Rescued MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 13) Page 10

  He slid one on then drew her to the edge of the bed. He knelt, slid inside of her, and groaned. It took him some time, but soon her feet were up near his shoulders, her eyes on his. He thrust deeply within her, and felt himself release. He managed to get himself off her, stand, and stagger to the bathroom. He cleaned them both up with a washcloth, and then got them under the sheets. They slept, nestled into each other’s arms, exhausted from the trip.

  They were awakened by the concierge at 3:45, with a discreet reminder to come down in fifteen minutes. They opened their cases, took a very fast shower, dried, and dressed. Bao braided her wet hair, she put on a little makeup. They made it down the elevator barely in time. They were escorted by a dapper young man named Pietro in black slacks and a white shirt with a wave of brown hair and green eyes. Pietro took them to one restaurant for coffee, another for antipasti of cheese and cured ham, another for truffles, then a romantic dinner of gorgeous gnocchi with pesto and fine wine for Nico, grape juice for Bao. Then he took them to the food market, then for gelato. They walked back, hand in hand, so full they nearly waddled. Pietro was finally silent after his flood of information, letting them drink in the gorgeous city.

  “I will take you to the best restaurants in Tuscany tomorrow,” he said.

  “We won’t be able to get on the plane to Venice in two days,” said Nico. “We’ll be over the weight limit.”

  Pietro laughed. “Take a tour with Gia. She is my sister. She has a car, a little Fiat, so it will not kill your feet. See our gorgeous city the way we see it. She will take you back. You can take a nap.”

  “An interlude,” said Nico, which made Bao laugh.

  “An interlude,” agreed Pietro. “Then, I will pick you up, and take you to some beautiful places, take you to eat the best food, then you will be so happy, and go to Venice with love in your hearts for Tuscany.”

  “I agree,” said Nico. “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock,” said Pietro. “She will take you to breakfast, and then lunch. I will be there for dinner.”

  “Eight o’clock,” agreed Bao. They parted at the hotel. Pietro kissed Bao’s hand, and walked away.

  The concierge greeted them in the lobby. “You will take breakfast with Gia?” he asked.

  Bao nodded. “He was very persuasive.”

  “He is,” said the concierge. “He is my cousin. I am Roberto. Gia is also my cousin, of course.” He laughed. “Go, rest. You will sleep like the angels, no?”

  “We will,” said Nico. And, they did, after another… interlude.

  They filled up the claw-foot bathtub, and Nico washed his wife from head to foot, washed her hair, put conditioner in it, and let her soak. He padded naked into the bedroom, and while his wife read her book by candlelight, he spoke to the office, and caught up on emails.

  He went out onto the patio, and took in the soft night. He went back in, fished his wife out, blow-dried her gorgeous blue-black hair, and led her back to bed. He took his time, took her from behind, and made her groan, twist, shout. He cleaned her up, and slid into the decadent sheets with her. He read from his cell phone to the baby about a fat panda, which made her smile, as she read from her own cell phone. They turned off the light, and slid into sleep.

  Gia took them to a cafe that served mushroom quiches, tiny knots of bread that were to be dipped in melted chocolate, with slices of kiwi, and espresso.

  “I am an art student,” said Gia. “Always with the paintbrushes. My brother says I will die of the fumes.” Bao and Nico laughed. “I will take you to Il Duomo after this, the famous cathedral. We must get in early to avoid the crowds, then to Uffizi Gallery, then to Ponte Vecchio, for some shopping and dining. I know the best little restaurant there. So tiny. But the best artisan bread, and ravioli.” She touched her fingers to her lips, and then spread them out. “Tomatoes from their own vines.”

  “It sounds lovely,” said Bao. She finished her coffee and the last of the chocolate-dipped bread, and stood. “A quick restroom visit, and let’s go!”

  “We’ll be right back,” said Nico, and he followed his wife.

  Gia was right. They saw amazing architecture and art, ate gelato for a snack, and then had truly amazing pasta at the Ponte Vecchio. They did a little post-lunch shopping, and Nico bought Bao delicate silver earrings that shone in her ears in a tiny shop run by a grandmother in black, with deft fingers. Gia drove them back in her “carlet,” as Nico called it, and he tipped Gia. They locked the new earrings up in the safe as well.

  They had another interlude, this one in the deep bathtub in a lot of hot water. Bao slid on top of Nico, and took her time with him. They splashed so much water on the floor that they had to reuse their towels to mop up the water. Bao put on her face moisturizer, and Nico put moisturizer all over her body. He took her to bed, and they had another discreet wake-up call.

  Pietro took them for chocolates, then Florentine steaks, then affogato for Nico, ice cream perfect with the rich espresso, and a chocolate torte for Bao. Pietro took them on a romantic and winding path back to the hotel, and they thanked and tipped him. They were exhausted, and forgot to have an interlude before sleep.

  They decided to take a tour bus to Venice. They had a lovely trip, stopping at piazzas for cheese, grapes, and grape juice. They saw the museum, the lush countryside, and the light that looked like gold. They prayed in ancient churches for the health and happiness of their family, and their baby. They had phone calls from giggly girls, eager to tell of their mountaineering, orienteering, and horse caretaking experiences. The calls were short to maximize cell phone life on both ends.

  In Venice, they stayed in the ancient palace, the Hotel Palazzo Abadessa, right on the water, with a beautiful garden where birds sang. They ate a stunning breakfast of a spinach and cheese quiche with pine nuts and honey, fruit, croissant, and hot chocolate. Bao spent nearly forty-five minutes just walking through the public parts of the hotel, staring at the magnificent ceilings and artwork. She finally sat and accepted a cup of amazing hot chocolate.

  She sat and sipped. “Go,” she said, waving her hand at Nico.

  So, he strolled through the gardens, and called his mother. A hotel staffer brought him a cup of espresso to drink while he walked and spoke. Stella literally would not stop talking, about every single piece of sculpture she saw, the caress of chisel on naked marble, feeling what she wanted to sculpt enter her fingers and come out from her chisel, one strike at a time. He grinned, not remembering the last time he’d heard his mother express such naked joy.

  When he went to find his wife, he found her sleeping in her chair, a jewel-toned throw over her, and a staffer hovering nearby. “Sir,” said the man. “I am Pietro. She is tired, with the bambino, no?” Nico answered him in Italian, and he arranged for Pietro to arrange for a guide (a cousin) and a gondolier (a brother-in-law) of the concierge’s for after lunch.

  They had a quiet meal in the garden, of fruit, iced chocolate, and antipasti. Then, they did the same walking tour, with the lovely addition of a gondolier, and wove their way around the city to see the Piazza San Marco, St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the bridges, statues, and many more beautiful things of Venice on a slow walk with an extremely knowledgeable guide.

  Francesca took them to little nooks, showed them the best places to take pictures, sit in the sun, buy jewelry, and eat gelato. They prayed some more in churches that nearly made them cry with their beauty. They said goodbye to Francesca at a gorgeous restaurant, and had a lovely, quiet dinner of a light salad, fresh seafood in a delicate cream butter herb sauce, bread and olive oil, cracked black pepper, and wine for Nico, sparkling lemon water for Bao. Their gondolier took them to see a gorgeous sunset, and poled them to the hotel, singing romantic Italian opera on the way home. Nico tipped him generously.

  They changed, then went back out and danced to a violinist in a piazza, the moon and stars overhead. Nico kissed his wife, and realized he had it all. Children, wife, so much work he literally could not
keep up with it, profits from his work great enough to send his mother on a vacation of a lifetime, and to dance with his wife in the shifting breezes and moonlight of Venice. The violinist played the most romantic songs, and a young woman came up and sang in Italian, of love and joy, family and friends, and a joy for lives well lived. Nico left them a huge tip.

  They stopped for pear and ginger cake with a bit of honey gelato, and passed by the same square on the way back to the hotel. Dancers were there, true dancers, their feet barely touching the ground. They turned, leaped, spun, and did gorgeous lifts. They stopped, mesmerized. Bao’s eyes glistened with wonder and joy in the moonlight.

  Francesca slipped up next to them. “I hoped you could see them. They are retired dancers, and they come to dance the dance of love in the moonlight, for their great joy. They have four children, all daughters, two dancers, a painter, and a sculptor.” She laughed. “Not a boring accountant in the bunch.”

  “Hey,” said Nico. “My friend Lily is an accountant, and she is definitely not boring. She rides a Harley and turns our clan patriarch into a pile of mush if he steps out of line on his accounts.”

  Bao laughed. “Our Lily is no delicate flower.”

  Francesca laughed as well, and handed out bottles of sparkling water. “To the not-boring.” They clinked bottles, and drank, and watched the dancers finish, to great applause.

  They spent several romantic days wandering the city, with and without Francesca and Rubio, the gondolier. They went to Mass, and Nico got into a spirited discussion with several nuns about the best music to sing to move the masses. They ate salad, tagliatelle with gorgonzola, pear, and nuts, and wandered until they found a chocolatier. They danced, saw more wonders, and drank it all in with their eyes and stomachs. Bao took afternoon naps, and Nico spoke to his mother, often to the sound of her chipping away at marble.

  He made love to his wife, first washing her in the bath, redolent with scented soap that smelled of a fresh ocean. He washed her hair, partially dried it, and braided it. He rubbed scented oil into her skin.

  He laid her on her side, stroked her back, and slipped his fingers into her. She moaned, groaned, and came. He nibbled her shoulders, licked down her spine, and cupped her breasts and buttocks in his fingers. He made her come, again and again, and slipped into her from behind. He rocked back and forth, slowly taking her in, the fresh scent of the oil making him groan. He came, and brought back a towel to wipe them both off. He put oil on her skin and rubbed her belly, and talked to the baby, and read the baby stories more stories from his smartphone. That made Bao laugh, especially when he got to Green Eggs and Ham. He fell asleep, holding her, a hand on the baby’s belly, and he was content deep within himself.

  Their interlude had to end. They had to pick up Stella in Rome, so they took a train back. They met his mother at the Coliseum. Stella’s hands were callused and there were tiny cuts on her hands. She showed him pictures of her sculptures, from tiny to small, to the bigger one still in progress. She had them all shipped back to Vegas. All were of the same male model.

  “He’s scrumptious, like the model used for the Statue of David.” She laughed, low in her throat.

  Nico knew that look in his mother’s eyes. “Did you have an… interlude with him?” She blushed prettily, from her hairline to her throat. Nico threw back his head and laughed. “You go, Mama,” he said. She swatted his arm playfully. There, in the spot of so much death, fighting, and competition, Nico felt at peace.

  Bao said, “We only have half a day. Let’s enjoy Rome.”

  They went to St. Peter’s Basilica, the Roman Forum, Trevi Fountain, and more. They had lunch at a small trattoria, and enjoyed pesto linguini with roma tomatoes, shrimp, mushrooms, rosemary, thyme, and artisan bread.

  “Our last Italian lunch,” moaned Bao. “We’ve eaten like royalty.”

  Stella grinned. “I’ve been sending recipes to Nantan and Mike. They’re going to do goat cheese and pasta pairings with sauces made from their amazing vegetables. Go kind of upscale, and serve it already done, or with the parts in a box for people who want to cook it themselves in less than thirty minutes. Pair it with some of their amazing artisan bread.”

  “Tutto bene,” said Bao. “Very good.” Nico and Stella laughed. “What? Italy is rubbing off on me!”

  They made it to the airport in plenty of time. They were given sparkling water for Bao and sparkling wine for Stella and Nico. They settled into their pods; sent long emails to the people back home about their trip, and uploaded pictures, dozed, watched movies, ate a cheese plate, then lemon fish on a bed of pasta, and fruit for dessert. They slept, and dreamed their way home.

  Inner Warriors

  Ivy and Callie decided a road trip was in order. The girls would be taught orienteering by the best. Rota was going to participate, take them on a small climb. The tribal elders would make camp, impart their wisdom.

  “So, why the hell not?” asked Ivy. “Ace can handle the bar, and the kids are on vacay, no teaching for you.”

  Callie sighed. “I am so sick of making pods. I am so happy we got the melamine manufacturer to license them. Making money hand over fist.”

  “Making the dollars holla,” said Ivy, while packing. Callie found the song, and they danced to Destiny’s Child’s Independent Women and Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl. “This is how I learned to spell ‘bananas,’” said Ivy. Callie doubled over laughing.

  They packed the saddlebags full with clothes in one, with snacks and drinks in the other, in refrigerated bags. Gregory had already stolen their babies to sleep at Katya’s the night before. It was four in the morning. They rode the 15 up through Arizona, then switched to the 70 and drove through Fishlake National Forest. They rode all the way to Grand Junction, Colorado, stopping along the way to stretch their legs, and have drinks and snacks, at rest stops, and for tacos from drive-throughs.

  They found an inn and slept a few hours, and woke up ready to roll, after a waffle house breakfast. They rode through the White River National Forest, and then met up with Arapaho friends just outside Denver. They rolled into Kansas, and passed herds of cows, fields of wheat, and tidy farmhouses with big red barns. They slept at an inn just outside the college town of Columbia, Missouri. They had to stop off at the St. Louis Arch, and ate breakfast just past the state line in Illinois. They ate a huge dinner in Columbus, Ohio, and decided to sleep at an inn near Wheeling, Pennsylvania. They then arrived at New York.

  They stayed at the Hotel Plaza Athenee in Manhattan, with its old world charm. Ivy went out into the night as Callie had a massage at the spa. The streets boomed with noise, and vibrated with the sounds of people and car horns. Callie texted Ivy to wander, as she’d decided to have a Caesar salad wrap, and iced chocolate, and to be waited on hand and foot.

  So Ivy drank in the city. She had a slice of Italian sausage pizza and a Coke. She sang with a busker playing the guitar, When We Were Young and a very funky Big Yellow Taxi. She helped him draw in the dollars, bumped fists, and walked on. She took a train to Queens and banged her head to some rock. The days on the road faded away, the problems of having babies attached to your hip, complete sentences, attempting to learn Mandarin, her efforts to keep her wild child from destroying her relationship with her sisters. The dance, the noise, the thumping ran through her body and the wail of a guitar in her ears blew it all away, like smoke. The band blasted out metal, banged their heads, long hair flopping all over. Ivy jumped, twirled, danced, and sang.

  After the set, the band called her over. “Hey, rock chick,” said the drummer, twirling his sticks in his hands. “You bang well.”

  “I should. I own a club called Dirty Rock in…”

  “Vegas!” shouted the drummer. “You’re Ivy! Heard about you from the Killers. They played here one night.”

  “Had fun with them,” said Ivy. “They only played one night at the club. They had much bigger fish to fry.”

  “Heard Imagine Dragons played at your club, too,” said the drummer
, banging out a drum set with his fist on his leg. He pointed with his sticks, dragging her with him to the green room.

  “Same thing, only one night,” said Ivy.

  “I’m Donnie,” said the drummer. “Do something with us. Radioactive is the big one, Imagine Dragons, and the Killers’ Janie Was a Friend of Mine or I’m the Man.” He grinned. “My Chemical Romance’s Black Parade.”

  Ivy nodded. “Radioactive and Black Parade. If you want to go slow. Welcome to the Jungle and Judas Priest’s Firepower if you wanna light up the crowd.”

  “Who dis chick?” asked the singer, in between gulps of water.

  “This be Ivy, she has da club in Vegas,” said the bassist. “Dirty Rock. Donnie done asked her ta sing a bit o’ a set wif us.”

  Their faces were different, Donnie with his wide face and piercing green eyes, brown hair to his waist; the lead singer with saffron-blonde hair, blue eyes, and a Scandinavian accent. And the bassist, with blue-black skin and black eyes, and wavy, kinky hair that went all over. The shred guitarist was going for the Slash look, with olive skin and black hair to his shoulders, top hat on his head. They all wore the same black shirts and torn black jeans.

  “We do it,” said the shred guitarist. “I’m Shred, you met Donnie, our drummer, Dace here can scream with the best of them. Frankie does bass, and he’s fucking awesome.”

  “I heard,” said Ivy. “I’ll sing for the fun, that’s all. You wanna book with me, you got some downtime, just come to Vegas, I’ll give you sets in between my regular band, or maybe have them come in earlier. You shred like you did tonight, you’ll be at the Hard Rock, too, splitting your time.”

  “Donnie,” said Frankie. “I love ya, man.” He gave the man a bear hug, making everyone else laugh.

  “Dark Power!” said Shred, and they all raised their fists and drumsticks.

  They snacked and waited until the other band was finished, a death metal band. They went back onstage and mixed it up, with their songs and the ones with Ivy. The audience loved it. The metalheads ate it up, and Ivy screamed out lyrics, danced, and had an enormous amount of fun. They closed the place down, and Ivy took a train back to her sleeping wife, the city singing in her bones.