by Bera, Ilia
My guilt isn’t helped any when the gypsies vacate and set up a trailer for me, complete with a big bed, clean sheets, private bathroom, and baskets of fresh food. Once the caravan is started in its new direction, the gypsies take turns visiting my trailer, thanking me for my selflessness, apologizing for holding me captive.
Mert helps the older grief-ridden woman into my trailer, tears still pouring down her face. She springs free from Mert’s hold, towards me, wrapping her arms around my body and nestling her face into my shoulder.
“Thank you so much,” she says. I can feel her tears seeping through my shirt. “Thanks to you, my boy didn’t die in vain.” My gut turns. Faking a smile for the woman is impossible.
In her tear-glazed eyes is the reflection of my evil face. “He told me to tell you that he loves you very much,” I say. In my mind, it seemed like the right thing to say. Hearing it aloud makes me feel vile—lying to her face, a mother who just discovered her son is dead, oblivious to her own impending death, with her blood on my hands. I hold back my own tears—tears that would only bring more pity, and more guilt.
Even Mert gives me a hug and says, “M’ sorry.” He leaves, helping the emotionally-crippled woman out as he goes.
I begin preparing for bed, slipping into the clean pyjamas left for me by the gypsy welcoming committee. Before I lay down, there’s a knock at my door.
It’s Freddie, dressed in a heavy coat and holding a hefty duffle bag. With the trailer now moving, he stands on the small platform and holds a rail to keep his balance. “Hey,” he says, with his gaze pointed at his feet.
“What do you want?” A small part of me wants to push him off the platform and watch the train of trailers drive over his body. Another part of me wants to tell him about Porsha, and the credit card that now sits in my trailer. I don’t act on either impulse.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
I step aside and he steps in. I don’t know what he wants and I don’t really care. I just want this to be over with, so I can get on with grieving about it. He places his bag down and looks around.
Did he just come in to look around? Is he investigating me? “Well?” I say.
“Sounds like ya had an adventure,” he says, letting one of his little smirks slip. I watch him pace around the room, looking at everything curiously as if he’s never seen the inside of the trailer before.
“You could say that,” I say.
He laughs and looks back down at his feet. I anticipate an apology. Instead, he says, “Ya know, I never got my territs back.” It’s not the topic I expect him to bring up, though I don’t know why. Of course that’s all he cares about—money—a handful of dumb, gold coins.
I shake my head. “Well, then they’re gone. I don’t know what you want from me.”
He smiles. “Ya think I’m a bad person, don’t ya?” Is he serious? I don’t think he’s a bad person, I know he’s a bad person. With all his people’s struggles, all he cares about is money. “It took me five years to earn those territs,” he says.
“That’s funny. It took about the same amount of time to save up everything you took away from me.”
“I can’t help that you’re a shit gambler.” He grins.
I wonder what I would have to say to convince Freddie to take Porsha’s card and run in the other direction. “Well, I can’t help that you were dumb enough to put five years’ worth of savings into a backpack.” I grin right back at him.
His smile disappears. Apparently, I found a soft spot. He steps towards me and raises his finger, pointing it at me. “Do ya have any idea why those territs were in that bag?”
“No, and I don’t care, either.” And I don’t.
“Y’ aren’t even a little bit curious why I was carryin’ three-hundred thousand territs? Or why Pesconi happened to be in town?” Until Freddie point out the connection, I hadn’t wondered. Now I’m curious. Freddie’s face is red. “I was payin’ off a debt. That debt’s the reason we’ve been on the run for five fuckin’ years. They killed my sister over that debt. Now, they’ve killed Nicky, too. They’re gonna keep killin’ ‘till they get their money back. I was hours away from clearin’ that debt. We could’ve stopped runnin’. Ya think we like drivin’ across the country? Hidin’ all our lives?”
I have nothing to say back to him. I’ve already maxed out my guilt. Apparently, I’m not only the hand of death, but I’m the nail in the coffin, too. I’m the murderer and the mortician. What am I going to do with my freedom that’s so important?
“Look. I’m sorry I sold ya to Pesconi,” he says. I look up at him, confused. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say the word ‘sorry.’ “They offered me fifty thousand for ya. Couldn’t say no—I thought maybe I could flip it into three hundred somehow. Thought I could pay off our debt. Here.” He reaches into his coat pocket and reveals a hefty velvet sac. “Take it.” He tosses it to me.
The bag is heavy, filled with golden coins—big crown territs. I was wrong about my guilt being maxed out. Even Freddie’s managed to make me feel like a pile of shit.
“It was nice knowin’ ya,” he says, turning back to the door. He picks up his duffle bag. Duffle bag? Heavy coat? Freddie is taking off, ditching the caravan. If Pesconi comes and wipes out the gypsies, and Freddie isn’t even around—I don’t think I could handle that.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, reaching for the door handle.
“No.” I storm to the door and slam it shut before he can leave.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Where are you going?” I ask in the form of an accusation.
He scoffs. “Why do you care?”
“You’re just ditching your family?”
“I’m doing what I gotta do.” He reaches for the handle again but I keep my palm planted on the door. “Let me out,” he says.
“You’re a selfish prick.” Hearing my own words makes my stomach drop. The accusation doesn’t hold much weight, coming from the queen of selfish bitches.
“Ya don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. Lemme out.” He gives the handle a firm shake. I slam my body into the door to counter his strength.
“You can’t go. Your family needs you.”
“I’m goin’ for my family, Olivia.” Going for his family? What is he talking about? “I’m turnin’ myself into Pesconi. Hopefully then he stops comin’ after my family.” I’m not sure if I should believe him or not. Knowingly on his way to his death, that smirk is still on his face. What about that is that funny? “Now, can ya let go of the door?” he says.
My instincts speak for me. “No.” My hand remains planted against the door as I decide what he’s up to, what he’s really doing. But my mind turns up blank. For once, I believe him. Freddie, the most egotistical ass I’ve ever met, is about to sacrifice himself for his friends and family. “That won’t stop them,” I say.
“You’re probably right. Gotta give ‘er a try anyway.”
I hand him the velvet sac. “Here. Let’s take the fifty thousand. We can go to Ilium, make a fix, and turn it into three hundred.”
He laughs. “I almost forgot how stupid ya were. Took me five years to get three hundred thousand. Y’ know how much three-hundred thousand is worth in human money?” He stares at me, waiting for me to say ‘no’ before he tells me. I don’t, but he tells me anyway. “Millions. Way more money than you’ll find in any little fight bar. It’s hopeless, Olivia. I’m gonna turn myself in.”
My instincts speak for me again. “No.”
He collapses his shoulders and sighs. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
Freddie’s mouth opens to respond, but as my words finally process through his brain, he hesitates and freezes, mouth still open. Hearing my own words, my reaction is the same. What did I just say? I try to take it back, but the lump that’s now in my throat prevents me from speaking.
“Ya what?” Freddie fi
nally says. Only his lips move. The rest of him remains still.
I try to speak, forcing my rigid jaw to move. I stutter. “I don’t want you to.” My voice is deflated and defeated like a surrender, or an admission of guilt.
“Why?” He says it slowly, probably still unsure if he heard me properly.
I tell him the truth. “I don’t know.” I’m frozen, my eyes locked with his. I want to look away, but even my eyeballs have been overwhelmed by rigour. I search my brain for the real answer to his question—the answer to my own question: why the hell did I just say that? Because you don’t trust him, I tell myself. Because you think he’s lying, he’s actually ditching his family and he’s not really a martyr. If he leaves, he lives. He’s a liar—that’s it—he’s lying about leaving.
The thought fails to comfort me because I don’t believe it. I believe Freddie. I believe he really is going to turn himself into Pesconi, fully aware of the consequences.
“Is this one of your dumb little mind games?” he asks.
“No.”
He stares at me, waiting for my explanation. Still, I have none. “Well, then what? Did ya just have a stroke or somethin’? Ya know, that might explain a lot.” He backs up his insult with a grin.
I can feel my eyebrows involuntarily drop into a scowl. “No, I did not just have a stroke,” I say.
He reaches for the handle again, giving it another swift tug. I hold the door closed. He spins to me, his face reddening with frustration. “Then what? Out with it, already.” He pushes my hand off the door.
I swat his hand away and plant my palm back against the door. “Because I love you.” I say in the tone I’d reserved for ‘don’t touch me!’ If not for his owl-eyed face, I wouldn’t have known that I didn’t say ‘don’t touch me.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LOVE IS A FUNNY WORD
Maybe I did have a stroke. I wish I’d had have a stroke. At least that would explain some things. “I mean,” I say, hoping more of an excuse follows, but none does.
“Ya love me?” he asks before he starts laughing.
My face is hot, probably dark red. “Get over yourself,” I say.
He laughs for an entire painful minute. He tries to speak a few times, but interrupts himself with waves of laughter. “No offence, darlin’, but you’re not really my type.” The remark angers me for all the wrong reasons.
“Bullshit. I’m your type, and you know it.” I can feel my eyebrows scowling again.
“I don’t think so. But talk about a nice send-off,” he says. “Now can ya let me leave?”
“I’m not opening this door until you—” I cut myself off, finally gathering an ounce of control over my rampant mouth.
“Until I what?” His dumb smirk badly wants me to finish my sentence. It grows with every second I don’t answer.
I can’t stand to watch it grow any larger. “Until you admit that you love me, too.”
He laughs again. “You’re a lunatic. You’re actually a ravin’ lunatic.”
“Just admit it.”
“There’s nothin’ to admit.” He looks back down at the door handle, giving it another tug.
“Bullshit.” If he wanted to open that door, he would have already. He’s not only strong enough to open the door, but also to send me flying across the room doing so. His little pansy attempts are cute, but they aren’t fooling me.
“Move aside, Olivia,” he says.
I press my back against the door. “If you want to go, then move me.”
I stare into his eyes and watch him sigh and roll his eyes. He takes a step towards the door, towards me. He reaches for the door handle but I cover it with my hand. His eyes drift up and meet mine for a quick second before they dart back down to the door handle. “Olivia, c’mon.”
I fight through the lump in my throat and say, “Move me.”
After another long sigh, he places his hands on my hips. My heart flutters. He gently lifts me from the ground and he moves me out of his way. He turns back to the door and the lump in my throat sinks into my stomach. I’m such an idiot. Why did I set myself up for this? A pain swells in the center of my chest—in my heart.
But why? Why Freddie, of all people? After everything he’s done to me and all the mean things he’s said to me, why did my heart skip a beat for him?
Because he’s a good guy. Sure, he’s a prick, he’s rude, he’s got a big fat ego, and a vulgar sense of humour. But everything he did, he did for his family and friends. And we’re no different. He steals from the rich; I steal from the rich. He fixes fights; I push counterfeit Gucci. He sold me to gangsters; I sold his whole caravan to gangsters. He has the balls to stand up to the people that try to screw him over: to Carmine Pesconi, to Hannibal Hugo, to Giles—to me. That, we don’t have in common.
He turns back to me and sighs. “Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?” My voice is raspy, torn, and ripped apart.
“Stand there all sad lookin’.” He lets his shoulders sink low.
“Why do you care?” I bite down on my tongue in a useless attempt to keep my tears back.
“I don’t.”
“Great. So why are you standing there like an idiot?” I want him to leave so I can cry, alone.
“‘Cause,” he says, then pauses. “I dunno. I don’t want ya to be all sad ‘cause of me.”
“Get over yourself. I’m not sad because of you.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.
“Ya just suddenly remember your dead dog or somethin’?” He’s not dead yet.
“Bye, Freddie.” I can’t hold the tears back much longer.
He drops his duffle bag, shrugs his shoulders, and rolls his eyes. “For fuck sakes,” he says, exhaling, stepping towards me. Within inches of my face, he stops, placing his hand under my chin and tilting my head up. What is he doing? What kind of joke am I about to be the punch line in? He sighs again, shaking his head as if he’s being forced into doing something against his will. He kisses me. The moment only lasts a couple of seconds.
“There. Happy?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. He waits for a response.
Happy? Happy about some pathetic pity kiss? I’d be happier if he broke my nose and punched me in the gut. “What the fuck was that?” I ask.
“I kissed you.” His brow remains raised, still waiting for a specific response—what that response is, I don’t know. It’s the same look my mother used to make when I was a toddler, expected to remember the ‘magic words’ before getting any desert.
“I noticed. Why?”
“I dunno,” he says.
“I used to think you were an asshole; now I just think you have mental problems.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Man, you’re a bitch.”
“And you’re a dumb prick.”
He looks into my eyes again. I want to slap his face. I should slap his face. Unfortunately, I don’t. Instead, we kiss, pulled together like two powerful magnets. For once, my brain takes the back seat and stops trying to convince me to hate him, to find him repulsive. I know I should, but I don’t and I’m through hating myself for it.
No, he’s not the thick, manly man I always saw myself with. He doesn’t have a beard, he doesn’t go into the woods to catch his own dinner, or chop down trees to build his own house. Yes, few to none of his tattoos have any meaning whatsoever, and they all make him look like an arrogant piece of crap, and he’s lousy with foreplay, rushing through it to get to the action. But fuck it; I love him more than I hate him. I don’t even like foreplay.
His hands are quick to locate my butt and my tits, and he’s not shy to firmly squeeze either. “Take it easy,” I say, breaking away from our kiss.
His grin doubles in size and he squeezes my ass harder. I forgot I need to be careful with my words around him. “You like it,” he says with a scoff.
If that’s how he wants to play, that’s how we’ll play. I grab his dick and give it a firm squeeze. His eyes widen and his grip loosens on m
y ass. My plan works—and backfires at the same time; in my hand, I feel him throbbing, growing. What was I thinking? Of course the pervert would be into this.
With a shove, I’m on my back, on the bed. Before he climbs over me, his shirt is on the floor, his pants are around his knees, and the only thing between me and his expanding bulge is a thin piece of clover-patterned fabric.
He pounces and lands accurately in straddling position. His agility is impressive, reminding me he isn’t human, but therian—part animal. As it occurs to me, I start to notice more animal-like behaviour: the strangely wild way he hunches over my body as he kisses my neck, the way his body jolts whenever I move or make a sound, and the aggressive way he strips the clothes off of my body, leaving me naked.