Peter chuckles. “Mr. Turkey is going to be pissed that you left him alone this long.”
“You’re the only thing that matters right now. He wasn’t invited to our wedding night festivities anyway.”
Peter beams down at me, his blue eyes sparkling. “Festivities? What exactly did you have in mind?”
“We’re not married yet. You’ll have to wait.” I tap my finger against his chest, touching the patch of skin revealed by the V of his unbuttoned neckline. His breath is warm as he exhales in a slow, controlled gasp. His body is tense, as if it’s everything he can do to keep things the way they are—he makes no assumptions. He doesn’t push me or even mention it, but I know that look smoldering in his dark blue eyes. I recognize the slight mirth that lines his lips, as if he has a secret that he can’t wait to share with me.
Peter nods and releases me. “Right. We’re waiting.”
As he steps back, I grab the front of his shirt and pull him toward me. My brows knit together and I shake my head. “No, we’re not.”
Hope dances across his face as a smile plays at the corners of his lips. “We’re not?”
I shrug my shoulders as I clutch his shirt, undoing one button and then flicking my eyes up to meet his. “It seemed romantic at the time, but then everything happened, and I just want to be with you.” I freeze and stop unbuttoning his shirt as it dawns on me that he might want to wait. “Do you—?”
Peter barks a laugh and shakes his head. “No, I’m done waiting. I love you, Sidney.”
Peter leans in and closes the distance between us, pressing his lips firmly to mine. His scent fills my lungs, and my head starts to feel heavy. His hands are on my back, softly pressing against me as his lips move against mine. I feel the rapid beating of his heart as he pulls me tighter, and steps back, heading toward the bed.
Taking my hand, he sits down on the edge of the mattress first and then guides me to his lap. My arms lace around his neck, and I wrap my fingers in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. I’m suddenly so warm that I need the jacket off. Peter seems to read my mind because his hands slide under the lapel of the jacket and up to my shoulders before slipping the leather coat off my body. The fabric slumps to the bed.
My gaze lowers as Peter nuzzles my cheek, his hands traveling up my back and tangling in my hair. Pulse pounding, I shift and turn toward him, straddling his lap—looking straight into his eyes. I push my palms to his shoulders and push him back against the bed before shimmying higher on his lap. I lean down, brush my lips against his, and forget everything else as a wave of divine tingles covers me. Peter’s hand finds the side of my face, his touch gentle. He lets me lead. I’m the one who decides how fast or slow we go. I’m the one who says where this will stop. It makes me feel safer, freer. And although it’s an unspoken gift, I’m grateful for it.
Peter shifts under me, scooting up to the headboard and then opens his arms for me to come back. When I’m on his lap again, the kissing resumes. My head feels light, and I can’t stop moaning as each kiss grows hotter. His hands linger on my waist, so I take his wrist and lead one hand where I want it. He cups my breast over my gown, feeling the swell of my body in his palm. The kissing becomes hotter and less controlled. My hips grind into his, and the few layers of fabric between us are too many. I whisper into his ear and tell him what I want. Peter reacts with no words. His hands are at the back of my dress, his fingers on the zipper. A moment later, I’m free of the gown, and I let it pool around my waist. Peter fixates on my naked upper body, delight and shock mingling together.
“No bra?”
“There's one built into the dress, so, no.” I smile at him.
Peter leans in, touches the bare skin at my waist, and pulls me to him, crushing my body to his before releasing me. He finds my mouth and things become heated very quickly. I can’t sit still on his lap, panting into his mouth as his kisses consume me. My pulse is roaring in my ears, and my head is tipping back for Peter to press his mouth to my neck, trailing kisses down my body, when I hear something. I tense at the same time as Peter, and we both glance at the door.
The metallic sound of metal on metal scrapes the outside of the door. My eyes go wide, and I cling to Peter. There’s a tiny bit of scuffling and then nothing. I open my mouth to ask Peter if he heard it, but I know he did. He presses a finger to his lips and climbs out from under me. He pulls open the nightstand drawer and retrieves a gun. My heart lurches as he presses his finger to his lips again, and creeps toward the door.
I sit on the bed feeling helpless and realize I’m clutching my gown to my chest. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Shadows darken Peter’s face, and the way his lean, muscular body moves tells me he’s no stranger to this—he’s held a gun before. I wonder if he’s shot anyone before. He told me a long time ago that he could have killed the man chasing him down now. Peter didn’t. He let him live and walked away from a life of bloodshed and deceit. I wonder if I’ve brought him full circle, and hope to God I didn’t.
Peter is right in front of the door, and it’s everything I can do to remain silent. There’s a scream building up inside of me, corked in my throat, ready to burst. Goosebumps cover my skin as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I want to shout out NO! I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go, so I sit still, clutching my gown to my naked chest and trying to overrule the panic threatening to overtake me.
Peter flashes his gaze my way and nods once. He’s going to open the door. I shake my head, but he shoots me an apologetic look that says to stay back. No matter what happens, stay in the back corner of the room.
My heart slaps against my ribs as he reaches for the doorknob and twists. The inside of our room is as dark as the parking lot. The sun has set, and the only source of light is the street sign for the hotel that glows a faint blue. Peter jerks the door wide open, glances around the door casing, and then steps out. I can’t stand it. I can’t see him. A second later, the unthinkable happens.
Peter screams and gasps like he’s been punched in the stomach as he stumbles back into the room. I shriek and grab the only weapon I can find—a Bible from the nightstand—hurling it through the darkness at the blur of brown and black smothering Peter. The book slams into the wall, missing. When the book falls, I notice something odd—the man attacking Peter has no legs. It’s just a hairy brute with only an upper body. I blink again and realize what I’m seeing.
CHAPTER 9
“Oh my God! STOP!” I rush off the bed and try to pry them apart. Feathers go flying as I peel Mr. Turkey off of Peter. His wingspan made him look like a giant man, hunched in a dark coat. “It’s Mr. Turkey!”
Peter is trying to pull the frightened animal off his chest, but Mr. Turkey dug his talons into Peter’s shirt, slashing both the fabric and the skin beneath until his claws found the waistband of Peter’s pants. Mr. Turkey is perched there, with his wings flapping, and his bulbous body pressed against Peter.
“Get him off!” Peter yells, trying to pry the bird from his body.
I jump up and let my gown fall to the floor. It’s too heavy to hold with one hand, and I’m going to need both arms to pry the frightened animal from my fiancé. I coo as I approach the two. Both are bitch-slapping the other, which isn’t helping. I grab the small blanket at the foot of the bed and wrap it around my forearm.
I speak softly, calling the turkey vulture, and then touch the spot he likes between his wings. He stills, mid bitch-slap and holds his wings wide open as if he were Batman. “Come on, baby.” I coax, offering my arm to him so he can have a real perch. “I’m supposed to talk Peter out of his pants, not you.”
Peter snorts as I brush my arm against Mr. Turkey’s leg and he releases one foot from Peter and then the other. Holy crap, he’s heavy! My arm shudders under the weight, but I manage. Mr. Turkey is on my arm, still freaked, his wings spread wide. I set him down on the little table next to the door, and kick the door closed, relocking it. When I turn, I see a storm of fury in Peter’s face. As he
steps toward my pet, I think Peter’s going to scream, but a smile cracks the crazy off his face, and he starts laughing.
Nervous energy rushes up and out of me as well. Peter’s hands find my face, and he presses his lips to mine and doesn’t let go of my cheeks. When he pulls back, he’s got tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. “Did you know he could fly?”
“No, I haven’t seen him take off, ever. I didn’t realize it was him. At first, I thought a legless man got up in your face, but a feather coat was weird, so—”
“Right, as if that’s the weird part of this. How’d he find you?” Peter releases me and looks back at the bird who is now perched on the back of an ugly chair.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I locked him in the backyard at home. He must have broken out and come looking for me.”
We both blink at the animal, and Mr. Turkey straightens as if he knows he’s extra awesome right now, crossing state lines to hunt me down. We both start laughing again. When the giggles part way, exhaustion is all that remains. I fall asleep lying against Peter, his arms holding me tight.
CHAPTER 10
There’s a loud rap on the door before Sean strides into the room. I startle and clutch the sheets to my chest as I awaken to Peter’s assy brother standing over the bed. “Get up. We’ve got him. Every piece is in place, except you two.”
“Jesus, Sean! It’s four in the morning,” Peter growls, sitting up.
“Yes,” Sean’s stoic voice replies, “and it’s time to put this fucker down and get on with life.” Sean tosses a brown paper bag at me. At first, I think it’s food, but when I look inside, I find clothes.
“Thanks. Now turn around or I’m not getting up.” My heart is still slamming into my ribs.
Sean glares at me. “We don’t have time for modesty, Sidney.”
Peter is up, half naked—wearing only boxers—and in front of his brother before I can reply. “Turn the fuck around and don’t be an asshole for five seconds.” Peter forces Sean to turn, which shocks the hell out of me. Peter glances over at me and tips his head toward the bathroom. I scurry inside, clutching the brown bag to my chest, feeling way too exposed in my lacy white thong with my cheeks exposed. Peter follows me with his eyes until the door shuts behind me.
As I quickly pull on the clothes, I hear the two men speaking in hushed tones. When I emerge, my hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail of limp, deflated wedding curls. I'm wearing no makeup, and the clothes Sean brought me are a size too small and meant for some 60's floozy.
Peter’s gaze sweeps over me, “Wow.”
Okay, maybe I feel less like an idiot after that. But still. I arch a brow at him. “Really? I look like an extra on Grease, and your jaw drops?”
He snaps shut his gaping mouth and grins at me. “You could wear a spacesuit and look hot. It’s a curse, Sid. You’ll just have to live with it.” He rushes over and kisses my cheek before dressing himself. Sean brought him a change of clothes, too.
I sniff the air. “Why do I smell bacon?”
Sean is standing in the center of the room with his arms folded over his chest. “Because I brought breakfast.” He turns and startles seeing Mr. Turkey on the table, ripping through the breakfast bag. There’s a piece of bacon dangling over the edge of his beak. The animal is about to shove his head in the bag again when Sean snatches it from him.
“What’s that thing doing here?” Sean demands. Mr. Turkey hisses at Sean but remains on the table.
Peter speaks before I can. “He found her.” He strides across the room, the angry red lines from the night before visible on his chest. Sean glances at Mr. Turkey, Peter’s chest, and then me. Peter grabs a couple of the sandwiches from the bag, and mutters, “Don’t even ask.”
“Hey!” I balk as an egg breakfast sandwich hits me in the face. I manage to catch it before it hits the floor. “Don’t let him think that was me.” The corners of Sean’s lips curve up. I growl at him. “That wasn’t me!”
“Too bad for Pete.” Sean’s amusement unsettles me. I feel sorry for Avery. There’s something about him that’s almost predatory.
“Shut it,” Peter snaps while stuffing the food into his face. “What’s the plan?”
CHAPTER 11
The plan is simple, genius, and a little bit unnerving. Sean told Peter his idea, and Peter quickly made it better, adding tiny pieces to lock everything in place so that it sends a clear message—don’t mess with the Ferro family.
I have a small role in today’s strategy, well, Mr. Turkey does. I’m supposed to be the distraction, the weird ass bird lady with a vulture the size of a cat sitting in the park.
I’m on a bench at the south end of Central Park, sitting under the tree canopy, in the middle of a long string of benches following the path into the park. It’s early, but no one is out and about, save a few runners. They're mostly avoiding this area of the park since it’s under construction and barricaded off. There’s hardly any traffic this morning, no horns honking or engines rumbling on the road behind me. It’s Sunday morning, and the city sleeps in on this day of the week. The dawn air is crisp and damp.
As I sit on the bench, I rip another piece of bread off my loaf of Italian bread and toss it at Mr. Turkey. He looks up at me with those solid black eyes, and I swear to God—he frowns. “What? I don’t have baby chicks for you today. Stop looking at me like that.”
A voice is in my earpiece, teasing softly. “You’re not supposed to look totally crazy, so stop talking to the bird.” It’s Jon Ferro. He was called in from his new business out on Long Island and stuck in a food truck parked a few paces away, by the entrance to the park. I can see the top of the truck from my seat.
I shift on the bench and resist the urge to glance at the bright yellow vehicle. A jumpy feeling settles over my skin, and it’s really hard to sit still. I hate waiting.
Jon and I are the back end, the second wave, the final front, or whatever you want to call it. If the guy gets away from Peter and Sean, odds are he’ll run this way to get out of the park and lose them in the construction zone. The sidewalks are ripped up and being repaved. Currently, there are only strings marking the new path and chalk lines indicating utility lines underground.
Jon’s voice is in my ear again. “So. That wedding was sure something.”
“Yes, it was.” I sound more wistful than I wanted. Jon is sweet, but I don’t want to spill my guts so that everyone can hear. For all I know, Constance is listening as well as Sean and Peter. I wouldn’t tell either of them anything, and I don’t want to make Peter feel worse.
Jon laughs and says, “Have you thought about eloping? Mom would be pissed, but since she’s so pleasant all the time anyway—well, you never know. It could help improve her mood.” There’s a bit of static for a second and then it vanishes.
I smile. “That’ll happen on the same day ice cream cones fall from the sky.”
“God, I hope that’s today.” Jon is quiet for a little bit and then mentions, “On the off-chance you change your mind and want a wedding ceremony on the fly, you already know an ordained minister. Grab a dress, pick a few flowers, and you’re all set.”
I try to suppress my grin as I rip another piece of bread off the loaf to toss to Mr. Turkey, but he’s wandered away. He’s under a bench further down the path, pecking at a cigarette butt. When he decides not to eat it, he jumps up into the garden behind us, wandering, trying to root out his breakfast because the bread isn’t cutting it.
“Really?” I tease lightly. “And who’s that?”
Jon sounds offended. “Me. Who else would it be? If Sean went near a church, he’d burst into flames.”
I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. “You’re so…” My words die in my throat as a man running much faster than a jogger comes straight toward me from over a hill at the far end of the construction zone. He slashes through the orange netting and doesn’t slow. He cuts across the grassy field, and makes a beeline for me, as if he knows who I am and intends to do something really
hideous.
“Jon?” My voice shakes, and I’m on my feet.
Something went wrong. The entire plan must have gone badly. Peter and Sean are nowhere in sight, and this man is barreling down upon me at full speed. He’s a dark blur in ripped jeans and a hooded sweatshirt that swallows his large body. The hood is up hiding his face, but I don’t have to see his eyes to know he’s looking at me.
Jon’s speaking in my ear, but I’m frozen, unable to move, and my throat tightens so hard that I can barely breathe. Speaking is no longer an option. A scream begins building deep within me, and clings to the inside of my ribs, hanging on, waiting to be used.
The rational voice in my head keeps saying that he’s not coming for me. That he’s darting toward the exit, but that trajectory leads directly to me, not to the exit near the street. He’s not running from Sean and Peter. He’s coming for me.
My pulse roars in my ears as every hair on my body stands on end. A cold sweat makes me shiver, and I feel my muscles locking up one at a time. My jaw quivers and I try to force the words out, echoing my thoughts, “He’s coming for me.”
I can’t be this girl, not again. Not ever. I keep telling my body to move, to brace to fight back, but against a man that size—I don’t have a chance. Move. Move. Move! I force my locked muscles into motion and run as fast as I can down the sandy path and then cut sidelong into the strawberry fields, slipping on ripe berries.
Jon is in my ear, telling me he’s coming. I can’t see him anymore, but I hear him swear followed by screaming static and then silence. I can’t hear him. That only lifeline is gone.
The tiny voice in my head scolds me. You’re going to die. You didn’t follow the rules. You were supposed to sit and wait.
The thoughts shatter as I hear the man plowing through the field behind me. “Don’t make this harder on yourself,” he growls. His pace is slowed by the uneven, torn up ground, but he doesn’t stop. Soon he’s within a few yards. The vines catch around the ankles of his boots, and entire plants rip up by their roots. The hidden rocks stumble him once, but he catches himself and swears loudly. His voice is gruff, like he’s smoked a pack of cigarettes every day since he was five years old.