When I found Isabella Luciano, she was dancing on a table at an out-of-town roadhouse called Sandra's. The place was a single storey with clapboard siding and its own parking lot. The weather was foul. The music was country. Or western. Or country and western. Something like that. Whatever it was, the clientele liked it, and most of them appeared to think they were cowboys. This was already my third roadside joint of the evening and I was in a temper as bad as the weather.
It was late when I pushed my way through the door. The air was sticky, humid with spilled beer and sweaty bodies, jangling with the rhythm of music too big for the speakers. Weed and alcohol hung heavy in the air, bodies gyrated around a postage stamp dancefloor in a drunken knot, and the bar was doing a steady trade. I scanned the crowd, watching writhing bodies grind against one another, and good ol' boys playing pool on tables as smooth as the lunar surface.
In my tuxedo, I fit in about as well as a vegan at a barbecue.
My gaze zeroed on the figure at the center of the throng. Dark curls flicked and swirled as she swayed and spun, sweat beaded on her cleavage, muscles flexed and smoothed beneath the toned skin of her legs. Isabella was wearing a skirt so small it could audition for a belt, a shirt about a size and a half too tight for the body it was trying to contain, and a wild expression that could only mean trouble. Even in this chaos, she stood out.
As if sensing my eyes on her, she looked up. When she saw me, a predatory smile curled her blood-red lips, and even across the floor I saw something dark kindle in her eyes.
"Rafael." Her lips shaped my name. She beckoned me towards her with one extended finger. Seeing me evidently injected new life into her dance, too. Suddenly, her every gyration stressed the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts beneath the scrap of fabric masquerading as an outfit.
I shook my head and waded inside. More than a few heads swiveled to look at me. I mean, I didn't blame them. Place like this, a six foot six Italian American in a tuxedo is going to draw some eyes.
"I knew you'd come for me," Isabella shouted.
She crouched on the table like a slutty gargoyle, lips close enough to brush my ear. Her skin was flushed and damp with perspiration, her shirt clinging to her body.
Just then, the music dipped slightly. Someone was shouting at the far side of the room. It was only a little lower, but enough we could hear each other without screaming.
"Come on, your father's going to be furious," I said.
"Oh, Rafael." She laughed, the sound husky and dripping with temptation. "I don't care what he wants."
"Good to know." I clamped my hands on her hips to lift her off the table.
Isabella yelped and giggled. "That's forward, Raf. Even for you." She looped her arms around my neck. "Nice, though."
Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the supple body beneath the skirt I was gripping, the warmth of her skin. Annoyed, I jerked her off the table and set her on wobbly feet on the floor. "Come on. Home."
"Oh, Raf..." Isabella tugged her skirt down, then slid her hands up my chest. I was at least a foot taller than her. She had plenty of chest to cover. Her arms closed around my neck, her hips ground against me. She wouldn't be so playful if she knew what I was thinking about doing. I grasped her hips hard to still her movements. She only pressed into me with a throaty moan. "Come on, I want to have fun."
"I think you've had it."
"You don't smile much, do you?" she said, trying to dance with me.
"Don't push me, Bella," I warned.
"Am I pushing you?" Her nails raked down my back and she nipped at my jaw. "Or are you just tempted by me?"
It was a good question. The thumping beat of the music seemed to fade into the background as I held her. I won't deny she felt good, better than good, but she also felt dangerous. Reckless. Maybe that was part of the attraction? Forbidden fruit. Isabella Luciano, daughter of Eduardo--Don--Luciano, was not meant for me. Even as I thought it, she arched into me like a cat in heat, eyes flashing with mischief.
"Don't you want to feel alive?" she asked breathily.
"I'd like to feel it and stay it. You've had your fun."
She pouted. "You're worse than my father."
"Yeah, I'm a real buzzkill."
"Come on, Rafael. Just a little dance."
"Enough." I took her arm and pulled her toward the door. Which was when two of the resident cowpokes emerged from the crowd we were pushing through.
"Hey pretty boy," one of them sneered, blowing beer-scented breath in my face. "I think the lady wants to stay."
Isabella laughed. She tried to tug away, but I held her tight.
Two almost men competing to put the 'boy' in 'cowboy'. Floppy hair, check shirts, denim jackets, some gym-bod muscles. Some belly, too. They were already in too close. I was packing--I was always packing--and the evening had me in a mood to do someone harm, but I wasn't here to turn Sandra's into the OK Corral. Talking our way out would be safer.
"Fuck off," I said.
Fine, as talking went, it probably wasn't evidence of a skilled negotiator. I never said I was good at it. Violence is what I did for a living. Violence I was good at. Some of that must have shown in my face because when the cowpokes laughed, it was a lot less certain than a man picking a fight should sound.
"What?" muttered the smaller one. I figure if he'd been on his own, he'd have left it there. Probably both would have. Content to leave it at some whiny comment about my sexuality and a mouthful of intact teeth. But two of them? Each was afraid to back down in front of the other. It made for poor decisions all around.
"Whatcha gonna do about it?" the larger one taunted, shoving me in the chest.
