Marked Steel: A Stand Alone Dark Romance (Steel Crew Book 8)

by Mj Fields

  “Cool. Awesome. Let’s do that. Friends. Yay,” Tris calls from over her shoulder as she pumps her fist in the air and scurries into a different room of the suite. “Bye, Matteo.”

  She slams the door.

  This leaves me alone with her grandmother, who smiles genuinely as she stands, walks toward me, and extends her hand.

  I shake her hand as she speaks to me in Spanish.

  “Hello, Matteo, it’s nice to finally meet the man who has been tagged on social media with my Tris.” My Tris said not only with love and kindness, but an obvious protective edge.

  “It is lovely to meet you, too.”

  “She’s been through a lot.”

  I nod. “I’ve gathered that from the posts. First heartbreak is hard to bounce back from, yes?”

  “Can be devastating enough to cause great insecurity and self-doubt.”

  I look back to see if she’s coming back as I respond. “Even in the most beautiful and talented.”

  “Sometimes, an even heavier burden to an artist.”

  My phone vibrates in my hand, and I look down at the screen. “It was very nice to meet you. I have an event to prepare for.”

  “I hope to see you again, Matteo Arias.” She leans in and gives me a kiss, one on each cheek.

  “Likewise.”

  I return the gesture.

  “Please let Tris know I think she is lovely, and your son know I have no ill intentions. I only seek friendship.”

  Due to my tardiness, Gabrielle, the owner of the gallery, whom I met for dinner last night, and her staff took care of setting up everything for the exhibit. It was extremely unlike me to not do so myself, to care for what I created. Admittedly, the need borders obsession.

  Looking around the gallery, at my sculptures, always the main focus, and the paintings hanging, I see nothing at all that I feel a deep desire to change.

  “Are you pleased?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Is there anything else I could do for you, Matteo?”

  The sexual overtone in her offer is obvious, and although it’s been some time since I have taken offered pleasure, I have no desire toward her, or anyone else for that matter.

  “I think I’ll head back to the hotel and—”

  She steps forward, easing into my personal space. “Would you like some company?”

  “I am flattered, but …” I pause, unsure how to deliver the news that I am uninterested, so I decide to look at my watch and tell her, “I have a meeting.”

  “The girl? The American pop star? The one who took you away from me last night?” She pouts then smiles and waves her hand toward the door. “I’m joking. Enjoy.”

  “I’ll return soon.”

  Sliding into the car, I question why I did not correct her. Why I let her assume something about Tris and I that was clearly not true. Why I wish it was.

  How different a life it would be …

  Looking out the window as I pass through the narrow streets, I feel agitation gnaw once again. At my age, I should be the one swerving in and out of traffic, driving my retired motorcycle or the Porsche without regard for responsibility.

  My phone vibrates, and I pull it out of my sports coat.

  Tris.

  Thank you for bringing the card by. My apologies for not replying to the text messages and making you go out of your way. My phone was not charged. ~ Tris

  I quickly copy the text in the translation app so not to misinterpret her words.

  No suggestive language, no flirtations or offerings, and no Xs, just Tris.

  The fact that it is upsetting to me should have me calling my therapist, instead I message back quickly without overthinking, without worry of its ramifications.

  Thank you for falling asleep, your head to my chest. I should apologize for drifting with you, but I won’t. Your friend, Matteo

  When she doesn’t respond, I send her another.

  Some people you meet and know it was more than just an encounter. Poems are written about it, art is made in its glory, songs sung due to happenstances. Your messages were sent with urgency. Mine is with trust in something deeper. O ~ Matteo

  I immediately regret tapping send.

  Art and Culture

  Tris

  When I met him, I knew there was something calming about him. But now I wonder if he’s not something otherworldly altogether.

  Melatonin man.

  I roll my eyes. I know it’s the pills, but it doesn’t seem to happen with anyone else.

  I lean in a bit and look at my reflection in the mirror, hazed with steam from the extra-long shower I took, hoping he would leave in that time.

  Looking at myself this way, I can see why my fans would think I’m something special. And that’s not in a conceited way, not at all. I know it’s genetics. My parents are beautiful people.

  Jealousy rears its ugly head and taunts me, Too bad it’s only skin deep with you, unlike the others.

  Fuck you, monsters.

  I’m on a high, even though I literally retreated from its source. Lord knows I could screw it up in a royal way. So, ending on a high? Yeah, I can fixate on that.

  And I will.

  I smile as I shake my head.

  I cannot believe I fell asleep listening to the calm, steady rhythm of his heart, wrapped in his arms, to him saying things to me that enveloped me in warmth. I will try to forget that I was in his shirt and that I probably looked like I had just licked an asshole, but why? He wanted to be my friend, right? That’s why he came here … right?

  I replay his words in my head over and over as I blow my hair dry.

  You have a beautiful soul, Tris Steel.

  Take that, monsters.

  I lean in to get a better look at my eyes, to see if he was right about them when he said, “I see it in your eyes, in their depths, and in hues of greens and browns, all equally as striking.”

  Yep, they are all those colors until the world gets staticky, and then I bet they turn black.

  When you woke rested, even the morning sunrise across the Mediterranean would pale in their splendor.

  I wonder if he googled, “Things to say to make a stupid girl swoon.”

  Marc googled, “how to make a girl love me,” and “how do I know if she really loves me,” amongst other things that I found in his search bar when we looked up BDSM.

  How about this, Marcello, don’t fuck her cousins, or even one.

  God, how in Dad’s mind did that make it sort of okay?

  The twat twins probably said, “Hey, let’s draw straws. Whoever gets the shortest one pretends they’re gay to throw shade on the incestuous ménage.”

  God knows if you say anything about anyone these days, there are enough victim cards to play that society deems acceptable for shitbag behavior over the fact that they fucked me over. Yep, I’m crazy because she’s now got a whole slew of “support” behind her.

  I could toss my mental health card out there; air all my dirty laundry. It would hold more clout than trifling thunder cunts fucking their cousin’s boyfriend.

  I turn off the hair dryer and set it on the quartz countertop. “Wrong is still fucking wrong.”

  “It is, but how was he wrong to return the card?” Momma Joe asks, walking up behind me and fussing with my hair.

  “He wasn’t wrong. I was thinking about …” I pause.

  “You can tell me anything, Tris, always.”

  “I can’t tell you how I hope your great-nieces fall off the face of the earth and pull Marc down with them, face-first into a gonorrhea-infested orgy in hell. That would be wrong.”

  She stops fussing and places her hands on my shoulders, looking at our reflection in the mirror. “It would be, but worse if it was face-first into an HPV infestation. From what I hear, genital warts are more painful and visible, whereas gonorrhea is invisible and can be treated.”

  She then lifts my chin to close my gaping mouth. “Now, let’s get dressed. You have a video meeting in half an ho
ur, and then, tonight, we dress up and take in some culture.” She kisses the side of my face then leaves.

  I finally laugh.

  “They were wrong to hurt you. But you have to stop allowing it and move on.” She smiles. “Because men like the one who stood before you today, absolutely could be missed while suffocating in pain, and together time with you will not be poisoned.”

  Behind closed doors, I sit on the bed, holding my charging phone.

  My chest tightens when I see Dr. Marley Matteson’s name appear right before she does.

  She’s younger than I expected and has purple and pink streaks in her hair, which makes me a little less sure that she will be able to deal with the likes of me.

  “Hey, Tris, I’m Dr. Marley, and I’m gonna have to ask that you allow me to be less than professional for a moment and fangirl.”

  Oh my God, I’m so fucked, I think.

  “’Red Roses Turn Black’ is so deep. Anyone who’s been in a toxic relationship can feel that pain, and when they see someone who they admire—you—it helps to make them feel less alone.”

  I don’t say anything, because I seriously think she’s blowing smoke up my ass and believes I’m buying into it.

  Annoying.

  “I think some of your fans can actually benefit from hearing your song and realizing they are not alone.”

  “Glad to be of service,” I say dryly.

  She smiles as if I didn’t just piss on her praise.

  “So, tell me, Tris, what would you like to get out of our sessions?”

  I shrug. “Pills that don’t make me so tired that I fight to keep my eyes open. Or, better yet, the magic one that makes me all better.”

  “I promise you that I would if I could. And I also promise you that I didn’t one day decide to do this for funsies. I had my own struggles that I overcame, and if I can help people do the same, it helps makes the journey from then until now worth it.”

  “Did you ruin everyone in your life, take a life, and then try to kill yourself?”

  “When we’re done with this journey, I’ll answer any question you have. But this isn’t about me.”

  “Like I’ll remember in twenty years.”

  “I assure you that, if in six months you don’t feel like this is worth it, I will refer you on.”

  “Or I could just ask Brisa.”

  “I can’t discuss my other clients, and as I told your parents, if you feel there is a conflict of interest, then I can refer you on.”

  “So, you can’t tell me how badly I’ve ruined her life and tell me how to fix it?”

  “No one’s life is ever ruined to the point that they can’t be helped, Tris. They just have to want to get better.”

  “How long did it take you to get better?”

  “Ask me that when you know it’s time. Until then, how about you and I talk about what you need to make things easier as you continue on your recovery?”

  “It’s not cancer,” I huff.

  “And that shows me, under all the sarcasm and attempted manipulation, there lies hope, and hope makes me want to do a happy dance.” She pushes back in her chair.

  “If you start dancing, I’m ending this session.”

  She laughs. “Setting boundaries. I like it.”

  We spend the late afternoon at the Golden Triangle of Art, visiting the Prado Museum, the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte, and the Museo Nacional, where I internally judge each piece and give each artist a mental health diagnosis.

  Oddly, but not surprisingly, Momma Joe is better at the game than I am.

  Currently, we are waiting for our food to come so we can stuff our faces then head back to the hotel.

  “I was thinking maybe we could fly home for a couple days and, like, watch one of Amias’s games and maybe like just chill before the last concert there?”

  Her face nearly splits in half, her smile is so big. “Of course, Tris, anything you want to do, as long as it’s relaxing.”

  When my phone vibrates, we are interrupted with a text message. I wish I left it uncharged, as I normally do.

  I expect it to be from my parents or sibling, or worse—and the real reason I hate to have my phone charged—a message from an “unknown” number.

  Marcello finds ways to torment me via spoof numbers. Sometimes he’s less obvious; others are blatant. Add to that social media notifications and alerts, and it’s a wonder I’m even sane half the time.

  When I look at the screen, I cringe.

  Unknown Number.

  If I have to see you getting face-fucked by rando’s fucking face, you get the same. Love is a war, one that you started, and I will win. (black rose emoji) ~ M.E.

  M.E.. Even his initials are arrogant and asshole-ish.

  Another pops up.

  The painter/sculptor, Matteo Arias, fucks you, get that he has no preference. You’re but a hole. I will destroy him and you. (black rose emoji) ~ M.E.

  I can’t help but send one back, which is why I hate this fucking phone and, yes, my lack of impulse control. A destructive tool in my hands …

  I offered. He declined due to my age. Matteo has been a perfect gentleman. And you want to call out sexuality? You pretended to fuck a lesbian. (Middle finger emoji) ~ Not yours

  Lesbian or not, she was a curious creature, and she looked a lot like this. (black rose emoji) ~ M.E.

  A picture of a girl on her knees in front of him, obviously giving him head, pops up. It makes me sick.

  The phone is snatched from my hands.

  “Momma Joe …” I warn as she looks at the screen, appalled. Then she starts tapping the screen.

  “Momma Joe, just—”

  I’m cut off as she holds out the phone. “You listen to me, Marcello Effisto—”

  “Oh my God,” Marcello squeaks.

  “Are you recording me again?” a female voice asks.

  “Have some dignity and get up,” Momma Joe snaps.

  “Momma Joe.” I reach for the phone.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask as I look at him for the first time in months.

  “Jesus, Tris, did you really have to—”

  “Let me apologize.” I smile tightly, flip him the bird with one hand, and then hit end call with my thumb.

  “I’ve never in my life felt so murderous.”

  “Yeah, well, I have.”

  “I should call his parents and—”

  As if on cue, the waiter brings our food. “Let’s eat and”—I hold up the phone and show her the screen as I press block—“not worry about him again.”

  I see how much this whole thing affects her. I feel guilty that she saw what she did and ashamed she knows what he and no one else besides my parents and his—Marcello—know.

  “Don’t you let that little bastard drag you down that rabbit hole, Tris. Don’t you do that when you have come so far.”

  “I won’t.” I fake-smile as I look down at the food that no longer looks appetizing.

  “Bella regazza,” she says sadly. “You are—”

  “Un-fuck him, Momma Joe. He can go to hell.”

  She giggles, and I look up, surprised.

  “Face-first into an HPV infestation.”

  I smile genuinely. “Definitely.”

  I look at my phone.

  “Unless you’re going to text someone who loves you, or a friend, do not do it.” She points her fork at me.

  “Good idea.”

  I quickly scroll past messages that I have yet to read but will most definitely read, because holy shit, I thought mine were obsessive—he has sent just as many—and type out a thank you.

  Thank you for bringing the card by. My apologies for not replying to the text messages and making you go out of your way. My phone was not charged. ~ Tris

  The jumping dots tells me that he’s typing back, and the fact that it’s immediate makes me smile. Maybe he really does want to be my friend.

  Thank you for falling asleep, your head to my chest. I should apologiz
e for drifting with you, but I won’t. Your friend, Matteo

  Oh, well, he likes sleeping with me at least. I mean, it’s just sleeping, but that’s actually the good part, the calming down, the feeling of being warm and safe.

  Another message pops up while I reread the last.

  Some people you meet and know it was more than just an encounter. Poems are written about it, art is made in its glory, songs sung due to happenstances. Your messages were sent with urgency. Mine is with trust in something deeper. O ~ Matteo

  “Ohmygod,” I whisper.

  “Something tells me snatching the phone right now to save you from a tyrant isn’t necessary?” Momma Joe asks, and I look up and smile. “Matteo?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah.” I allow myself to smile.

  “Let’s eat, and then, if we don’t get too tired, we hit one more museum, yes?”

  I nod, scrolling through his texts, smiling at his words and the fact that some of them are clearly translated wrong, like he thinks bipolar was.

  “Bipolar?” he had said, holding out his phone to show me, seemingly proud of himself.

  Yes, Matteo Arias, yes, I think so.

  I wonder if he can handle all my ugly truths.

  If he truly thinks he wants to be friends, I better make sure he knows the truth about me. Otherwise, he will be like everyone else and just know “surface Tris,” and I don’t want that, not at all.

  The small gallery is packed with people. I regret coming here immediately. I feel like everything is too tight—my dress, my shoes, my fucking throat. Momma Joe, however, is raving about a piece, and I am trying, trying so fucking hard, to see it, but I can’t. Everything I look at feels like I’m seeing it through a peephole.

  “Are you all right, Tris?” she asks.

  I nod, smile, and lie, “I need a bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

  I want to find a place to hide, to utilize some of the worthless breathing techniques and hope to hell they work, just this once.

  Just this fucking once.

  I push through the crowd, and when I bump into someone, a woman snaps, “¡Mirate!”