by H. M. Ward
Pete nods and shakes his head. “Can you even imagine Sean playing Pong?”
I think about it for a second and laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s the biggest oxymoron ever. Badass Sean Ferro playing with his balls.”
Pete stops in his tracks and raises a single brow while giving me an incredulous look. “Wow, so you have a thing for my brother’s balls, do you?”
“Not his balls. Those are all dangly and hairy. Talk to me about the rest of him and this conversation will be a little bit different.” I say it seriously because everyone knows his brother is hot—and crazy.
Pete watches my face for a second to see if there’s anything there—anything I’m not telling him. “Sean is…I don’t know. Sometimes I want to punch him in the face and make him wake up. Nightmares don’t vanish on their own. You have to chase them off and make sure they don’t come back.”
He’s referring to his brother’s trial, but there’s something in his eye, like he hopes I’ll tell him why I wake up screaming every night. A chill runs down my spine thinking about the dreams, and the way they turn from soft images to burning horrors. My lips part, but I can’t force the words out. For some reason, saying it out loud makes the nightmares seem more real. I laugh nervously and smile at the backs of my hands.
Pete reaches out and laces our fingers together. He can sense my distress, I know he can, which makes me even more skittish. I wonder what he’d do if I just took off down the street at a full run? That’s the old Gina. I want to be brave and face whatever’s next, but it feels like I ate a bucket of slugs.
Pete slightly drops his head to the side and catches my gaze. “Are you hungry? Because I know a great place—it’s right over here.”
I nod, thankful that he doesn’t press me. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Pete and I walk over to a restaurant. When we step inside, there’s no one here. I pass over the threshold and stop, but Pete walks past me, beyond the podium and calls out, “Roberto! Sei qui?”
Holy crap. Pete speaks Italian. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but I am. It rolls off his tongue like it’s his first language. I blink away my shock and smile at him when he looks over his shoulder at me. A moment later a short, dark skinned man emerges from the back. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down shirt. His head is shiny like he was standing over a boiling pot. As soon as he sees Pete, he grins and throws open his arms. The stout guy gives Pete a bear hug and kisses his cheeks. Pete grins and the two converse in Italian for a moment with lots of smiles and back slapping.
Pete flips back to English. “Can you do it?”
Roberto nods. “Si, si.” He holds up a single finger in the air and darts away.
I cross the floor, moving around the empty tables, and head to the spot where Pete is standing. “Did you just ask him to open early for us?”
Pete looks like he might laugh. “No! Of course not.”
“Then what’d you do?”
“Nothing!” He’s close to laughing now, but I don’t know why.
I poke my finger into his side and wiggle. Pete laughs and grabs my hands and turns me toward him. “I might have asked Rob to open today just for us. The man makes a killer pizza.”
I blink at him. Then I look around. This isn’t a pizza parlor—not the greasy dollar slice kind of place. “You made him open for pizza?”
Pete presses a finger to the tip of my nose. “Yes, and when it’s ready, you’ll see why.”
“Okay,” I answer slowly, drawing out the second syllable.
Roberto appears a moment later with his black jacket complete with red carnation. He walks us to a back room that’s bathed in candle light. The walls are different from the front. Instead of the dark wood, it’s all white marble. The walls reach up about twenty feet high which is unusual for a restaurant here. A pale gold chandelier hangs above a small round table for two with posh white linens and fluffy chairs.
Roberto pulls out my seat. “Signorina.”
I glance at Pete and then back at Roberto. They both smile, as if they know something I don’t. I slip into my seat, and see a few more smiles before the man hurries away and I’m left alone with Pete.
He’s sitting across from me, elbow on the table, and watching me with a goofy grin on his face. “You’re going to love this.”
I put my napkin on my lap. “I already do. How did you find this place?”
“Luck.”
We chat for a little while as wine and antipasti are put on the table. I pick at the food, trying things that look familiar but different. After the plate is cleared Roberto appears with a silver serving tray held high above his head. He’s grinning so wide that his ears are sticking out.
Pete’s expression is similar. He looks as if he’s about to jump out of his chair.
“Per te.” Roberto says as he places the tray in front of us. He beams as he slowly removes the lid to reveal the most beautiful piece of food I’ve ever seen.
Pete claps, twice loudly. “Grazi! It’s beautiful! Gina, have you ever seen a better pie?”
I stare at it. This is man porn. It’s an entire pizza pie that’s fifty shades of gold. The golden crust has been brushed with it, the pepperoni have been draped in it, and the sauce—it’s pale yellow. There are golden tomatoes mixed in with the yummiest looking cheeses ever. “Wow. Is that? Is it gold?”
Roberto is so proud he’s ready to bust. Hands behind his back, he rocks up on his toes and explains. “23 karat gold leaf on the crust, Parisian cheeses, and Italian pepperoni. It’s the Ferro specialty.” He withdraws, still smiling as Pete grabs a slice and hands it to me on a white plate.
I start laughing. He looks up, worried. “What? Is this bad?”
“No, it’s perfect. It’s Peter Ferro, all grown up, but not. It’s perfect, Pete. It really is. And if you tell me that you don’t take any of your lady friends here, I may swoon on the spot.”
He points a finger at me and says, “Don’t mock me until you taste it. I don’t do things half way.”
“No kidding.” Smiling, I lift the slice to my mouth and take a bite. The corners of my mouth drop instantly and I moan when the sauce, gold, bread, and cheese hit my tongue. I close my eyes for a second, and savor the taste.
When I look at Pete, he’s watching me, leaning forward until his shirt lightly brushes against his slice of pizza. “That was worth watching. I should have recorded it.”
I laugh and point at his shirt. “You have pizza on your man boobs.”
“You orgasmed while eating pizza. It was worth it.” He looks down and dabs the cheese and sauce off his shirt.
“I did not.” I look at the slice and want another bite, but that cheese is so perfect and the sauce makes the flavors explode in my mouth. Add in the bling and it’s too amazing for words.
“Go ahead. I won’t judge.” Pete grabs a slice and winks at me as he takes a bite.
“Fuck it.”
“That’s what she said.”
Pete looks up at me from under his lashes with that crooked grin on his lips. I can’t help it, I laugh. Today has been unexpectedly wonderful.
FROM BIKER BOOTS TO DANCING SHOES
November 2nd, 3:28pm
Cars and yellow cabs pass by, honking incessantly. Tall skyscrapers surround us and throngs of people walk past as if they are all late for something. This city is always moving. It never stops.
If paparazzi are following us, they are very discreet about it, which is fine by me. Occasionally, Pete holds my hand, lacing our fingers together. I try to ignore the way it makes my stomach flip. I'm lonely and desperate for physical attention—even attention in the form of holding hands with a notorious womanizer and philanderer, even if it's only for the paps' much-needed pictures. I can't help but feel comfort with every little stroke of his thumb on the side of my hand.
As we pass a small secondhand store, something in the window catches my eye. I stop for a closer look. Pete hasn’t noticed and keeps on walking. He’s about two stores away, s
o I jog over to him and pull on his hand, stopping him.
“Hey, Pete? Do you remember at the merger gala when you asked me to teach you more swing dancing? Were you serious about that?”
Don’t give the toothy smile, Gina. Act casual. I lace my fingers together and hold them in front of me, while I rock back on my heels slightly. Pete’s brow rises as he steps towards me. The pit of my stomach goes into a freefall and the teeth try to come out. CHEESE. Damn it. Close your mouth! The result is horrendous. The corners of my lips tug up and twitch as if I had a hamster banging on my teeth and trying to escape from my mouth. Sexy!
Pete is a breath away, looking down at me. “Yes, I was serious. Why?”
I make a sound only dogs can hear as I pull Pete towards the store. Walking backward and holding onto both of his hands, I give him the full tooth grin. He follows hesitantly, eyebrows scrunched. It’s the kind of store Pete wouldn't be caught dead in if not for the very insistent ballerina bossing him around.
“Come on then, big spender. We’re getting you some dancing shoes.”
I pull him into the shop, where we weave our way through a mix of secondhand and brand new merchandise. The air is thick with an undertone of moth balls and musty moisture. The scent takes some getting used to. I usher Pete to the back of the store and push him down onto the bench before I start rummaging through boxes.
A clerk helps us out and twenty minutes later, we step out of the store, shoe bag in hand and a smug look on my face.
“Now, lesson number one—biker boots are not dancing shoes.”
Pete stops next to me, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into his side. “You know why I agreed to this, right?”
I look up to him, grinning like a kid. “Because I have awesome taste, and you’ll look fabulous in your new saddle shoes!”
Pete shakes his head. “Not quite. I agreed because the entire time we were in there, you had a loaded shoe in your hand. My face felt intimidated.”
I bark out a loud laugh, making people stop and stare. I clap my hand over my mouth. We settled on a pair of black on black saddle shoes. Paired with a nice pair of tailored pants and button up shirt, he’ll be even more scrumptious than he is now. I love his scruffy, battered up, bad boy look, but seeing him dressed in a tux knocked the wind out of me. That man can rock the formal look. I was tempted to get him the two-toned saddle shoes, black on white, to match my Oxfords, but he’s not ready for that yet. Men have to ease into awesomeness. Maybe I’ll get him spats and suspenders next.
Pete holds up the bag and looks at it before shaking his head. “Saddle shoes. My brothers are going to kick my ass after every other guy out there does.”
“Men are so dense. Women love shoes and a guy in a hot pair of shoes is completely doable.” I turn away, but Pete takes me by the hand and pulls me back toward him.
“Is that what this is about? Making me more doable? That might be hazardous to my health.” Pete’s chest brushes against mine when he laughs.
I lean in close, getting near enough to kiss him, but I don’t. I tease, “It could be. The swagger, the tight shirts complete with beautiful biceps, let’s not forget the aphrodisiac cologne, and now a pair of sexy saddle shoes.” I tick off the items one by one on my fingers. “I don’t know…maybe we should get you an insurance rider. It could be serious, women falling from the sky and landing on your dick might hurt. That could have unforeseen complications.”
Pete moves quickly, pulls me against him and looks down into my eyes. He lingers there for a moment, until those crystal eyes are locked on my mouth. “You have a very dirty mouth, Gina Granz.”
“Good thing you have all that soap, then.” The pull between us is amazing. It reaches into every part of me, and it’s becoming more difficult not to touch him. Fuck it. I press a finger to his lips and smile at him before ripping my body out of his force field of sexy vibes.
Pete remains perfectly still. It’s as if he’s stunned into silence. When he recovers, he takes my hand and we continue down the street.
IT'S ALL ABOUT CARPE'ING THE DIEM
November 2nd, 4:01pm
Pete is at a nearby bakery getting us freshly baked cookies and coffee. He’s catering to my every whim, and I feel like a princess. While I wait for him to come back, I sit on the grass, in the middle of Central Park, watching people. It's early November. The air is chilly but not yet the finger numbing cold we get in the dead of winter. It’s more like fluffy sweater weather. Luckily, I dressed warmly enough to enjoy the fresh, crisp air.
A gust of wind blows, tossing my hair every which way. Fallen leaves make their way across the lawn, spinning around like a dirt devil. One leaf falls onto my lap, and I pick it up. My hand crumples the dead foliage, sprinkling dried specks of brown on my shoes. Melancholy takes hold of me and squeezes tightly around my chest, making it hard to breathe. My eyes prickle and sting, but I hold back the tears. I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs tightly.
Within the next couple of days, the trees will be completely bare, and the first snowfall will cover the ground, making everything look pure and white. Snow is supposed to bring the promise of happy times to come. Christmas lights, gift giving, and family gatherings.
But not this year, not for me.
My father is still treating me as if I don’t exist. My mother and I barely see each other and getting out to see my friends is nearly impossible.
My thoughts get interrupted when Pete shows up, coffee tray in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
“I know you insisted, but they only had one macadamia nut cookie left. I hope that’s okay? I got a ton of other snacks, too, since you randomly have the appetite of a caveman.”
I beat my fists against my chest and make a grunting noise.
Pete laughs. “And that was?” Pete raises his cup of coffee to his lips and watches me from over the rim.
“My homo sapiens impression.”
Pete spews and starts laugh-choking. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits down hard next to me, still chortling. “You are a homo sapiens! I think you mean Neanderthal.”
I shrug and sip my coffee. “Same difference.” I try not to smile and do a caveman voice. “Gina might need more science classes.”
Pete laughs again, making his chest shake. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or if you’re just screwing with me.”
I reply in a silky, sexy voice, “A little of both.” His eyes sweep over my face, as if he’s just realizing there’s more to know about me and he wants to dig deeper. I’m not sure what he’s going to find because I haven’t figured out what’s in the basement of my soul yet. For all I know there’s a whack-a-doo living down there. I might have to keep her chained up, so I divert his attention with a deadly serious topic. “Pete, I need to tell you something. There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, but this part is really important—don’t eat my macadamia nut cookie.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I made that mistake once. Never again.”
I hold up my cup of coffee and Pete does the same. I tap them together. “Cheers. To health, happiness, gold pizza, and a truckload of cookies. Salute.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, sipping our coffee, shoulder to shoulder. After a few minutes, I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh.
“What’s the matter, G?” Pete’s voice is soft, kind.
I don’t want to spoil the day with my bipolar mood. “Nothing.”
“I know it’s something. You deflated when I went to get coffee, and that cookie should have perked you up. It didn’t, so what’s going on?” Pete doesn’t look at me while he speaks so it doesn’t feel like I have to answer, but I want to.
"It's nothing really. I was just thinking about the holidays and how I miss the way my family used to be—this year will be hard. Your family doesn't seem like a festive group. Somehow, I can't quite picture your mother singing carols or kissing anyone under the mis
tletoe."
I lift my chin up to catch Pete's reaction. His mouth quirks up to one side. "Yeah, not so much. They’re more about grand ceremonies to flaunt the family’s wealth. It has little to do with mirth or merriment."
Maybe Christmas won’t be so bad if Pete can hold onto this nicer version of himself and can stick around long enough to spend some time with me. I swallow my sorrow and force a smile.
“Do you have any nice Christmas memories, Pete?"
"A few. Mostly from when we were kids--before we knew our family was a fucked up mess. Then it just became a tedious social event. You?"
"It used to be my favorite time of the year. My dad and I did this thing every year where he took me out for a special Father-Daughter date, a couple days before Christmas. We took in shows, sights, dinner, pictures with Santa, the tree at Rockefeller Center. When I was a little girl, Daddy told me that the Channel Garden Angels fly around the tree while we're sleeping, decorating it with magical snowflakes blown from their brass trumpets. It's the most efficient way to get lights up at the very top of the tree.” The memory is bittersweet, but I shrug it off. Pete doesn’t need to hear all that.
I pull out a fake smile and plaster it across my face. “But hey, things could be worse. I could be in a jail cell, sipping eggnog from my cellmate's bellybutton and trying not to comment on her I Heart Ponies tattoo.”
Pete gags on his coffee. I look up to see he has a shocked expression on his face. “You're disturbing at times.”
“It’s a talent.” I smile at him and then start thinking. “There is no way I would have imagined myself in this position. Ever. When I was a little girl, I did pretty much what all little girls do. I wished for the fairytale—the romantic courtship, bouquets of roses, the surprise engagement where the man drops to one knee with a diamond and a smile. Instead, I got a schedule, staged dates in front of reporters, and a betrothed whose little black book is bigger than the Bible. It’s not a fairytale, but it’s one helluva story regardless.”