuffed on top of my filing cabinet. “He’s just being polite.”

  “Every year for six years, even though he knows I’m a Hindu and don’t celebrate Christmas?”

  “He’s senile?” I tried, laughing when Indra rolled her eyes.

  “He’s petty,” she shot back.

  “That,” I told her, not holding back a laugh, “I can’t deny…”

  We both toward the crashing sound that came from the hallway outside of my office. There was the twist of metal and a booming rattle, followed immediately by the thunder of running feet and the screaming voices of our kids. Indra and I darted from my office and made it to the activity room just as the double doors flew open and students from both of the afternoon summer classes descended. Thirty or forty preteens ran straight for us, screaming about the falling ductwork crashing to the floor.

  “Calm down,” I tried as a few of the volunteers organized the kids into groups.

  Indra followed me into the large activity room, both of us stopping short. My stomach dropped when I spotted the panels from the ceiling lying on the floor, along with several feet of ductwork. “Shit,” I whispered, wondering how the hell this had happened. I pulled out my cell, thumbing through the contacts until I found the contact for Mike, the super, but I stopped scrolling when I heard Indra’s small laugh at my left. “What?”

  “Ten minutes ago, you said Johnny owns the buildi
ng.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “And…Mike told you two weeks ago he’d be on a cruise for most of June. It’s on your calendar.” She grabbed my phone, scrolling herself, but she didn’t seem to find the number she looked for.

  “He’s not in there.”

  “Well, you need to find his number, boss.” Indra looked over the damage in disbelief. “Because this is one time you might have to take advantage of whatever angle that man is working.”

  3

  Johnny

  Everything about Sammy told me she wasn’t here to impress me. From the way she curled her arms tight to her body as she waited inside my office, her chin lifted, still wearing her sunglasses, to the casual jeans and black spaghetti-strap shirt she wore. But even that, she managed to make look classy.

  I stood observing her just outside my office, watching Sammy stare out of the large window next to my desk. I needed a second to get my head together. It was a surprise that she showed. I never expected her to. But there she was, stepping out of the hot June temperatures in jeans, a thin black shirt, black heels, and that devastating face like she was ready for the fucking runway and not some run-down community center that needed a complete overhaul.

  “Sir? Can I get you and Miss Nicola something to drink?” my assistant asked.

  “No,” I told Nadine. “Just hold my calls.” I straightened my tie before walking through the doorway and closing the door behind me. I’d hoped Sammy would relax when she saw me. I’d hoped she’d at least lose her glasses and return my smile when I greeted her, but she’d spent a long time hating me. Didn’t much matter what I’d hoped for.

  “Sammy,” I said, deciding not to offer her my hand. Stubborn woman wouldn’t take it, that much I knew. I sat, grateful she couldn’t see how I couldn’t keep my foot from bouncing under my desk as she sat across from me, slowly slipping her glasses off her nose and into her bag without moving her gaze from my face.

  The woman was stone-cold, and that shit had me forgetting who I was.

  She kept her mouth tight, unsmiling, arms still folded like she’d caught a chill standing in my office waiting for me. I noticed how her hair had started to stick to her temples. It was hot for June, and she hadn’t been in the building that long. “Can I get you…” Sammy shook her head once, and I didn’t bother finishing my offer. “Fine,” I said, folding my fingers together. “What can I do for you?”

  Finally, she rested against the chair, moving her hands on the arms of the chair before she gripped them, her nails turning like claws into the fabric. “There was an accident today at the center.”

  I sat up, ignoring the dip of tension I felt move between my eyebrows. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Everyone is fine, but some of the ductwork fell onto the main activity room floor where the children were rehearsing. They’re performing for Bishop Wilkens next week at St. Anthony’s. I sent the children home, and my uncle says we can use the basilica for the next week. But that’s only temporary.” Sammy’s nails dug deeper into the chair, and I exhaled.

  This wasn’t easy for her, I knew that. I couldn’t be an asshole here. I wanted to help her. It was the least I could do, and I did myself no favors by making her ask me for what I already knew she wanted.

  “Sammy, I’ve already got a crew on standby. I wanted to give you some time to adjust to the news of my ownership before any work was done. But I don’t want anyone in danger, especially not your kids.”

  She looked away from me, and I didn’t know what to make of the expression she hurried to push off her face. Whatever it was, Sammy recovered, nodding for me to continue.

  “If you can’t use your uncle’s church for the next few months, is there another place available for the programs?”

  “No,” she said, her frown returning. “We’d have to organize the work one project at a time.”

  “Hmm.” I leaned back in my chair, not liking the idea of such slow progress. “It would make more sense to knock it all out at once.”

  “Not an option,” she said, folding her arms again.

  There was a tone in her voice that reminded me of the girl I used to know. Not the woman who rattled me outside of the restaurant or the pissed-off lady at my father’s funeral a few days ago. Some hint in her tone brought back the memory of the Sammy I knew before things got out of hand. Before I let everything go too far.

  “You don’t know a lot about compromise, do you?” I asked.

  She arched an eyebrow, the small expression a challenge. “There’s no need for me to compromise. This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No,” she said, relaxing again, like she had inside information I didn’t and the idea of that made her happy. “It’s definitely not.”

  “I don’t think you appreciate…”

  “No, Mr. Carelli,” she started, putting out a hand to shut me up.

  Huh.

  Nobody did that shit. Not ever.

  Once, Ricky Marconi interrupted me in a meeting, and I glared at him for doing it. That asshole spent the next six weeks in Newark at the docks loading trucks because he pissed me off and then three more months at my little cousin Smoke’s factory outside of White Plains. Then he cleaned the toilets of a strip club just to learn his lesson. No one interrupted me. Ever. So why the hell was I giving Sammy a pass?

  “What you don’t appreciate,” she continued, ignoring the way I sat there staring at her, unable to keep my mouth from hanging open, “is that you are legally obligated, as owner, to maintain the structural integrity of the building.” She grabbed her bag, thumbing through an envelope inside before she extracted a thick bundle of papers and handed it over to me. “The terms of my lease are clear. This is a copy in case you don’t have access to Mike’s records since he’s out of town.”

  I glanced at her, looking over the sheaf of papers, trying to keep my expression neutral, but Sammy could read me. That much hadn’t changed in the past decade. No one could call me on my bullshit better than her. When I looked away from her, not giving away the fact that I had no clue who she was talking about, Sammy let a quick twitch move the side of her mouth.

  “Thought so,” she said, crossing her leg.

  “What?”

  “What was your plan?” Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it that could cut steel. Sammy may be beautiful, she may have a sweet, gentle way about her, something that came through her eyes when she smiled, but it was all bullshit.

  If you were her enemy, if she hated you, you’d never know it. Not until she had you by the balls and was already closing her fist around you.

  “You thought you’d interrupt my life, take over my lease, buy out the building, and what? Get on my good side by fixing it up? Throw some paint on the walls, maybe hang a few pictures?” When I dropped the rental agreement on the desk and leaned against my armrest, ready to explain myself, Sammy shook her head, already stopping whatever excuse I had before I could offer it up. “The center, those kids? You don’t mess with them. You don’t get to mess with my life like that, Johnny Carelli. That place is the only good some of those kids have. So, if you’re going to jump in with a plan to mess with that, I’m here to let you know, I’ll make you miserable.”

  “That’s not what I want,” I tried, shaking the agreement in my hand when she tried to argue. “I know what this means to you.”

  “You have no idea what anything means to me.”

  The air cooled at her words. Just like that, with the statement Sammy seemed convinced of, she made it clear we’d fallen off topic. She thought I didn’t know her. She thought I had no idea who she was or what made her happy anymore.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe I would never make amends for hurting her, for destroying the innocent girl she’d been. But I promised myself right then, I’d do everything I could to never stop trying.

  She seemed to realize how much she’d admitted the second her voice lifted, and a small glimpse of anger showed with her words. But S
ammy, being the cool, calm woman she was, recovered, shifting in her seat, chin moving up before she looked me squarely in the eyes with an expression that begged me to challenge her.

  I chose not to gamble.

  I chose, in that moment, to play the peacemaker.

  My movements slow, I leaned forward on my elbows, folding my fingers together before I looked up at her and released a long exhale. “Till I’m an old man, Samantha, I’ll apologize to you. Every day, with every breath, so you know I mean it.”

  There was a small shift in her features, moving the quick surprise off her face the second it had appeared, and then Sammy recovered, shaking her head. “I don’t need your apologies.” She cleared her throat, looking to the window as she spoke. “I need you to know that Mike is the super, and he’s on a cruise. I need you to know that the ductwork fell, and we need it repaired. The furnace doesn’t work either, and only the bathrooms on the second floor function properly.” She turned to look at me, narrowing her eyes with a pause, then nodded to the pen next to my hand, giving me a silent command that had the right side of my mouth quirking.

  I followed her order but hid the grin before she could spot it. I’d let her bark orders at me. At least she was talking to me.

  Once I’d started writing the list of repairs she’d mentioned, Sammy continued. “The bathroom situation is a problem, considering our classes are on the fourth floor. We have a kitchen, but only one working burner, which makes it hard to provide hot meals for the kids who probably don’t get much to eat at home anyway.” She glanced at my list, then to my face to frown at me before she continued. “The tile on the floor of the activity room is broken or breaking, and I’m pretty sure the entire place is coated in lead paint. It needs a lot of work, and that takes a lot of money. That’s not something I have on hand, and donations and fund raisers don’t happen a lot during the summer because most people disappear from the city when their kids are out of school.”