Page 53 of Dirty Deeds

I never dressed like this when I was with Brent. It was two-hundred-dollar dresses from Ann Taylor that made me feel older than I was and expensive dinners at restaurants where the portions were small, the food was bland, and the atmosphere resembled a funeral parlor—minus the corpse of course.

And Brent would never be seen sporting anything other than a three-piece suit. We looked like an elite couple.

Perfectly polished and incredibly miserable.

Enzo, on the other hand, wasn’t about appearances, even though he made a great one. He didn’t wear expensive jeans. If they were clean and fit right, he put them on. Same for his t-shirt. His sneakers were a different story. Six days a week he wore work boots that were stained with paint, plaster, and sawdust. When a chance to go out presented itself, he broke out his collection of sneakers. Tonight’s choice a pair of Nike Air Force Ones. He didn’t shave, he sported his scruff. Nor did he apply an obscene amount of product to his hair, he didn’t care if it was perfectly coifed, he threw a Yankee fitted ball cap on his head and moved on.

The best thing Enzo wore, though, was his smile. It appeared as soon as our eyes locked inside Big Nose Kate’s, and it never faded. Just like his hand didn’t leave my thigh. From the second we got into his truck to the moment we pulled up to our destination, he kept his hand on my leg. Every now and then he’d give it a squeeze or draw circles on my skin with his fingertips, but he never stopped touching me and that’s when I realized just how truly different Enzo and Brent were.

Even now, as we stand here, taking turns throwing axes, he finds ways to touch me.

A squeeze of the hip.

A brush of his lips across my brow.

A playful swat to my ass.

There was even a point where he stood directly behind me and wound his arms around me, pulling my back against his front. But the one that really made my heart race was the simplest one of all. We were standing side by side, listening to the instructor who also happened to be a friend of Enzo’s, give us the rundown on how to properly throw the ax, when he curled his pinky around mine.

The man has been inside me multiple times and that one tiny touch felt more intimate than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” he says, jarring me away from my thoughts. I stare at him, watching his grin widen as he pulls my axe from the bullseye. He sets the axe down and walks over to me. His hands come up to frame my face and he touches his forehead against mine. “You’re a badass.”

“No one has ever called me that before.”

“Well, it’s true.”

Keeping his hands on my face, he draws circles on my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, and pulls away, his gaze darting over my head. He tips his chin, then looks back at me.

“Our dinner is here.”

That surprises me considering this place doesn’t serve food. It’s a BYOB, that’s why Enzo stopped off and grabbed a six-pack of Corona and a bottle of my favorite wine, something I didn’t know he did until we arrived here, and he went to get the cooler from the back of his truck. For the last hour we’ve been chucking axes while he drinks beer straight from the bottle and I refill my red Solo cup with wine.

It’s nothing I’m used to and everything I didn’t know I wanted. But I’m learning there is a lot of that. That there’s so much I’ve missed, so much I haven’t experienced and all because I was too busy being someone I’m not.

He drops his hands from my face, and intertwines our fingers, leading me to a private room reserved for parties.

“What’s all this?” I ask, eyeing the plastic bags full of takeout that sit on top of one of the wooden tables.

He releases my hand and walks toward the table.

“My dad wasn’t really around a lot when I was a kid. He was always with his club, but every summer he’d carve out a weekend for me and my brothers and take us down the Shore. In true Scotto fashion there were a lot of disasters. One year Frankie got locked in the bathroom of the hotel, we had to call the Fire Department and they broke down the door. Another time he thought he lost Nico at the arcade. He had the whole boardwalk looking for him.”

“Where was he?” I ask as I take a seat on one of the benches and watch as he starts to take our dinner out of the bags. He lifts his head and winks at me.

“Making out with some girl behind the claw machine.”

I laugh. “How old was he?”

“Twelve I think.”

“And what about you? No disasters?”

“Oh, I had plenty. You know the ride with the swings, the one that lifts you all the way up and spins around?” I nod. “Well, it was on the way up when my shoe fell off. I thought I could jump out and grab it.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah, not a smart move. I broke my arm, and we were banned from the rides. The next year, we went further south and came across this place,” he says, pointing to the logo on one of the containers.

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