Summer Storm

Sailor Myth: Italy

Written by V. Tami's got the Italian, Angie owns the Cajun.

Summer afternoon rain beat down wet-warm on the pavement, the resulting smell damp and earthy as it hovered in the pottery entrance. Inside, the same earthy scent mingled with turpentine fumes and the remnants of burnt glaze. It grew stronger the closer one got to the basement, with the barest hint of coffee flavoring the air near the counter.

Near Rafael. So, she remained at the door.

Both waited for the Cajun, watching for him to lope around the corner and rescue the one from the other. Alessia preferred not to speak inside La Fabrizio without Adam around. While she endured Rafe's near-ceaseless obloquy during their first few meetings, the teenager found it infinitely more satisfying to simply stay in Adam's shadow and weather the insults and grunts. Adam would good-naturedly defend her, as long as she stayed silent. She allowed herself a half-smile at the thought, and kept her eyes on the street. A few more minutes, and salvation would arrive, new tattoo and all.

"Go home, Salvatici," Rafe grunted, throwing himself into the chair at the front desk. Dirty hands rubbed at equally dirty khaki pants in a futile attempt at cleanliness. "Rain or no rain, shop's closed."

"Adam said he'd meet us here," she reminded him in a bored tone. Alessia glanced down the street once more before turning around. "If you'd rather not come out with us, I'm sure he'll understand." The offer accompanied a deliberately brief smirk that quickly faded behind her curtain of hair. Purposefully loose for the sake of meeting the Cajun, the black kinky curls made a convenient barrier for stealing glances and smiling to oneself.

A derisive snort answered her, and she interpreted it as something between "hell, no" and "don't you dare suggest that I'd ever care about something like that." Rafael, as she had learned early on, communicated in short sentences, caustic insults, and a variety of mumbles, grumbles, and grunts. His cantankerous mien served as a front for something more, something she suspected that had forced itself out upon their meeting at the bakery that first morning. While she had yet to fully decipher each twist of the lip and the varying degrees of "hmph" that he used, Alessia could understand well enough to get by without a constant translation. She replied in her own wordless way with a simple shrug. Fingers absently drummed on the window, the soft tap-tap just underneath the rain patter.

The chair scraped the floor as Rafe stood, his expression dark. "I'm closing up for the day. Go home, Salvatici," he repeated. "He's not going to show up."

She sniffed before pointedly leaning against the side of the door. "He asked that we both meet him here, Rafael." The given name made him bristle, and she used it for that sole reason. "I really don't think a bit of rain would keep him from a promise."

"Promise?" He ungracefully choked on the word. Proselytized at birth, Rafe still held to the idea that Alessia's family was full of immoral women hell-bent on heartbreak and deceit. "A Salvatici talking about promises, after what your whore of a madre did-"

A line had been crossed when Rafe had dared to mention Theresa, and he gave the bakery girl a thin smile of satisfaction as she straightened up and bared her teeth. Alessia drew in a sharp breath and pushed her hair away from her face. "Shut up, Rafael."

"Sleeping with an American, sneaking off. is that what you'll do, too?" He continued, smirking. "Keep up with the family tradition?"

Adam was Ameri- no. No, she thought to herself. The potter couldn't have meant that. Seething, she crossed the room in a few long strides. "Shut up, Rafael," she said again, one finger jabbing the air between them. "Leave my mother out of this." She tried to tower over him, her next words low and vicious. "Would you rather have Adam all to yourself, just like you had that Spanish boy?"

Rafe's complexion reddened as he punched the counter ferociously, the gesture prompting the other Kemet to jump back. "Don't you ever mention Calavera to me, you gangly half-breed wench," he spat. "Or Le Blanc. Especially Le Blanc."

"Jealousy, then?" Too many unspoken words fought to be heard, and Alessia found herself leaning forward once again. "You're jealous that he brings me along, aren't you? Jealous that he has more in common with me than you, even?" She leered at him, eyes oddly wild in her dark face. "Or maybe, you're even jealous that I'd prefer an American to a Fabrizio."

Rafe's hands, muddy and rough, caught Alessia's hair. He pulled each dark fistful close to him, her face now inches from his. His lip twisted in a sneer, dark eyes cold and hateful. She opened her mouth to protest, to scream for Adam just in case he happened to walk in the door, and warm skin suddenly pressed against her lips.

His mouth. Rafe's mouth. Warm and wet, like the summer afternoon rain that beat down outside, it kept her from crying out. She could taste coffee, dark and bitter and distant on his tongue. A long moment passed before she could wrench herself away, breathless and flushed.

Alessia stumbled back, caught amidst confusion, guilt, fear, and the tiniest bit of thrill that fed the guilt even more. Her mouth opened and closed, with one hand on her lips. The only audible sound in the pottery became a soft mewling noise that began somewhere in the back of her throat. Another step and she bumped into a solid warm body that chuckled in a familiar Cajun manner, a firm hand about her arm to steady her.

"Leaving already, chere?"