by K. M. Liss
Hopefully I haven't created a deep family divide over me, because I'm really not “that” guy.
I have a reasonably decent code of conduct normally. This was all a bad mistake I want to forget ASAP. I'll put it down to hormonal overload. Being sex starved for a whole week, and Abbey getting me going, leaving me strung out and susceptible.
Godammit. Women are a lot of trouble, one way or another.
Not that I'd consider giving them up for a second.
I arrive outside the family house and walk across the small forecourt. It's a beautiful old, and very large Venetian building arranged over four floors. I have a self-contained set of rooms that I use when I'm here. My own apartment. It seems to suit everyone fine this way. We don't get to see each other much.
I divide my time between my family in Venice and my work in New York.
Things may change though now that Dad's gone. I've not got so much of a reason to visit anymore. But I suppose I ought to keep things going with my sisters. What little there is to keep going.
I put my key in the lock and turn. It doesn't budge. I look at it confused. It's definitely the right one. I try again and turn it with more force. No luck.
Very odd.
I take the key out and study it for damage, but it looks okay to me. I press the button for the housekeeper, the ancient and long-serving Maria.
A minute later Maria's croaky voice wafts through the intercom, announcing her arrival at the other side of the door.
“Ciao...”
“Maria, honey, I can't get in...can you open the door please?” I ask pleasantly.
“Oh, Signor Aaron... So sorry. Signora Garcia, she say no.”
“Pardon me?” A cold chill runs up my spine.
“No to you. No come in,” she repeats.
“You can't let me in?” I'm having trouble believing I'm banned from my own home. “But I live here,” I appeal.
“No. Signora Garcia say no more. New lock, see. No Aaron. Sorry, not me.”
“It's okay, Maria...I'm getting it...can you pack me some clothes...clothes from room?”
“No.”
“No clothes?”
“All gone. Immondizia, today, gone already.”
“My things have gone in the garbage?” My voice reaches an angry high pitch.
“Dispiaci, si.”
“Right,” I say, huffing out a long noisy sigh.
What a day of extremes. No home. No girlfriend. No fucking possessions. At least I have my thirty million to console me.
I walk around the back of the building, to the large communal area where the garbage containers are housed, in case I'm in luck. Thankfully it is no longer raining. I'm grateful for that one small mercy.
I lift one lid. Empty. And the other. Also empty.
Absolutely fucking marvelous.
My mother has thrown me out of her house and her life. Erased me coldly and deliberately. And do I care? Actually, no I don't.
I ceased caring about her when I was twelve years old.
I think I did very well lasting out that long, living in hope of a miracle. She ceased caring about me before I was even born.
HER
I wake up and see the sun streaming in through the slats of the window shutters. I smile at the upturn in the weather. It influences my mood heavily when I'm writing, and I need to be in a good one today. Because here is where I feel at my most creative.
I sit on the side of the bed for a moment. I'm not a morning person.
I'm sluggish and dozy, and take at least two hours to wake up, despite the coffees I force down my throat.
I rarely take breakfast. I can't eat much in the mornings, as it makes me feel a little nauseous. I make up for it later in the day though. I can get through a huge amount of food with no effort whatsoever. You'd never know I'm such a glutton to look at me. I'm a little on the slim side.
I stand and look at myself in the mirror. I'm naked, that's how I like to sleep. I can't stand things twisting around me in bed.
Hmm, too thin...apart from the girl mountains.
I have a nice portion of those. Not huge but big enough.
I thank my mother regularly for the curvaceous top-half genes I've inherited. Dolly Parton has nothing on my mother. It's a shame I didn't get to inherit her matching bottom half as well.
I turn and look at it.
I wish I had more of an ass, a proper womanly butt. I'm too girlish in that way.
Not that the size of my ass matters anymore. As no one will ever get to see or touch it.
I put on some panties and my robe, and slip my feet into my fluffy slop-about slippers. I wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom while looking at the amusing, wild state of my matted hair when my cell rings.
I carry on brushing as I go and answer it. It's my best friend Christine. It must be midnight out there now, in LA.
“Hiya, babe, how's things.” I answer cheerfully.
“Really bad, Kate. God, I hate him,” she squeaks.
Another fight? This is not a romance made in heaven.
“Calm down, Chris, please...and tell me what's happened.”
“He's such a dick in front of his friends.”
“So, what's new?”
“He dragged me out of the bar when I complained about the way he was talking to me. Pushed me and shoved me about. It was mainly the drink, I guess. But I was so upset. I had to get a cab back on my own.”
“Are you at Ricky's now?”
“Yeah. Nowhere else to go, have I?”
“Go to my place. Let him cool it and worry for a while. You've still got that key of mine, right?”
“That's real good of you, Kate. But I want to talk to him when he gets home.”
“For God's sake, don't. Do it tomorrow. Leave and let him sweat about where you are.”
“You know, maybe I should. I've had enough of his bad attitude.”
“Yes, you definitely should. Leave, right now. Take some things and stay for a few days if you like. But don't let him in my place, okay?”
I'm kinda protective about my friends after my experience. Male on female aggression of any kind gets a red light in my mind.
“Thanks, K. I will. Luv ya lots.” She makes a kissing noise.
“Text when you get in. The spare bed is made up. Oh, make sure you leave my wine stock alone.”
“Oh ha ha.” She clicks off with a giggle.
I swallow my daily contraceptive pill which keeps me regular. I like to have control over something in my life, even if it's only my monthly “girl” event. I swill it down with my third cup of coffee and I'm beginning to feel human again. I sit cross-legged on the sofa with my laptop open and gaze out of the balcony door. Sounds rise from the street below, along with the vaguely unpleasant damp smell that hovers all around Venice. I hear someone swearing in Italian and someone replying with a few choice words of their own. I don't know a lot of Italian; it's another language I may learn one day. It'll probably be a lot easier to learn than Russian as well. At least it has the same alphabet as we do.
I smile to myself as the swearing escalates to a full-on heated fight. A door slams shut loudly and all is calm and peaceful again. They can be very hot blooded, the Italians. I smile to myself thinking of Marco. He's hot blooded all right. I think he's got red steam running through his veins.
Latino fights and hurtful, harsh words aside, I really do love it here.
I'm going to have a couple of hours writing, then head out to the cafe for lunch to eat some humble Marco pie. A big slice.
The words begin to fly out of my head and onto the screen.
I've caused you pain, hurt you again
How much hurt is in your heart
When we're together I want you baby
But I don't feel love when we part
I look in your eyes and see your feelings
Written in the brightest of light
I can't love you, the way you want me to
My soul is dea
d and dark as the night
Chorus
Love is a test, an unholy trial
It's the best way to ruin your mind
You swear you'll love me for ever and ever
But I'm not the loving kind
I title it, “No Love.” It's dead moody, but I kinda like it, especially the start. It could be a good ballad. Maybe Leona Lewis could do something sexy with it. I can hear her wonderful high notes hanging in there.
I add some more angst-y verses to it and start to tweak it here and there. I'm finally done with my latest Leona special, and I print it out and file it in a thick folder that I have labeled, Dreams Can Come True—If You Write Them Down.
I take a look at my emails.
I'm disappointed to see a rejection of my poems from a publisher.
I'm running out of publishers to send them to.
I need to find another way in somehow.
God knows how— maybe he could send me a sign—a heavenly pointer—or better still, someone to help me get started.
I answer two questions my accountant has emailed me.
I stretch my arms above my head and put my laptop down on the seat next to me. I ache. A stiff kind of ache. All over. I need to do some exercise.
I go into my bedroom and put on a pair of exercise shorts and a tank top. Then I find my workout best friend, Jillian, in the pile of DVDs and get her going. I use this DVD a lot. I'm quite toned. The little there is to tone. I'm still waiting to see the killer buns and thighs she promised to give me, but I'm happy with the overall results.
A half hour later I ache even more. But at least it's in a good way. I head for the shower and strip off.
The soapy water cascades down me like a silken gown as I wash my hair. I set the shower to massage and turn slowly, letting the water jet pummel hard on my shoulders, chest, and back. Then I switch it back to a normal spray and turn the heat up a little, relishing the stinging steamy heat.
I run my hands over myself, with a generous handful of shower gel, cleaning the grime zones thoroughly and rinsing well. Then, taking a small body brush and loading it with some more shower gel, I attack my legs and feet. I love doing this. I scrub them with vigor, getting the blood circulating, and making sure I banish dead skin and keep cellulite at bay. I work my way up, brushing firmly, over my stomach and breasts, my shoulders, up and down my arms, back and forth and round and round everywhere.
I tingle with buffed cleanliness. It's a wonderful, arousing sensation. It gets me going suddenly.
I drop the brush.
My fingers probe myself slowly. A shudder of enjoyment rushes through me, swamping my mind.
And then I slip them deep inside my soft heat. I groan with the memory of that kind of pleasure. One day maybe it'll happen. When the right guy comes along. But I won't hold my breath on that being soon.
I put my hands on the wall and lean against the hot wet tiles with my eyes closed, getting myself in check.
I'm physically and mentally frustrated with my situation and the lack of intimacy in my life, but at a loss at what to do about it.
Sighing heavily, I turn off the shower, stepping out.
After wrapping myself with a large towel, I enter the relative cool of the bedroom, ready to get myself dolled up for Marco.
The plaza and cafe are buzzing as I arrive after my three-minute walk.
It's a few minutes after midday.
I grab the last table at the front of the ever-popular Lorenzo's cafe, and bask in the warm noon sun, taking a quick look around for Marco.
He doesn't seem to be here on first sight; perhaps he's not working today.
Disappointing.
The sun is actually baking hot and I soak it up, tipping my face skyward.
I remove my sunglasses and shut my eyes for a perfect minute in time.
“Ciao, Signorina. How are you?” Marco's cool and polite voice brings me out of my blissful daydream.
I focus on his familiar features with pleasure flooding through my veins.
“Ciao, Marco, sto bene,” I reply with a small smile.
I don't get a returning smile, just a dark scowl.
Obviously, he’s still pissed off.
That's understandable, I suppose.
I did tell him to get his filthy grease-ball hands off me the last time we spoke. I think I called him a dirty “Iti” wop as well. I'm not usually into racial slurs. I guess I got a little carried away.
But, then again, he did say I was a prick-teasing Yankee whore.
Not too nice, either. His knowledge of swear words seems to be far better than the rest of his English vocabulary.
“What can I get you?” His dark eyes probe mine, and then his gaze drops. His eyes skim over my low-cut black tank top, and faded out, very brief denim shorts, which are exposing every inch of my legs. He looks slowly and appraisingly, finally finding his way upward, back to my face. I let him look without interruption and enjoy his eyes on me. A lot.
“A glass of red, your very best, and a large portion of Gisella's wonderful lasagna please,” I order in a very sweet voice.
“Is that all?” he replies coolly.
“Hmm, maybe some of your lovely black olives to nibble while I wait, thank you,” I murmur, even more sweetly. I'm going for saccharine overkill here, trying to sweeten him up by drowning him in it. Not that it seems to be working so far.
He starts to leave the table, walking past me, and I grab his arm.
“Marco, don't go yet...I'm so very sorry, you know, about that night. I was so rude, please forgive me,” I appeal, looking up at him sincerely.
“Hmm, me too, very sorry for things I say,” he replies quietly, with a small smile breaking out on his handsome mouth.
He rakes his fingers through his thick, dark, wavy hair, as his smile widens.
He's way too beautiful...and no man should be blessed with hair and long eyelashes like that.
“Friends again?” I hold out my hand, swooning as he takes it in his grasp.
“Spero di si, Katie.” He bends his head and kisses it, much to my surprise.
The touch of his soft lips and his stubbly chin make me melt.
I experience the gorgeous waft of his manly scent, and his heady cologne.
I feel like I'm glowing all over and about to faint.
My toes curl under with a wave of pleasure, my toenails digging into my flip-flops.
I seem to be getting stirred up a lot lately.
Two men have got my heart pumping and my juices flowing in two days.
It's either complete and utter desperation, or the recovery process has finally started to kick in properly. Either way, there's something going on inside me and I'm so grateful. I so want to feel normal again.
For months and months I've been dead from the waist down, actually make that from the brain down, as far as men were concerned. I couldn't even look at them at one stage.
“I finish at six. If you want to take walk with me?” He smiles at me suggestively.
“You know something? I'd love that.” I smile at him, my stomach rolling with pleasurable anticipation.
Wandering along hand in hand with Marco is something I really don't want to miss. I don't think many women would. I'd forgotten just how incredibly gorgeous he is. Italian men are so damn good looking it stuns me at times. It's in their genes. There's dark and handsome everywhere I look.
Maybe that's why I like Italy so much. So many hot sights to see. I smirk to myself.
But Marco Bellini, he's way hotter than most...I'm pretty sure with his exceptional looks he could be a Hollywood A-lister.
He's a real flaming hottie, a potential box office panties-soaker.
And he's doing a real good job on me today.
~ * ~
I sit and eat my meal in the blazing heat, the wine going pleasantly to my head.
I'm chilled. Seriously, wonderfully chilled. I've made up with my Marco and all is well.
I order another wine and s
it gazing blindly at passers-by.
Couples, families, old people, buggies, bikes, stray cats, and pigeons pass through my wider field of vision. I'm daydreaming as I gaze, my mind wandering off in his direction, as he appears and disappears between the tables. I'm thinking about that kiss we had, before it all went wrong. I know he likes me a lot, and I'm definitely into him. My eyes attach themselves to his ass, his lean slim hips. Hot isn't the word for all that's going on in my poor little sex-starved brain.
I watch him go inside and sigh.
Suddenly I feel two hands on my shoulders. Male hands. And I tense.
“Well, well, it's only my new friend, Kate,” he says, close against my ear.
The deep voice and accent's a dead giveaway.
I swing around and smile my hello.
It's my other dark and handsome hottie.
“Hey, how's the new millionaire doing today?” I joke with him.
“What?” he says, giving me a strangely dark look.
Uh-oh...obviously not a millionaire or anything like it.
“The will? It didn't make you a rich man, then?”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, please do.”
He quickly edges through the small gap between the tables and sits opposite me crossing his arms. The dark glossy hair hangs silkily around his face and sweeps across one eye. He looks kind of rock-star-ish...but much cleaner cut, the “no drink and drugs” version, and so damn fit in another sexed-up black-rap T and those hot ripped jeans. I can't help but notice he's plastered in sex appeal at least an inch thick.
“The will...yeah well...let's just say I didn't get what I expected. My mother and my sisters got the house and his other stuff between them.”
“Oh, no. Well that plain old sucks, Aaron. Are you going to contest it, then?”
“Nope. I'm content with what I've got. There's more to life than chasing money, isn't there?” he adds, rubbing his chin distractedly as he stares at my bare legs. I can't help but laugh as his eyes run up and down them openly.