The Wildcard

Chapter Fourteen

My turn.

“I guess I just had some family issues,” I muttered, turning my head away, my eyes roaming through his DVD collection. The usual man collection ... The Godfather, Football Factory, Mean Machine.

“The Goonies?” I asked incredulously, “You – Cayden Gates – Media Mogul extraordinaire – you have The Goonies? On VCR no less!”

“You’re being a puzzle again,” he muttered back at me, his fingers once again trapping my chin and turning me to face him, “But yes, I own a copy of The Goonies, it happens to be one of my favourites, thank you.”

“Mine too,” I laughed softly, “I used to dream that I could just pack up on an adventure like that, when I was a kid. I never wanted to come back, though.”

He laughed softly; a gruff chuckle that seemed to flow out of his throat, so at odds with the cold, hard gangster that the Google search had painted out to me. With his sharp, angular features, and those cold deep eyes, though, it was so easy to see that dark and ruthless side of him lingering beneath the surface.

I turned onto my back, my eyes running over the white expanse of the high ceiling.

“Me too,” he shifted around, leaning back against the sofa and resting his head on my hip, sighing heavily, “To both I guess.”

We were silent for a few minutes – the only sound an empty, vacant ticking from the ornate glass clock on the mantelpiece – both wasting away the present by throwing ourselves into our own memories – consumed by them. A single tear rolled down my cheek, a tear that would mean nothing to anybody but me, and I quickly swiped it away.

“I Googled you,” I rushed out on the back of a shaky, indrawn breath, waiting for an explosion with my spine stiff ready to spring from its relaxed pose on the sofa.

He let out a short laugh – there was no humour in it, no smile in his eyes as he turned back to me, just a weary curve to his lips. His eyes were hard and cold as they ran over my features.

“Expected as much. Anything interesting pop up?”

“You’re a man whore,” I said, flippantly, suddenly uneasy at the intensity in his eyes – why the hell can’t I think before I throw stuff like this on the table? I’d been so desperate to get out of spilling my own shit that I’d pulled his out of the hat like a rampant fucking rabbit.

He chuckled slightly, shaking his head as he palmed the back of his neck almost ... nervously.

“So they say, but that’s probably not why you brought it up now is it? What else came up, Jodie?”

“That you’re, um, Jimmy Gates’ son. You run the East End.”

“Hmm,” he muttered dismissively, as he averted his gaze.

But I saw the shutters go down first, and, shameful as it is to need so much from a man I barely knew, something twisted inside me with the realisation that he was closing down on me. He was back to that cold bastard I’d met on the first night – all propositions and smooth words, with a ruthless edge that undercut every single syllable.