Page 2 of Come Take Me Now

But fuck, out of my brothers, I’m the tallest, most put-together, the highest paid, the first to buy a house, and yet so painfully single. They’re half-siblings as their mom adopted me before they were born, and Lord knows how thrilled my folks are to be doting grandparents.

A vision of red on my other computer screen distracts me before I wallow too deep. The red Escalade pulls through the gates and drives down the path towards Uncle Rob’s house, captured by the security cameras on my screen. I watch the cameras as Appa stops. I’m sure she has the kids and is bringing them by to see Robby’s parents.

She’s one of the few people to ever understand me. Yet I hide parts of myself from her to avoid her judgment. I loved watching her fieriness come out with Robby whenever he intentionally got on her nerves, but I don’t need that pointed at me.

Seeing Robby become a husband and a father hit me differently than my brothers. It still makes my skin prickle. I’m two damn weeks older than Robby, and he’s already been with Appa for five fucking years. They’ve changed a lot over those years since I met her, but somehow, I stayed stagnant. Same house, same truck, same commute. New job title, but the same routine.

Dad peeks through the blinds. “Oh, Appa’s over at Bea and Rob’s,” he says when he notices the same SUV through the window.

I clear my throat, but Dad’s never been the most observant or subtle. “Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do, Dad.”

He glances in my direction and scowls before correcting himself. “Fine. Let me know if you need anything. You know I retired just to be reluctantly called back into the biz,” he adds.

I roll my eyes. “You’ve been watching too much of The Office.”

“E, a little advice—lighten the fuck up.” He chuckles to keep our conversation from changing tone because he knows saying that would just irritate me more.

I nod, gesturing at my screen. “Looks like the golden boy’s here.” Fucking Johnny. Dad’s second son.

“There’s no competition.”

“Isn’t there?”

“Enzo...” he trails off and shakes his head at me. “Since you’re in a mood, I’ll leave you to it.”

Thank you.

He turns to leave my office, and I mutter, “You do that,” under my breath.

I drag my hand down my face and glance at my left hand resting on my desk. My tattoos don’t stop at my wrists and continue across the tops of my hands and fingers. It may not be the most professional look, but covering myself was just right. I left one blank space between the joint and the knuckle of my left ring finger for when I was married to put someone’s first initial there.

At thirty-two, I’m thinking it’ll stay bare forever.

Maybe I should fill it in, make it match my other fingers. I’ve been itching for a new tattoo for a while, but after fourteen years of covering myself, I had no canvas left without going on my face, ears, or dick. And none of those things were going to happen. My finger tattoos needed touching up, though, and something about the buzz and sting of a tattoo needle kept me coming back for more through my twenties. From my neck to my feet, intricate designs covered me, from the Italian Catholic mural on my back to grapevines wrapping around my side. They all had meaning, and I paid top dollar for the best art.

I knew how people perceived me because of them. Some women thought I was irresistible and the guy to fulfill their romance novel fantasies. Men outside of my family usually backed off when I walked into the room, and I’m sure as soon as people saw my tattooed knuckles and neck, they immediately think I’m a felon. But I’ve never been arrested or pulled over.

Realistically, I’m the one on top.

Now more than ever.

A lot was sacrificed when I became the manager. Like a work-life balance. Buying a house in Napa, twenty minutes away, was the best thing for my mental health, but I still find myself at the vineyard on the weekends.

I’m too busy catching up on month-end shit for May to see Appa or my brother, and it’s early afternoon when Mom pops by. Her Chanel No. 5 fragrance fills my office before I notice her walk in. It was all she wore, and she always acted surprised when I gave her a fresh bottle every Christmas.

She sets a paper plate in front of me with a green salad, complete with cherry tomatoes and strips of grilled chicken. My stomach should gurgle, but it’s quiet. I know I would have forgotten to eat, so I should be grateful that my folks live on property and Mom thinks of me.

“I know you haven’t had lunch,” she says.

“Thanks, Mom,” I reply, messily stacking expense reports and spreadsheets to make room on my desk.

“Of course.” She turns to leave. That’s the great thing about Sophie Valenti—she doesn’t hover. I suppose that’s why she and Dad click; they balance each other.

“Uh, hey. How’s Johnny and the kid?” I ask before she rounds the corner of the hall.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Perfect. You know how babies love your dad.”

“Is that why you had three kids?” I ask.