by Holly Hart
Sofia consciously leans back, pulling away from me. My shoulder feels naked without her heat. “Who does, Kieran?” She asks, glancing at me dismissively. I hold her gaze, and raise a questioning eyebrow. I know she’s playing a game. I just don’t know the rules.
“Yeah –,” I grin, “me?”
“If my Papa was still alive,” Sofia remarks, leaning in conspiratorially like one of Mercedes’ girls, “he never would have approved of Kieran.”
The faintest hint of a grin flickers across Sofia’s cheeks. I know she’s messing with me – I see it in the way her glance rakes my face before disappearing. I know she’s just checking to see whether her gibes are hitting home. And yet…
… And yet the irritation flares inside me.
“Oh?” I growl dangerously. I don’t know why Sofia’s words are having this effect on me. The truth is, if me da’ was still alive, he’d knock me to the ground before he allowed me to marry a Morello.
Mercedes glances at each of us in turn. She starts to look like a woman who knows that she is in over her head; like a person with a broken leg prodding a hornet’s nest. I guess that before long, she’ll be talking about us with her friends. I can imagine it now. “They were horrible, just horribl: so passive aggressive!”
Sofia licks her lips. I hold her gaze – trying to get her to stop, but she ignores me. Whatever my girl is doing, she’s making a conscious choice out of it. Sofia looks pissed – I just can’t figure why. “Kieran’s a bit rough around the edges –.”
Mercedes looks on the verge of panic. I guess she doesn’t see many arguing couples in her line of work. “Well,” she smiles – her voice a little high-pitched, “shall we –.”
“I mean,” Sofia continues, ignoring Mercedes’ attempted intervention, “just look at the way he dresses…”
I half close one eye. I don’t understand why Sofia is acting like this. There’s only one word for it – bitchy. Sofia Morello is a lot of things – cold, composed, even icy. I never had a problem with any of that – heck, I enjoyed the challenge of being the first person to melt her. But until now, I wouldn’t have called Sofia a bitch. Not to me. No, something has changed inside her. I need to figure out what.
“Sofia…” I say in a low, warning tone.
Sofia ignores me. Her tanned cheeks look heated now – tinged with a rosy red. It looks like she’s getting carried away in a torrent of her own anger. I just don’t get what I’ve done to provoke it. Was it pretending that this thing between us meant nothing to me? I wonder. Because the truth is, it did – it does. It means the world to me.
“I mean, come on,” Sofia growls. “That leather jacket –.”
I glance down. I’m wearing my favorite brown leather biker jacket, sure, but it’s slung over an open collared white shirt and gray woolen trousers. I look like a goddamn bank manager – just one with more than a lick of style.
“– He’s a teenaged boy trapped in a man’s body…” Sofia spits.
Mercedes doesn’t know where to look. In the end, she chooses to peer down at her hands, probably hoping for a hole to appear beneath her to swallow her up.
“Sofia!” I growl, voice low with tension. “Outside. Now!”
Sofia slumps back against the plush chair. I glance at her with concern: she’s actually shaking. I don’t know what the hell’s going on in her head, but I need to figure it out, and fast.
I get to my feet. I hate that I have to act like a mid-level account manager in this place. “If ye don’t mind, miss –?”
“Mariposa,” Mercedes replies breathily. “And of course not…”
Mercedes Mariposa, I think absentmindedly. What a name.
I grasp Sofia by the shoulder. She feels like a dead weight – like every muscle has turned to jelly. I have to physically haul her out of the chair. I lead Sofia into the hallway just outside. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s acting like a zombie. I wonder what would happen if I just let go.
“What’s going on with ye?” I whisper. “Yer acting –.” I stop myself just in time, just before I say something I might regret. “Is everything okay?”
Sofia stares up at me. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are almost wet. I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s never emotional, or at least she never shows it. But right now, that’s exactly what she is; Sofia looks on the verge of tears.
“Okay?” Sofia hisses. “Do I look okay?”
“Let me in, Sofia,” I beg her. “I can’t do a damn thing if you keep me at arm’s length like this. What’s wrong with ye? I want to help.”
Sofia’s lip curls. For a second, my stomach contracts: it appears to almost be like a look of derision. I don’t understand how this beautiful girl in front of me has just flipped on a dime like this.
But then Sofia’s voice cracks. It breaks my damn heart to hear it. I’ve only known this girl what – a month – and yet I can’t deny it, she’s doing something to me I’ve never experienced before. I don’t want to use that word, but it’s getting hard to deny that I’ve caught feelings for her.
“Help?” She croaks. “How can you help when you don’t even know what’s wrong.”
Sofia’s deep brown eyes well with tears. I can’t bear it for a single second longer. I reach out, and grab Sofia’s shoulders, and bring her into me. I give her the kind of hug the parents give kids. I don’t say a word. I know that this isn’t the time, or the place. Whatever Sofia is going through, I need to let her work through it at her own pace. There’s no sense in me pushing her – she’ll only resent me for it.
No matter how much it hurts, I’m going to have to wait for Sofia to be ready to open up.
“I’m here for ye,” I whisper into Sofia’s ear, fighting off confused looks from passing guests, “whenever yer ready. You just need to let me in.”
Sofia’s cheeks stroke my bunched pecs, and I realize she’s nodding her head. I allow myself a small sigh of relief. I know that when she’s ready, she’ll come to me. That’s all I want. We wait like this for I don’t know how long.
I squeeze Sofia against me, and then whisper into her ear: “shall we go back? Or –,” I pause, and a mischievous smile creeps onto my face, even if Sofia can’t see it, “–
Sofia pulls away, clearing her throat. She shakes her head, sniffing. “No – let’s get this over with.”
I turn to go back in, but Sofia’s fingers close around my arm. “Thank you, Kieran,” she says – brown eyes trained on mine. “For not punching me …”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I shrug, grinning, and follow her back to Mercedes.
Mercedes’ eyes dance over Sofia’s streaked make up. I glower at the wedding planner, and she shrinks underneath my glare. She claps her hands together – again. “All better?”
Neither of us answers.
Mercedes plasters a fake, plastic smile on her fake plastic face. “Great. Now, shall we get started? Trust me. You’re going to love what I have planned.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sofia
The soles of my knee-high black leather boots crunch against the gravel, nudging me out of my daydream. I look up at my old timber-fronted family home. The truth is – no matter how much it hurts to admit it – this place holds nothing for me anymore; just painful memories, and a reminder that I’m never again going to see mama and papa’s faces smiling back at me.
The only family I have left is Mickey.
But he forgot that he was supposed to be my big brother a long time ago.
I shut my eyes for a second, steadying myself. I need to get away from this place. Move to my own apartment. Preferably a place Mickey knows nothing about. It shouldn’t be this way, but I don’t trust my own brother. What does it say about the man that I have to physically prepare myself for the possibility I might see his face?
“What happened to you, brother?” I whisper to the cold, crisp morning air. The sound dies a few feet from my mouth, followed into the beyond by a short plume of steam. What happened to the k
id who never stopped smiling?
I wait, not expecting an answer, and I don’t get one. I’m procrastinating. I’m looking around for any excuse to avoid stepping foot inside the house: trying to avoid setting eyes on my brother’s face; trying to avoid the weight of his harsh words beating down on my shoulders.
I wouldn’t accept it from anyone else, but Mickey is my brother. Mickey is the head of the family. There are some traditions that are so deeply ingrained that they are hard to shake. When papa was alive, his word was law. Now that he’s not, Mickey’s is.
I glance around one last time. Empty branches, stripped bare of their burden of leaves, hang, lifeless, in the still air. Gray light filters through a low-hanging bank of clouds, casting a dull, depressing shadow on the old house. I shake my head. I need to get on with this. Wallowing in my own self-pity isn’t going to get me anywhere.
I know what I need to do. Get inside. Collect some things, and get the heck out of here. If I have to stay in a hotel for a while, then that’s fine. Anywhere will do, as long as it’s not here. The less time I spend inside – and near Mickey – the better.
The thought lingers. This doesn’t feel like home. Not anymore.
I pull my keychain from my purse. The key isn’t half an inch into the lock before the thick wooden front door pulls back, as if by magic. I glance up, heart sinking. I didn’t even get a second to compose myself.
“What are you doing here?” Mickey growls. His black, beady eyes narrow as they search my face. He looks like he’s testing me; searching for evidence I’ve betrayed him. He looks paranoid.
“I live here, Mickey,” I sigh. “Or did you forget that already?”
Mickey’s tongue shoots out to wet his lips.
“Maybe it’s time you didn’t,” my brother mutters.
Even though that’s exactly what I want, I feel a surge of rage shooting through me. Who the hell is Mickey to tell me I can’t live here? He might lead the family, but family is the operative word. Without it, this is nothing. I want to leave home on my own terms, not be slung out like an ungrateful wretch.
“And what the hell do you need all this space for?” I yell, not bothering to hide my voice. The grounds stretch on far enough that there’s no one else to hear. “Why do you need it all for your very own? Don’t be an ass, Mickey.”
I push past my brother. I feel the heat of his breath burning my skin, but I don’t glance to my right. I know better than to show even the faintest sign of weakness. Mickey is like a shark, but I grew up in a shark tank. I know how to survive the attentions of men like him; men who demand to be respected without earning a jot.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” My brother grunts. “I’m speaking to you. I’m the head of this family now, or did you –.”
I let out a bitter little laugh. “Forget? How could I, brother? After all, you pride yourself on telling me, every chance you get.”
The room fills with a sudden chill. I’m used to it. Ever since papa died, Mickey and I have been fighting a cold war with each other. A thought pops into my mind out of nowhere: a memory, really. It’s of Kieran giving his best man’s speech at Declan’s wedding, and how relaxed he was around his brother. My throat chokes up when I realize that Mickey and I will never again have a relationship like that, if we ever did.
“Say that again, Sofia,” Mickey hisses, his voice ice-cold. “I dare you.”
I take a few steps forward, towards a dark, mahogany staircase. My body is on autopilot while my brain considers its options: my options. I climb up a couple of stairs, then turn to face my brother.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Michael,” I say, shaking my head. “You do know that, don’t you?”
Mickey glares at me. When he speaks, his old-money schooling does battle with his new-money roots, and the roots win out. “I’m not sure I have any idea what you’re talking about, sister.”
I sigh. “I think you do, Mickey. I think you’ve got a very good idea. We both know you were behind what Tony Bianchi did –.”
Mickey takes a step forward. His face is black, fists clenched. I keep going, because I know my brother. I know his bark is worse than his bite. I know he won’t hurt me. He wouldn’t go that far.
“– I just don’t know why. Have you thought this through, Mickey? Do you know what you’re doing? Because one wrong step and you’ll have started a war we just might not win.”
Mickey is breathing heavily now. He reminds me of a bull, snorting before it starts to charge. The first prickling sensations of foreboding begin to tickle me. I decide to take a different tack. There’s no getting through to Mickey, not when his back is up like this. He won’t listen to what I say. I need to calm him down.
“Do you remember when we went to the lake house, Mickey?” I say in a voice that is barely above a whisper. God, I hate it – but my voice cracks with emotion. I’ve tried so hard for so long to build a thick, armored wall around my personality. I don’t let anyone in; not even my brother.
I know that the men call me “the ice queen.” I don’t blame them. I’ve never once let my guard down in front of them. I must seem cold and unfeeling: a bitch. I tell myself it’s because I’m a woman in a man’s world, but I don’t know how true that is. Maybe the truth is it’s just a defense mechanism. Maybe I use it to hide how goddamn scared I am.
“We were what, ten?” I say, looking out through eyes that don’t see.
“I was eleven,” Mickey grunts. I think that’s a good sign – the fact he’s talking, I mean.
“Eleven then,” I smile. “That was a good summer. Mama looked so happy, do you remember that?” I whisper.
I’m not sure who I’m doing this for, not anymore. I thought it was to remind Mickey that we used to be a happy family. But now, the more I delve into the memory, I think it’s just for me. I want to have that again – a family. People around me I love, and who I know I can trust. Because all I have at the moment is distrust and fear, and I hate it.
I glance up. I realize that I was lost in my own head. I haven’t heard Mickey say anything, not for a while. I don’t like it.
“It burns you, doesn’t it, sister?” Mickey hisses at me, his voice low and sibilant.
“What does?” I ask. My stomach sinks. It feels like there’s a vice closing around it. I was so close – at least I thought I was – to breaking through Mickey’s shell. I was so close to appealing to whatever humanity he has left. But I already know from his tone that I’ve failed.
“That you weren’t born first,” my brother growls. I glance up at him, blinking back wetness from my eyes. I watch as he stares until he’s sure that I’m looking, then grabs his crotch. He thrusts it towards me in a grotesque parody of masculinity. “That you don’t have a cock between those legs.”
“What –?”
“Don’t try and deny it, Sofia,” Mickey says, taking another step toward me. “You always wanted to be in charge, didn’t you? You hated the fact that you were born second, and with tits on your chest.”
“Mickey,” I say, outraged, “I’m your sister! How can you talk about me like that? Don’t you remember –?”
Mickey laughs. The harsh sound echoes around the entrance to the house. I take a step backwards, the heel of my boot sliding up against the wooden staircase.
“Sister, brother,” Mickey growls, his voice empty of any humanity, “who gives a shit? I know you, Sofia. I know you’ll stick a blade through me if I turn my back to you.”
“Why are you saying this?” I whisper. I climb another step moving backwards. I curse myself. I should have waited until it was dark, and sneaked in to pack a bag. Or else left before Mickey was awake.
A slurping sound grows in Mickey’s mouth. He ejects a big globule of spit, and it lands on a wooden floorboard: in his own house; our house! “Don’t try and hide from the truth, sister.” He spits.
Every time he says that word – sister – I feel myself rocking back. It feels like Mickey is striking me wit
h a physical blow; like another piece of my armor is being chipped away.
“What truth?” I whimper. I hate the weakness of my voice as it escapes my mouth, but I can’t help it. If anyone else was speaking to me in this manner, those would be the last words they’d ever speak. But, it isn’t anyone else. It’s my brother: the person who is always supposed to be on my side. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I shouldn’t have said that. I should have kept my mouth shut, nodded, and run. Mickey’s face fills with anger. I don’t understand why, and I don’t understand him. What is running through my brother’s brain? What has made him flip like this?
Kieran – why the heck am I thinking of Kieran right now – would never act like this. The Irishman, my Irishman, would never speak to me like I was a piece of dirt on the bottom of his shoe. He would never threaten me. I know that much.
Mickey strides towards me, fury thundering across his face. His cheeks flicker every time he clenches his jaw. It looks like a shadow of black clouds passing across the sky, or a pack of crows blocking out the sun.
I hold my purse out in front of me. It’s scant protection, but it’s all I have. I take a step back, and then another. I’m scared to turn and run. “Stay back!” I warn.
Mickey’s face twists with anger. “Don’t tell me what to do, sister,” he roars.
When Mickey yells “sister”, it sounds like he’s cursing my soul. He might as well be screaming: “bitch” for all the difference I can detect.
The floorboards croak and groan underneath Mickey’s weight. He charges up the staircase, and I turn and try to run, but it’s too late. I curse myself. I didn’t believe that Mickey would hurt me, but now that he’s so close, I can see the fire in his eyes.
My boots hammer the steps underneath them. One; two; three: I’m almost away when Mickey’s fingers close around my calf, dragging me as I hop clumsily away from him, back down the stairs.