Page 91 of Wicked Sinner
Like we’re a couple. Like, this is all normal.
Like our marriage isn’t ticking down to the day when we can divorce.
“What are we doing today?” Caesar asks, straightening. “What part of the city do you want to show me? I want to see it through your eyes.”
I bite my lip, chewing on it nervously. I’m not so sure he really wants to see my world. It’s very different from his. His is all trendy restaurants and expensive clubs, sex and lights and money and power. I’ve never really spent time in downtown Miami. What I like is outside the city. Smaller. Quieter.
"I don't really know the city that well," I admit. "I mean, I've lived here my whole life, but I stayed mostly in the suburbs, out near the shop. That's where I'm comfortable."
"Then take me there." His dark eyes are serious. " I want to understand what normal looks like to you. I want to spend the day doing whatever you like to do."
The request is so simple, so genuine, that I feel my walls starting to crumble a little more. "Okay," I say. "But I'm driving. The Ferrari," I clarify with a gleam in my eyes. “I want a turn behind that wheel.”
Caesar smirks. “You want to drive my car?”
“We’re married, right?” I shrug, grinning devilishly at him. “What’s yours is mine, right?”
“If you crash it—” he warns as we start to head downstairs, and I whip around, glaring at him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. IfIcrash it? Says the man who brought it to me with problems the first day he bought it?”
“Have you ever driven a Ferrari before?”
“No, but I’ve driven classics. Have you tried the power steering on some of those? Much more difficult. Your Ferrari will be a breeze.”
Caesar grins, and I can tell he likes this. He likes me sassy and confident, mouthing off to him. It makes me feel, for just a moment, as if he’s telling the truth—as if he likesme, whether or not I fit in with the socialites of his world.
That thought is far more tempting than it should be.
Today is a bad idea, I think, as we head down to the garage. We’re not just crossing lines now, we’re erasing them. This isn’t going to make things better; it’s going to make the inevitable end worse. It’s going to give us memories that we can’t get rid of, moments that we were never supposed to have.
We’re not really together. And we have no business trying to pretend that we are.
But I promised, so I push my reservations aside and follow Caesar down to the garage, where he hands me the keys to the Ferrari.
“Can’t wait to find out how you drive,” he says with a grin, heading for the passenger side.
"Where to?" he asks as I start the engine.
“We’re going back to my little town,” I tell him firmly, pulling out of the parking garage. In the rearview mirror, I can see two black SUVs falling into formation behind us—I was under no illusions that there wouldn’t be security somewhere, watching us at some point. There’s no such thing as complete privacy in Caesar’s world.
It’s a reminder that I very much needed, considering what we’re doing today.
The drive takes us away from the gleaming skyscrapers and expensive neighborhoods of downtown Miami, through suburban streets lined with palm trees and modest houses. The farther we get from the city, the more I feel myself relaxing.
"Tell me about it," Caesar says as we turn onto a familiar street.
"About what?" I glance at him, caught up in how good the Ferrari feels. For all that I gave him shit about the fuse it blew right off the bat, it handles like a dream, and it’s tempting to open it up and see just how fast she can go.
"Your life before. What it was like growing up here." He leans back in his seat, clearly not concerned with my driving at all.
I glance at him, surprised by the genuine interest in his voice. "It was… quiet. Normal. My dad and I lived in the house that I live in… lived in, now. Connected to the shop. He was always there for mealtimes and everything important, always right there if I needed him, because work was right on the other side of the kitchen door. I took the bus to school. Came home and did homework at the kitchen table while he made dinner. Weekends were for working on cars together and going to the beach."
"Sounds nice." There’s something faintly jealous in Caesar’s voice, I realize, a wistful hint of longing. “My father definitely didn’t help with homework or share hobbies with me. His head of security taught me to use a gun. There was no closeness there.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That must have been hard.”
Caesar shrugs. “I didn’t know anything else. I was an asset. Not a child.”
