by Mj Fields
“You should know. Didn’t the two of you hook up when she was fifteen?”
Brisa’s jaw drops. “No, we did not.”
“I’ll call bullshit on that, too.” He looks from me to her. “Your sister tells me everything. She said you were in love with some old man.”
I turn on the vehicle, throw it in gear, and hit the gas.
“I had a minor crush. I kissed him. I lied to him about my age. I was wrong to do that.”
She looks at me. “Sorry.”
She looks back at him. “I know you’re hurting; I can see it. I can—”
“That’s right; you’re the princess, and she’s the problem. You’re the psychic, and she’s the psycho.”
“Stop it. Just—”
“You think that this is bad, Brisa? You had better buckle up.”
I look in the rearview mirror to see he’s giving me a menacing smile.
“And you may want to go back to the Bayside. You’re not cut out for what’s ahead.”
“Your threats and insults don’t mean dick to me. When your balls drop, and you’re a man, then come at me.”
“My balls drop?” he huffs. “I could go give your little crack whore of a sister a hundred-dollar bill and she’d let me drop them all over her face.”
“Marcello, that’s enough!”
“How long do you think it will be until she’s in the same state as your mother?” He leans forward. “Or let’s talk about when Daddy went away, leaving you at the mercy of all the boyfriends Mommy brought in and out of the house. The ones who tried to fuck you and Sissy. And you, with your pathetic savior complex, put yourself in the position to get fuc—”
Little fuck’s been digging I think as I throw an elbow, hitting him square in the face, as intended, and he cries out, holding his nose.
“You motherfucker!”
I reach into the console and grab some tissues, handing them back to Brisa.
“Here.” Her voice shakes as she hands him some tissues.
“You’re so fucked,” Marcello says, face full of bloody tissues.
“How about you shut up?” Brisa yells at him, her voice shaking.
“How about you suck my—”
“Enough!” I yell. “Not another fucking word, or I pull the fuck over and beat your ass down so the rest of your body matches your fucking face.”
He leans back, holding the tissues against his nose. “You know, Brisa. You left poor Max all alone at school. There are several of us still attending. The odds are not in his favor.”
“Max will be fine.”
“Will he? Will he really, though?” he taunts.
“You get that no one kicked the twins’ asses for what they did to Tris with you? And you get why, right?” Her questions are laced with annoyance. The tone definitely uppity.
“Oh, yes, the whole family thing.” He turns and looks at her. “I literally fucked that theory. They’re not loyal to any of you. You left them behind.”
“Yeah, well, we didn’t really have a choice, now did we?”
“There is always a choice. Your sister made hers tonight.”
“What the fuck part of shut up don’t you get, Ivy League?” I force a laugh.
“Torrance is going to have a field day with Max.”
“Your sister’s a nice girl. She—”
“Ask your brother how nice she is.”
I turn on my signal and tap the brakes, rolling onto the driveway harder than I should, but I’m done with this asshole. I hit the gas to get there sooner.
After slamming on the brakes, I throw the vehicle in park, open the door, and get out.
“Is he with you?” I hear a woman’s—his mother, Melanie Efisto—panicked voice.
“He’s all yours,” I grumble, opening the driver’s side back door.
Casual as hell, he gets out of the car and stands, glaring at me.
“Goddammit, Marcello!” Sabato booms.
“He’s gonna be okay. Tris says she’s sorry. I think he was trying to help her, but—”
Looking at Brisa out of the corner of my eyes, I don’t see what’s coming until it’s too late. His head collides with my fucking nose, and I feel it crack as soon as it hits.
Temporarily unable to see, instinct kicks in. I have his arm jacked behind his back, slamming his body against the car.
“Unhand my son now,” Sabato says from somewhere. I can’t see him, because my eyes are fucking tearing up.
“They may not press charges, but I will, you little fuck,” I snarl as I slam him against the vehicle one last time then quickly step back, raising my hands in the air. “He’s all fucking yours.”
“What happened to your nose?” Sabato asks him as I rub the tears from my eyes.
“You taught me never to strike first. Always last.”
“He hit you?” Sabato asks Marcello.
“Something like that.” Marcello walks toward the house. “Please send Tris my regards and tell her she’ll wish she never fucked with me when she stands back and sees the destruction she’s caused to all around her.”
“That’s enough, Marc,” Melanie sobs. “It’s enough.”
“I love you, Mom, but it’s not enough until I say it is.” He walks past her and into the mansion.
I watch Brisa run up to her and hug her. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Me, too, sweetheart. Me, too.”
Knowing damn well Sabato is still glaring at me, I turn and look at him.
He pulls a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, shakes it open, and then hands it to me. “You deserved that.”
I take it from him and wipe the blood from my face. “I see where he gets his charm.”
“You better watch your tone with me,” he warns.
“You better keep your kid on a leash.”
He steps toward me.
Brisa yells, “Ranger,” as Melanie yells for her husband. This time, I don’t make the mistake of looking away.
Brisa pushes herself between us, her voice shaking as she looks up at me. “Let’s go.”
“Sabato,” Melanie cries. “Please.”
Before I can register what’s going on, she’s in the driver’s seat.
“I drive,” I tell her.
“Yeah, no. Get in.” When I hesitate, she quietly says, “Please.”
“I don’t ride bitch.” I’m fully aware that blood is pouring down my face and my eyes are filled with tears.
“Then ride shotgun!”
I look toward the house and see all the lights coming on.
“Ranger, there is going to be a house full of people walking out here, and I really don’t want to deal with that right now. You …” Pausing, she looks at me sympathetically. “You’re a mess. Just get in.”
“The roads are narrow; cliffs and shit,” I say as I walk around the vehicle.
Sliding in, I find she’s ass in the air, bent over the seat, grabbing something. Settling back in her seat, she fists the packet of tissues in one hand and starts the vehicle with the other. She puts it in drive and slowly heads down the long driveway as I tap out a text to the team, letting them know the kid’s back with his folks, blood dripping on my screen.
When she stops at the end of the driveway and puts it in park, I glance over at her as she turns sideways in her seat. Then she pulls out a tissue and reaches over to possibly clean blood off my face.
I lean back.
“Right, sorry. You don’t like to be touched without permission.”
I hold out my hand for the tissues.
“But here’s the thing. You let me before, so you’re going to have to deal.”
When I turn away, she sighs.
“Someone hurt you. That someone isn’t me.”
“That’s none of your bus—”
“Yeah, well, the asshat aired our dirty laundry, so …” She lifts a shoulder. “It is what it is. Now let me clean the freaking blood off your mug so we can head back.”
“My mu
g?” I shake my head.
“Oh my God, do you need an ego stroke after all the old man comments? What do you want me to say? Your strikingly handsome face and crooked nose?”
“Been broken a few times.”
She tries not to smile as she shakes her head. “Yeah, well, this time, it may have a lasting effect.” She tilts her head to the side. “There. Now it’s straight.”
“Is it that fucking bad?” I reach up to pull down the visor.
She bats my hand away. “Ew. You’ll get it all bloody.”
“You don’t listen real well, do you?”
“I listen more than most.” She grabs my chin and turns my head so I’m facing her.
“The whole permission thing’s lost to you, though, yeah?”
“It needs to be done, so …” She shrugs as she goes to work, dabbing blood from under my nose.
Not liking the fact she’s making me feel something I haven’t felt since I was a kid, and the one other time that I will not allow myself to think about—vulnerable—I even the playing field. “So, psychic, huh?”
“No.” She shakes her head as she rolls a tissue up. “Empath. I feel others’ emotions. Pain is the hardest to ignore, so believe me when I say this is going to hurt me, too.” She grabs the back of my head, pulling me closer, then shoves a fucking tissue up my goddammed nose.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Gonna have to do it again, so don’t be a pussy. Your nose won’t stop bleeding; this should help.” And quick as shit, she shoves another up my other nostril.
“Talk about over-fucking-stepping,” I grumble.
“Just lean back, tilt your nose in the air, and chill.”
“Never been one to stick my nose in the air. You wanna show me how the upper echelon of society does it?”
She grabs my bun and jacks it back. “Just like that.” Under her breath, as she turns in her seat, she mutters, “Asshole.”
I smirk as I look down at my phone and hit up Google.
What is an empath?
Empaths are highly sensitive individuals, who have the keen ability to sense what people around them are thinking and feeling. Psychologists may use the term empath to describe a person who experiences a great deal of sympathy, often to the point of taking on the pain of others at their own expense.
Well, that’s fucked up, I think, scrolling down.
In bold lettering, the words Sexual Empath pops up on the screen.
You have got to be fucking kidding me, I think, yet I still do stupid and read on.
Sexual empaths are highly sensitive during lovemaking. They can pick up a partner’s energy even more than other empaths. For all empaths (especially the sexual type) to feel their best, they must share a physical intimacy with the right person who can reciprocate love and respect.
“You okay?” she asks, shoving her phone back under her leg before she puts the vehicle in drive and hits the gas.
Feeling like a teenager busted with a raging hard-on, I fumble with my phone. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”
“Annoyed.”
“Why’s that?” I shove my phone in my pocket, hoping it erases the fact that I actually fucking saw what I just did.
“You’re supposed to have your head back. Don’t make me pull this vehicle over and make you.”
Make me, Little Bit. I double dare you.
What the fuck? Nobody invited you!
I brush my shoulder, hoping the fucking devil up there legit falls off it.
When she slows down and starts to pull over onto the shoulder, I look over at her. “What are you doing?”
She throws it in park, unbuckles, leans over my lap, and adjusts the seat so it starts to lay back. “I’m making you.”
Closing my eyes, I curse myself for not telling her to get the fuck back and wish this moment away.
She’s a kid still, not even twenty, and I’m disgusted with myself for even thinking of her in the way I am right now.
I’m going to hell. No amount of saving people will redeem me from this sin.
I look over as she sits back and pulls her phone out of her pocket.
After a couple seconds, she whispers, “Perfect. They’re still open.”
“You wanna tell me—”
“I’m truly sorry.” She turns her whole body and cuts me off. “I need you to accept that but understand now that a past experience could make that impossible.” She holds her hand to her heart. “And I’m so sorry for—”
I shift in the seat. “Not having this conversation with you.”
She holds her hand up like I just didn’t kill this little chat. “I was a stupid fifteen-year-old girl who tried to find some semblance of a man in any boy who was interested. Tris is right about that. I’m obviously drawn to possessive—”
“Protective,” I correct her and defend myself at the same damn time.
“Let’s be honest with each other from here on out. The line between the two is murky on a good day.”
“Miss Steel, I’m not real fucking comfortable having this kind of—”
“Exactly.” She throws her hands in the air and lets out a long, exasperated breath. “The whole empath thing? Maddening at times. You’re uncomfortable around me, so my anxiety, which runs about a four on average, is on wow when it feeds off yours. So, we have to figure this out. Be friends.” She smiles and holds out her hand. “Shake on it?”
I look down at her hand, up her body covered in thin as fuck pajamas, then back at her perfect fucking … nineteen-year-old smile.
“They’re pajamas. I wasn’t expecting to be out and about tonight.” Her face contorts. “Shit.”
“What?”
“Shake my hand first, and I’ll tell you.”
Shake my fucking hand?
“Here’s the thing, Miss Steel—”
“Brisa. Please call me Brisa.”
“I work for your family. That’s—”
“You call Tris, Tris. It’s literally one letter more.”
“We’re not friends. She’s my employer.”
“Great.” She reaches over, grabs my hand, shakes it, and lets go. Then she turns around, puts the vehicle in drive, turns up the radio, and pulls out onto the road.
I’m seriously wondering if she hasn’t been misdiagnosed.
Zinging
Brisa
This is probably a horrible idea. Okay, I know it’s a horrible idea, but his nose is definitely broken. When I shoved the first tissue up it, it wobbled. Noses are not supposed to wobble. I mean, I don’t think so anyway. It’s also so freaking obviously crooked, and the gash under his eye looks like it could use stitches.
“You missed the turn.”
I pretend not to hear him, because he’s already irritable, and I know he’s the type of man who wouldn’t care about a crooked nose or a scar, but I do. I like his face; therefore, I’m going to make sure it gets fixed.
“Brisa …” he growls.
I can’t help but smile, feeling a bit like I’ve just won a victory over him saying my name.
“Wyatt?” I attempt to quell the excitement in my voice but am sure I fail epically.
“Where the hell are you going?”
“Not the club,” I say as I slow down for the turn. “But where we’re going, I bet they’ll give you something that’ll feel a hell of a lot like a party compared to what you must be feeling now.”
“Gonna have to insist you turn around and—”
“You need to see a doctor.”
“I don’t need a fucking doctor,” he snaps.
“Gonna have to insist you take a gander in the mirror,” I mimic the tone he used with me.
He grumbles under his breath as he adjusts the seat before flipping open the visor mirror. I cringe, waiting for his response.
“I’m going to kill that little bastard.”
I won’t correct the use of little. Marcello is only maybe an inch shorter than Ranger, and over the past two years, he went from lanky emo
adolescent to WTF is in the water on the Jersey Shore built.
“I’m thinking that would upset Tris.”
“She’s married to Matteo; she’ll get over it,” he grumbles.
“I mean if you went to jail for murder. She obviously trusts you more than she does me.” Yep, there it is. With all the excitement of this evening, I’ve buried the fact that my sister basically admitted she hated me. And worse? The fact that she’s sick in a way I don’t understand. Not yet anyway.
“What makes you think that?” he asks, turning his head to get a better look.
“You knew about her, um … issue, and I didn’t.”
“I may have suspected there was an issue, but she’s never told me, and neither have your parents. Don’t get bent about it. It sucks, but your family has bank; she’ll have the right treatment for the rest of her life, and the perfect fucking career for when she’s manic. But you’re changing the subject when you should be changing directions.”
“Yeah, well, your future face will thank me for that.”
“My future face?” He closes the visor and sits back.
I have to find a way to keep this conversation going, to distract him so he doesn’t insist.
“You look like a Ken doll with Jason Momoa hair. I’m saving you from scars and a crooked nose.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not worried about scars and a crooked nose,” he mumbles.
“Are you afraid of needles?”
He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t help but laugh as I turn into Doctor Salvatore’s driveway. I can feel him glaring at me and immediately clamp my mouth shut.
Holding back all the snarky comments, I park, kill the engine, grab my phone, and then shoot Dad a text, letting him know we’re here. Then I scroll through and send the good doc a message.
Incoming Steel injury.
Opening the door, I step out and look back in. “I bet he’ll give you a sticker if you’re a good boy.”
“I’m not afraid of fucking needles. I just don’t like them,” he says, whipping his door open.
“With all that ink, I’d hope not.”
“Ciao, Bella,” comes from the porch.
“What’s up, Doc?” I wave then look back at Ranger. “You’ll like him.”