Life Before Damaged, Volume 3

by H. M. Ward

  "I told you to get away from me." Pete’s jaw clenches and his voice is angry, as if I've done something to piss him off.

  “Oh, that is so not how things are going to go down!” I cross my arms over my chest and stand my ground.

  There is no way in Hell Pete Ferro is going to give me orders. I have enough people in my life telling me what to do; I do not need another. I didn't do anything wrong. He has no right to be pissed at me. I put a hand on his shoulder, intending to turn him around and give him an earful. He thinks he can intimidate me? I don’t care who you are, but you don’t mess with a pissy Granz.

  As soon as he turns around to face me, Slug King hurls himself forward, punching Pete in the stomach. I jump out of the way, yelping with shock, and putting my hands over my mouth.

  Pete doubles over at the waist, and when he looks up and sees I haven't budged, he looks at me with venom in his eyes. I challenge his glare. When he speaks to me again, he is livid and sexy as hell. Jaw still clenched, muscles twitching, his voice comes out more like a yell. “Get. The Fuck. Out of here. NOW!”

  This time he doesn’t wait for my reaction. He charges the guy, ramming his shoulder into the guy’s stomach. He keeps on pushing until they reach a nearby table and Pete just spreads him across the top. That’s when the punches start flying, and people start screaming and taking pictures with their phones.

  Sensationalistic feeding frenzy.

  And thanks to Pete, there’s only one picture of me. I wonder if he barked at me on purpose because he saw this coming or if he’s just an asshole. It’s hard to tell with him.

  BABY DOLL

  July 6th, 12:43am

  I feel hands grabbing me and pulling me toward the door. I want to kick and scream at whoever is holding me back, but I don't get a chance to. Pete is still pounding away on the Slug King, pulling him up from the table by his collar and going in for another punch to the face.

  "Party's over, baby doll. Time to skedaddle." I turn toward the familiar voice and see both Ricky and Erin. I can't believe it! Am I being kicked out of a bar? By the time we make it outside, the fight has attracted everyone’s attention. We hear cheering, yelling, and loud crashes as they are tossed about the room, breaking. Ricky turns toward us. He's smiling and bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid on Christmas morning.

  "I have to go back and help break up the fight. You ladies stay here and DON'T DRIVE. I'll call you a cab." Ricky looks toward the bar, "I guess our bar will make the headlines tomorrow, huh? Hey, any publicity is good publicity!" He dips his hat forward in salute, points pretend pistols at us with his fingers and runs inside the building. After leaping over the red velvet ropes at the door, he disappears into the crowd. Seriously, is this guy for real?

  From where Erin and I stand, it sounds like all hell is breaking loose in the bar. We hear yelling and loud crashes, inspiring me to picture chairs being thrown to the ground and bottles being smashed behind people's heads, just like in old cowboy movies. The Slug King is probably getting quite the ass-whooping if Pete's fighting skills are true to their reputation.

  An inkling of worry washes over me. Though I’m still miffed at Pete for barking orders at me, I don't want anything bad to happen to him. He tried to help me—again—and I keep thinking about the concerned look on his face as he took care of me after the fire.

  As I’m considering running back in to check on Pete, Erin spins me around by the shoulders. I meet her intense glare with mild annoyance. She extends her arm so quickly I’m scared her elbow might pop out of its joint, angrily pointing toward the bar.

  "OK,” she practically yells, “what the fuck was that back there? Are you screwing around with Ferro behind Anthony's back?"

  I shake my head, physically attempting to shake out the fuzziness. "What? No! Why do you think..."

  "Gina, I know what I saw. Hell, everybody saw. Porn is practically first base compared to the looks you two were sharing. You just gave eye-fucking a whole new meaning. I swear I wanted to touch myself just watching the two of you."

  I wipe my palms over my face and groan, “Erin, ugh.” I look around to make sure no one is listening. "Do you mind toning down the crude factor just a tad?"

  I start to stomp away in disbelief; I need space. I cross the parking lot and just keep on walking, Erin following hot on my tail.

  "Gina, slow down! You don't need to be all pissy just because I discovered your dirty little secret. Wait up! I promise I won't tell the good doctor anything. Besides, you know how I feel about Anthony in the first place. I'm happy you’re finally getting some of the good stuff—you deserve to be banging Ferro." Erin is out of breath, attempting to follow my breakneck speed across the street. We step out in front of a car, causing the driver to honk.

  After some nasty remark on his part, I give him a one finger salute and he drives on without further incident.

  I finally stop at a quaint little ice cream parlor and sit at one of the tables in a huff. It's closed for the night, so the outdoor terrace is empty, which is good. I need to calm myself down and sober up. My world is spinning just a bit faster than usual. Erin sits down next to me.

  From here, we have a perfect view of the old building that houses the dance club. There are little clumps of people standing just outside, smoking and unmistakably curious about what's going on inside.

  My shaky hands go to my throat, expecting to find my pearl necklace. It's a nervous gesture. I nervously roll the pearls between my fingers when I'm stressed, but my necklace is long gone. My nervous fingers jump to my hair instead, freeing it from its ponytail.

  "Gina, can I ask you something?" Erin is tentative as she speaks. I don't think she's ever been tentative with me before. She's always been the outgoing one, while I am just the tagalong. I turn to her and raise an eyebrow, silently giving her permission to ask her question, but with a hint of a warning glare. I hope I'm conveying the message, "be careful what you ask or I may claw your eyes out." Disregarding my menacing glare, she puts both elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands, staring straight at me with big, innocent eyes.

  "Gina,” she pauses, “how long is Ferro's schlong?"

  I bend over at the waist, tuck my head between my knees, and let out an exasperated cry. “Damn it, Erin!” Now she's got me thinking about his dangly parts. I straighten and bark, "I don't know, okay? I didn't see Ferro's schlong! Nothing like that happened. Things didn’t go that far, satisfied?"

  Her posture doesn't change one iota. In fact, she seems even more intrigued than before I answered her.

  "Yeeeeeeeeah, no!” She flashes a huge grin my way. Tucking her hands under her chin, she continues, “Nope, I'm not satisfied. What do you mean that far? How far did things go the other night?"

  "Unbelievable!” I let out a huff of air. “I was trapped in a closet and passed out from the smoke. Pete somehow got me out, then helped me leave before the cops showed up. We went back to his place so I could get cleaned up. Then his chauffeur drove me to your place. Nothing happened. End of story."

  From the other side of the street, we see people coming out of the old house. I sit up straight in the chair. Amidst the crowd of people, I see Pete being shoved outside. The Hulk bouncer-guy stands between him and the door, making sure Pete doesn’t go back in. The Hulk points toward the parking lot, telling him to leave.

  Throughout the exchange, curious gawkers mill about the entrance, taking pictures with their phones.

  Pete brings a hand to his jaw and looks down at it. Is he hurt? Is he bleeding? I'm sitting on the edge of my seat, my hands holding on to the edge, the last thing keeping me from running to see if he's all right.

  Pete’s eyes scan the crowd around him, finally resting on me and Erin sitting at the table across the street. I fight back the urge to hold his gaze, but I can’t look away.

  Once he spots us, he heads toward a sleek black motorcycle and climbs on. As soon as he starts the engine, a busty woman—who obviously has a great plastic surgeon a
nd a personal trainer—gets on behind him. She puts on a helmet, wraps her arms around him, and they take off.

  I slump back in my chair like a deflated balloon. He’s gone off with another bombshell.

  "This is sooooooo not the END of the story, Gina; this is the START of the story. That..." she repeatedly points between me and the building across the street, "... was not nothing."

  I know she’s not going to let up, so I decide to come clean. Besides, she's been my best friend since we were kids. I can trust her.

  "Fine, there’s more to it." I toss my hands up in the air, defeated. I take in a deep breath. "Things got a little heated while I was at his place, but before I got a chance to say no, he stopped and sent me packing. We didn't even kiss. The same thing happened tonight. I was about to push him away, but he told me to get the hell away from him.

  “It shouldn’t matter.” I look down at my hands, my fingers twisting the fabric of my skirt. “I mean, I love Anthony. I guess it’s the rejection that bothers me. It’s harsh that’s all—and Pete Ferro is a superstar. It’s like super-rejection.”

  I don’t care what Anthony’s views are on the topic, innocent or not, this flirting business is dangerous when it comes to Pete Ferro. It’s supposed to be fun and light. Once it’s done, I should be able to brush thoughts of him away like a dead bug from a windowsill, but the thought of him lingers way too long and messes with my head.

  Erin remains uncharacteristically quiet, so I decide to pour the entirety of my torment on the table for her.

  “Erin, this is so messed up! I don’t even like Pete, but every time he touches me, my brain short-circuits or something. That other guy tonight was handsy and flirty, but it didn’t feel the same. It was easy to say no. With Pete? Saying no is impossible. Is this infatuation?”

  I sigh, resting my head in my hand, elbow propped on the table. Why am I even obsessing over this? It’s ridiculous. He’s not important, he’s not part of my life, and he never will be. I just have to avoid him.

  As if to solidify my resolve on the matter, I tell Erin, “If I keep a safe distance from him, I’ll survive. I'll get over it, and life will go back to normal. Besides, he shouldn’t be bothering me anymore. It would seem I’m not woman enough for him. See? Problem solved. Everything is under control.” I stare off into the distance, searching the darkness for Pete’s taillights.

  We are both silent for a minute. Then Erin stands up and speaks.

  "Bullshit," she says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "Excuse me?" I look up at her incredulously.

  "I call bullshit, cow dung, bovine excrement, cow pie, or patties, or whatever the fuck hicks call it. What I saw tonight wasn't nothing. There is no way he turned you down because he wasn't interested. That man," she points in the direction Pete drove off in, "wants you, badly. I say, next time you see him, jump him. Fuck his brains out until he's begging for sweet mercy and crying for his Mommy to come save him from the clutches of Gina, the sex fiend. Bang him until his dick is chaffing. Ride him until his warranty expires, and then tell me all about it in sweaty detail. I want a full report, complete with sounds, smells, and tastes. I swear I won't tell a soul about it." She crosses her heart with a finger, then puts up her fingers in a “V,” mimicking a “scout’s honor” gesture. Please! She got kicked out of Girl Scouts, and I know why.

  I'm past the point of being shocked; shock jumped out the window of a ten-story building and became a puddle of goo on the sidewalk below. I search for a proper retort, but remain silent. There is absofreakinlutely no way I’m following her advice on this.

  From across the street, I see Ricky running toward us. He's ditched his hat, and his suspenders are hanging from his pants, no longer over his shoulders, but he still looks... dapper.

  "Hey, dolls! I called you a cab, and it should be on its way. Gina, you okay there?" He puts a friendly, reassuring hand on my shoulder and looks at me, concern in his eyes.

  "Yes, I'll be fine,” I reassure him. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, and thank you so much for the dance lessons. I enjoyed myself for the first time in a long time."

  Ricky stands next to Erin, reaching up to wrap an arm around her shoulders. They’re the oddest pair; she is on the tall side for a girl, and he’s, well, more my height. "I hope you'll come back next week. Wait, let me give you my card." He fishes into his pocket and pulls out a business card. "If ever you want to stop by and practice some more, let me know. I'm currently looking for a dance partner, and you have talent." He clucks his cheek twice and shoots me with his pretend finger pistols again. Despite my adventurous evening, I let out a small giggle. This guy is too much.

  "Sure thing! Thanks again, Ricky."

  FRIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS GET PHOTOGRAPHED DRUNK

  July 24th, 8:58am

  I anxiously flip to the last page of the newspaper, and then slump in my chair with relief. Nothing.

  It's been over two weeks and nothing. I’ve searched the internet, social media, newspapers, gossip magazines, local news, and all of them have published pictures or videos of the fight between Pete and Slugger at Ricky’s club. None of them mention our shared moment on the dance floor. My face doesn’t appear in any of the pictures. If I haven't made the news after this amount of time, I doubt that I ever will.

  Hindsight is crystal clear. Of course, it wasn’t until the next day that I realized how foolish I'd been to dance with someone like Pete in public, surrounded by so many witnesses. Everyone wants a juicy picture of him to sell to gossip rags. According to Erin, many people observed our moment of mutual attraction. Well, what appeared to be a moment of mutual attraction. The jury is still out on the mutual part. Then to be standing right beside him when he was ready to throw a punch wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve done either. People were taking pictures that night with their cell phones, and I noticed, but it never dawned on me that those pictures could go public.

  The thought of seeing our sweaty bodies tangled together in that hot dance burns in my mind. My face would permanently turn red if something like that hit the gossip pages. I push the thoughts aside.

  Over the past two weeks, I've written countless imaginary headlines, mentally preparing myself to read insulting stuff like "Ferro Seen With Mousy Girl: Has He Lost His Touch?" Or "Ferro Downgrades to Girl Next Door," or, my all-time favorite, "Wallflower: Is It the New Slutty?” Luckily, I don't have to worry about that. I've done daily searches of all the possible places the information could have leaked, but I come up empty-handed every time.

  The knot in my stomach releases and I let out a rush of breath. I should feel at ease, but still. It’s a little bit disappointing that no one noticed us, that I wasn’t worth mentioning. I thought spotting the heiress to Granz Textiles flirting with Pete Ferro on a dance floor would be juicy news. Sadly, it just proves that no one pays attention to me. They have no clue who I am. What if I did make the headlines more often? Would it really be so bad to have a scandal linked to my name? I disregard the thought as quickly as it arises. I can’t do that to my family. And that’s the difference between us—Pete doesn’t think of anyone but himself.

  Folding the paper, I place it on the table in the staff room, resting my hand on the front page. Since the warehouse fire, police have been cracking down on raves. Not a day passes without an article referencing what is now being referred to as the “Granz Raveferno”. This mess has grown to epic proportions. Regardless of Erin's opinion, this fiasco is my fault. I should have said no to the whole idea. So many people were injured, Granz Textiles is still suffering from negative media backlash, and my parents are distraught by the lack of arrests. They know their grief was caused by someone, they just don’t know she’s living under their roof.

  I keep thinking that I should turn myself in. My nightmares have gotten worse, and my jumpy feeling only quiets down when Pete is around. Erin thinks the same thing would have happened if the rave had been hosted elsewhere. She says I can’t change things that are beyond
my control. I just can’t swallow that. To some extent, this is my fault, and I should bear the blame even if I nearly burned to ashes with the building.

  I grab my "Daddy's Little Princess" mug. It’s cotton candy pink with a glittery tiara on it and looks like it should hold large doses of Pepto-Bismol instead of coffee. Dad put it on my desk as a “welcome to the company” gift when I first started my internship in the finance department. It’s tacky, but it’s not like I can hide it or throw it away. He’d be crushed.

  After I fill my mug with fresh coffee and a splash of milk, I head over to my cubicle where new and exciting spreadsheets await. Oh boy. Numbers. Somebody hold me down before I lose all self-control and dance on the desktops. When did I become so sarcastic?

  I nod to a couple of colleagues. The flurry of activity has died down in the office, making my day-to-day seem normal. Outside of work, I’ve been avoiding my parents’ house as much as possible, making Erin’s offer to move in and be roomies all the more tempting.

  Outside of Erin's apartment, the swing club has become my second home. It isn't open for business every evening, but Ricky lets me and Erin go in whenever we want. Ricky and I have been practicing more advanced dance moves. The rush is amazing.

  When Ricky is either busy with administrative stuff or locks himself in the office with Erin for sexy times, I use the dance floor to practice ballet. On the nights that the bar is open, I offer to help newbies get started, coaxing them out of their seats and showing them basic steps. It’s weird, because a few weeks ago I would have been the one glued to my seat. Now I’m pulling people up and showing them how to rock-step their way into a dance that leaves you grinning and breathless. The rush is real, and the way my heart races in my chest reminds me of the times I’ve been around Pete. Every time the thought emerges, I banish it again. There’s no point in dwelling on that unless I want my heart broken and scattered across Rockefeller Center.