“I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not flirty-sexy like Marvy, or a crazy-warrior-fighter chick like Valeria.”
Alex tries to face me, but I pull my arms close and forcefully push my ear into his chest again. Ungracefully, I look up at him. My display of affection is misleading in order to muffle the eavesdropping ear cuff. He realizes what I’m doing and mouths a silent ‘Ah ha’ at my creative improvisation and nods his head.
Cocooning me in his arms, he draws me closer, nearly crushing my ear. I grimace at the ear cuff’s pinching; it’s almost cutting into my ear. “Sorry,” he says. I sneak a finger through the space between the buttons of his dress shirt and stroke the curve of his pec in appreciation.
He clears his throat, shifting his stance. “You can do this. Both Marvy and Valeria are a part of you, part of your personality. It’s just your way of dealing with things that happen. You’re no more an individual apart from them, as they are to you. Together, you can handle it. Besides, you’ve watched them both, Marvy especially, for years. You’ve seen her moves, know the way she walks; you’ve even heard the way she talks. In regards to Valeria, I know you’re a fighter too.”
My doubts are still thick, but I know I have to find a way to make it work. Alex strokes my bare back and I melt into him, fortified in the safety of his arms.
I notice goose bumps under my finger on Alex’s chest and he’s breathing hard, biting his lower lip. “Are you nervous too?” I ask.
“Uhhh…no…it’s not that. Just stop doing that thing with you finger, okay?”
So preoccupied in my own uncertainty, I didn’t notice till he says something and I feel his stiffy manana length against my hip.
“Oh sorry,” I giggle, rolling my eyes with embarrassment. I promptly withdraw my finger from between his shirt buttons and pat his chest.
VOLTA LA TERREA IS a strange name for a restaurant, in my humble opinion. While doing my research on Bryson, I learned it’s the name of an aria from the controversial Italian opera Un Ballo in Mascmya (The Masked Ball) from the 1800’s. In English, Volta la Terrea translates to ‘Lift Up Thine Earthly Gaze’ according to the sheet music I found, but the literal translation is ‘Once the Ashen.’ It’s a very bizarre combination of topics, but the words to the aria are beautiful. My favorite line, “Mesto o felice, Dei loro amor!” which loosely translates to, “If joy or sorrow, their love shall be!” Maybe there’s a closer connection to the aria for Bryson. Honestly though, it has nothing to do with food unless the food is that good. The young restaurant does hold the coveted two Michelin Star titles for the last four years. Or maybe he just thinks it’s a cool name.
As casually as any couple on date night, we walk into the unusually crowded elegant restaurant. It’s longer than it is wide with large roman columns lining the walls separating the kitchen on one side and the bar on the other. The beautiful warm cream colored tablecloths covering the round tables make the dining area look like champagne bubbles as they vary in size. Alex walks up to the Maître d' asking about a table.
Without looking up, in the most arrogant tone I’ve ever heard, the man states with utter boredom, “We do not take walk-in patrons. And we close in 20 minutes.” When he does look up, he dismisses Alex, but he considers me with a glint of recognition.
He must think I’m Marvy.
I smile brightly, but perhaps it’s a bit overdone. It does nothing to help us gain a table. Alex steps up to man-talk to the pisshead, so I sneak a peek past them into the dining room. To make myself as visible as possible, I angle my stance so that, in my vibrant red dress, I can be seen from the dining room. This also gives me the opportunity to inspect the patrons and try to pinpoint where Bryson is sitting.
My eyes hover from table to table. Mostly couples on dates, some uncomfortable looking first dates, and a few other groups celebrating an event of some sort, are scattered throughout the restaurant.
These people have no idea who feeds them tonight as they clink their champagne glasses and feast on their over-priced meals.
Watching them, watching their eyes, watching their expressions, my thoughts detach. A sense of pity bleeds into them. For whom, I don’t know–for them or for me.
A few individual men dressed in suits seem to be doing a working dinner kind of thing based on their noses buried in the glow of laptops. Clusters of men in suits are discussing things in a portfolio and another cluster of men attack their steaks, laughing and talking.
“Can we sit at the bar?” Alex asks, reeling my mind back to the snotty maître d'. The man rolls his eyes, and sighs as he points. Um...okay. We take that to mean “Yes.”
The skinny bar is completely empty with the exception of the bartender. Sitting where we can see the entire dining area, I continue to scan the tables.
“He’s not here anymore,” I observe nervously.
Alex looks from table to table slowly. His eyes focus and narrow. “He’s here. He must have gone to the bathroom.”
I turn in the direction Alex is pointing, to the steak eating cluster of men. Bryson is walking back from a hallway checking his fly as he walks. My hands begin to tremble at the sight of the man I’d only seen via video. I clench them together for solace and blow out a tension filled breath.
The bartender saunters up, I can tell he’s had a long night. His bowtie is undone and hangs loosely around the open collar of his dress shirt. A burden of fatigue sags under his coffee brown eyes, but he manages a smile, although spiritless. “What can I get you folks? You know we’re closing in 20 minutes,” he greets with slight impatience while drying a glass with a bar towel.
“Yeah, she’ll have a Caipirinha and I’ll take a Beautiful.”
The bartender gazes in my direction, although his focus is well below my chin. “What’s in a Beautiful? Besides you?” he asks, laughing at his crude joke.
My entire body flames with embarrassment and humiliation in the stupid Marvy dress. I turn sideways in my chair so I don’t have to face the bartender. My dress slides to the side exposing my stiletto enhanced legs. Flustered, I try to hold the sides together again. When I look up, I notice Bryson watching me.
Alex is too busy yelling at the bartender to see the exchange. “Hey asshole! Just make the drinks, it’s one part Cognac and one part Grand Marnier.”
“What’s a Caipirinha, Alex?” I heard the ingredients he barked at the bartender, but I ask so I have an excuse to turn back around to avoid Bryson.
Lowering his head, he whispers, “Remember, she calls me Xander.”
“Shoot.” I make an apologetic face. “Oh yeah, sorry.”
“The Caipirinha is the national drink of Brazil. You’ll like it, it’s sweet,” he says, a little too loud and a lot over-played.
We should have rehearsed or something. He’s awful!
Walking over with our drinks, the bartender places them in front of us and raises his hands. “Hey man, I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect. It’s been a long night.” Granted the words are nice, but his eyes still don’t level with mine.
Alex jumps up. “Do I look like a man that gives a shit about your day? Keep your eyes behind the bar and off my girlfriend’s tits!” he yells. The bartender backs away with his hands up in surrender before Alex veers his irritation my way, “Why do you have to wear such slutty clothes? Swear to God, I wish you could just wear something decent. You look like a fucking call girl!”
I jolt back in my chair, shocked by the unexpected outburst. Alex sits back down and pounds the bar top with his fist. “FUCK! I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry I ever met you!” He slumps forward, interlinking his hands behind his head. “Play along,” he whispers, angling his head and winks.
Ahhh…gotcha!
Taking a sip of the sweet drink, which I actually do like, I twist my shoulder down and give him one of Marvy’s sexy looks. “Admit it, you like the attention when we’re together. I’m good for your ego. You treat me like a trophy anyway, showing me off at that party. I’m sure Marvin,” I point t
o the bartender, “didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You’re such a bitch, Marvy!” he postures, gripping my upper arms. “Have you been here before? How do you know his name is Marvin?”
Marvin pops his head up from his glass washing. Poor guy is getting dragged into the argument. In all fairness, he did instigate it with his wandering eyes.
I flip my hand pointing to him. “It’s on his name tag, stupid.” Which it is.
Alex shoves an accusing finger in my face. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
“Oh my God!” I gape. His words tear into me, but I slap his finger away to add authenticity to the argument. My eyes bulge wild, and my heart thunders with every cruel syllable lingering. Still, I manage a forceful, “No!”
“You are! It’s written all over your face!”
“You can’t see shit that’s not there! And even if I am, we…” pointing to him then to me, “are not exclusive.” The last part slowly drips from my lips with spite.
The Beautiful drink he ordered sails across the bar, crashing against the wall. He grabs his blazer and storms out. With my closed eyes, I sit forward and work on slowing my breath. Although fake, the argument had such a realistic edge, the residual heat of it flows through me.
“You okay, Miss?” Marvin asks from the far end of the bar.
Waiving away his concern, I sniff, “I’m fine.” Yet, I dab real tears with a cocktail napkin. While moving to stand, my elbow knocks my clutch to the floor. A small thing, but it affixes my dismal mood. I stare at it and let out a drained sigh.
Before I can retrieve it, a hand picks it up. Bryson, kneeling on one knee, offers my clutch. His eyes traverse the long journey up my exposed leg. Pinpricks creep through my body, causing a shiver. A tumult of fear, adrenaline, and something else, careens through my veins. The sight of this strong, powerful, dangerous man genuflecting at my feet stirs thoughts that should not be encouraged. A trickle dampens between my thighs.
“Hey Marvin, put those drinks on the house,” he calls out to the bartender.
Marvin salutes. “Okay, Boss!”
Perhaps a purposeful move, Bryson takes Alex’s abandoned bar chair. “Hello Marvy.”
For a moment, I forget why I’m here. I pull up straight and cast a distained look. “È con Lucifero,” I respond, resigning to my task. “Quello che dici Lucifero?”
I figure using a line from the aria and speaking Italian in perfect diction might perk his interest. I know I’m right when an eyebrow arches. Although I don’t consider myself an it, nor am I with him, in my eyes, he is Lucifer. Asking him what he thinks, is an invitation to a longer conversation.
After the shock fades, he impressively replies, “Me? You think I’m Lucifer? If I’m the devil, I’d say you should burn with me tonight.” Both brow and crooked smile simultaneously cock up.
With the same cocktail napkin I’ve been mercilessly crushing in my hand, I pat away residual moisture from my face. “Go away, Bryson,” I sniffle. My tears made my nose run, which is ruining my makeup as well as any remaining Marvy ‘cool factor.’
“Fuck that pussy, Rush, Marvy. He’s an asshole! You deserve better.” Bryson gently puts his hand on my arm. Instinctively, I yank my arm back with repulsion.
Ice seems to run down my back. “Like you? A guy that locked me in a room with a rapist?” I hiss.
“That was business. It was a mistake I regret. Didn’t you get my flowers?”
“Flowers? Flowers? You can stick your flowers up your ass, Bryson!” I stand to leave although my gelatin knees fail to support my weight very well. It’s not fear that made them so, but the tempestuous rage coursing through me. “Business, a mistake, my ass!”
“I’m sorry, Marvy,” he says, catching my arm in an attempt to stop me. “I’m sorry he did that. I’m sorry I let him.” I rip my arm from his grasp again.
“You gave me to him like some Goddamn present! You’re a fucking worthless piece of shit! And then you stalked my ass home?” My fury is uncontainable at this point and before I know it, my hand draws back with every bit of the hatred. I crack him so hard his face nearly hits the bar. My hand quills as the blood rushes back into my fingers. Oh cripes, that frickin’ hurt!
His eyes flame as he rights himself, his hand to his face, stroking the burn left by my palm. I prep myself thinking he’s going to strike back and drag me out to that house again.
Steady, girl. Don’t show him fear. You can do this! Focus your hate for what he did to you.
The memory of a blood-stained marble floor, Supak’s hands, his grotesque lapping of my skin, his belt cutting across my legs; all because of him. A new resolve stokes my bitterness. One malignant thought, I want to hurt him. I straighten to my full height, pulling my shoulders back.
“Please Marvy. Tell me what you want. I know I fucked this up. Let me make it up to you. Let me take you somewhere,” he begs in a tone I don’t expect.
For some reason, this off-the-cuff conversation is flowing in the right direction. “Are you fucking kidding me? I was almost beaten to death the last time you said that! You’re off your rocker if you think I’m falling for that again.”
Bryson reaches out for me once more, this time gently taking my fingertips with his. “It won’t be like that, I swear. It will never be like that again! We can go anywhere you want, to the club, to the beach. I have a house on the bluff we can go to if you want. I just want to talk to you. Please hear me out. Please!”
Is he really begging? Do I have him where I want him?
“Get the hell away from me, Bryson.” I retract my hands. “Talk to me about what? I really don’t think we have anything to talk about. You should be happy I’m not pressing kidnapping and some kind of conspiracy charges against you. Everyone saw you dragging me away that night!”
“I know, I know. I was weak and let someone push me around. Following orders instead of…”
“Instead of what, Bryson?” I interrupt. Anger is scorching me from the inside. “Instead of raping and beating me yourself?”
He lowers his eyes seemingly wounded. “Instead of doing right by you and taking you away to somewhere safe that night.” In a whisper barely audible, “I was a coward. I am truly sorry.”
His facial expression is the opposite of mine. Genuine remorse pulls his features, shock and bewilderment raise mine.
WITH THE PROMISE that Supak is not going to be there, we head to the club. Bryson assures me he’s never going to be anywhere around me. I think he’s full of shit, but I have to ride this out. The way he speaks his assurances, filled with his own residual anger, strikes me as odd. It’s said with a strange kind of protectiveness. What. The. Fuck?
No sooner than we slip into the VIP booth, we are immediately attended to. Ordering Marvy’s Margarita is a formality, but Bryson does it anyway. There’s no way I’m drinking more. As much as Marvy drinks, one would think I would have a decent tolerance for alcohol, but I’m already a bit woozy from the few sips of the Caipirinha.
Discreetly, I seek out where a camera is supposed to be. My eyes flick around the room, but I see neither the camera placement, nor any new people in the lounge. Then again, this is my first time here and when I watched the Marvy videos, I wasn’t really paying attention to random faces. There are a few servers and another bartender working with Dillon though. I can hope, but what do I know.
“I’m going to the Ladies’ Room,” I yell over the earsplitting music. Bryson timidly smiles and nods. As I walk away, I can feel eyes on me. I know a pair of them belong to Bryson, but I pray a few are ones there to protect me.
Through the narrow hallway that separates the main club from the lounge, I make my way to the restrooms. The flash of lights from the dance floor blind me as I emerge. Someone grabs my arm and pulls me to a dark corner. My scream, of course, is absorbed by the thumping music. That’s comforting. A tell-tale sign I’m going to have to defend myself when push comes to shove. I begin scratching and hitting whomever has his hand jerkin
g my arm.
“Marvy, it’s me Agent Dawson! Calm down!”
“DON’T–EVER–FUCKIN’–DO–THAT!” I pound him with each word.
“Sorry, I just wanted to let you know we’re here. You did great at the restaurant! Pulson thought you were gonna lose him when you smacked him. You’re scary when you’re mad. Rush said you were just expressing yourself. He’s a funny guy.”
In the corner of the club, my tension eases a bit when I see Alex. The fact that both Dawson and Alex are here boosts my confidence a thousand percent. I can’t help but release a little smile. Alex is stony and watches the crowd like a good club owner should, but his gaze falls on me for a few more seconds then continues to scan the rest of the patrons.
“You look totally in your element!” I jest, sweeping a finger up and down.
Surrounded by twenty-one year old somethings jumping and gyrating to the music Dawson smirks.
“Yeah, I come here all the time! Haven’t you seen me on the dance floor?” Dawson does an absurd body-wave that’s too old, even for him. He’s funny for a stiff DEA agent.
I pull him down to scream in his ear, “Can’t talk long. Don’t want him getting suspicious.”
He nods. “Just get him to the room, we’re ready,” Dawson yells back.
In my peripheral, Alex touches his ear piece and a crinkle forms in between his eyebrows. Hurriedly, he leaves the room without a second glance. I’m crestfallen, but distracted when Dillon waves me over to the bar.
“Gotta go,” I say patting Dawson’s arm and leave him with a cute chubby girl with long blonde curls grinding up on him. Before I turn, I see him roll his eyes, which makes me laugh.
“Va–va–voom! When did you get that scrap of fabric?” Dillon says bugging out his eyes. Kitta was right, he is pretty hot. Not my type, but it’s a fact, Kitta would be all over that.
“Five and Dime on Fifth Ave. You like?” I say, twirling.
“Not much there not to like! Xander is watching you like a hawk in it. Did you guys have a fight?”
Pieces Of One, Part 1 (The Dark Life Collection) Page 14