Twisted In You_A Twisted Romance

by Rachel A. Marks

  He laughs again, this time more hardily. “Feck and shite, you’re a bitch.”

  I smile and rub my face from the drying tear tracks. “You know it.”

  “I don’t wanna lose you, little nymph.”

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  He pulls me to him again, his hug so desperate I feel like he’s trying to fold me up and put me inside his chest. He kisses my forehead and whispers into my hair, “Friends?”

  I nod. “I’d really like that.”

  He pulls back, looking unsure. “I would’ve liked to have you for myself.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks, thinking of how he’s touched me, how he would’ve taken me home and had sex with me tonight if I’d asked him to. If he’d never known about Diego.

  But now...

  I wish I knew what it all meant now. But where is Diego? And why did he just leave?

  “You owe me,” Fin says, his grin turning into a wicked smirk.

  “Owe you what?”

  “A good fuck.” He winks and I back up a step. He laughs at the shocked look on my face and gives me a friendly bump on the shoulder. “Ready to be my wingman, little nymph? ‘Cause you’re gonna find me a slapper.”

  I shake my head, following him to the elevator. “Do I even wanna know what that is?”

  He puts his arm over my shoulders. “A right nice loosy-goosy.”

  I laugh in spite of myself.

  “She usually likes the cosmos,” he adds. “And has a shoe fetish.”

  “Have you been watching reruns of Sex in the City?”

  “That Samantha’s quite a lady.”

  “Into older women, huh?” I ask as I push the down button for the elevator.

  “She reminds me of my ma.” He winks.

  We both burst out laughing and the elevator opens. He slaps my butt, ushering me into the compartment. I smack his hand away, and he grins like a boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. What a goof.

  A goof I can’t believe is somehow forgiving me. It makes me feel indebted to him or something. Like his ability to release me is a gift I need to repay.

  The elevator stops at the third floor, door opening to an old couple, obviously dressed for the theatre in expensive, sparkly clothes. They’re arm and arm like a pair from an old movie. It’s adorable.

  I glance at Fin to whisper to him how cute I think they are, as they enter the elevator, but he still has that mischievous grin on his face. “Watch this,” he mouths to me when the couple turns their backs to us, facing the elevator doors.

  “It’s over, Justine!” Fin bursts out, in what I think he believes is a southern accent. It sounds more like he’s a Russian cowboy. “I can’t be your sex slave no more.”

  I gape at him.

  The older woman, glances back, sizing me up. The man clears his throat.

  “My therapist is sayin’ I’m needin’ to a be a real man now,” Fin continues, his chest puffing out as he takes on the role.

  I know my face is beat red. I can’t decide whether to burst into hysterical giggles or sock the idiot in the balls.

  “No more nookie for Mrs. Cookie!” Fin says, with a flip of his wrist. Now he sounds like a gay Russian cowboy.

  The elevator settles and dings and the doors open, the couple speeds out like their expensive clothes are on fire. I turn to Fin and sock him in the arm. “Dumbass.”

  He laughs and pleads, “Set me free from the nookie, Mrs. Cookie!”

  THE MAJORITY OF THE night is pretty much like that moment in the elevator. We dance and laugh and Fin teases me. I think it’s his way of paying me back a little. Passive aggressive or something. I let him poke fun at me, realizing I earned it.

  It isn’t until about two o’clock that I notice Fin’s had too much to drink. I come back from a few songs dancing with a guy who looks a little like a young Will Smith, and find Fin slouched on a couch in a dark corner. He’s got himself flanked by two women, both very smexed-up, with shimmery clubbing tops that slink down to their belly buttons and could expose a boob with a slight breeze. One girl is petting Fin’s hair and the other has her hand in his pocket, petting him in another way. I walk up to the threesome to break them apart, and start to shoo the club-bunnies away, but Fin grips them by their bony shoulders. “Ya can’t take my slappers this time, nymph!”

  “I thought I was Mrs. Cookie,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

  “This is the girl that I liked,” he says to the girls. “She had sex with her boss instead’a me.”

  My eyes grow and the bunnies titter, glancing me up and down. “This one?” asks Blond-To-The-Right. “She looks like a drowned cat.”

  Blond-To-The-Left laughs and adds, “If a drowned cat came back from the dead.”

  Meh, so clever. I consider smacking them both like something out of a Three Stooges episode.

  “She’s not a cat,” Fin says, “except she scratched my heart.” And then he laughs like he’s very clever.

  “Okay,” I say, taking him by the hand and pulling him up. “I think Fin’s had enough to drink.” He sways on his feet, his body nodding in agreement. “Time to head home.”

  “Hey,” the blondes protest in unison.

  I glance back at them, wrapping Fin’s arm over my shoulders to hold him up. “Sorry, ladies. The dead cat wins the night. Consider new moves for next time. The whole open-cleavage thing is kinda 2011.”

  They both pout as I help a wobbly Fin through the crowd and out the door.

  THERE’S NO WAY I’M going to stumble into my mother’s house with Fin in this state, so I decide to take him back to the apartment with me instead. I text Lance and let him know Fin’s at my place so my dad doesn’t worry about the Audi. Then I begin the difficult trek up the stairs.

  When I get the apartment door open Fin nearly falls over the threshold. “Steady on,” he mumbles to himself. I feel like I pulled a hamstring, trying to hold him up.

  The place is dark. Looks like everyone’s gone to bed. It’s one in the morning, so that makes sense. I just kind of hoped Willow or Jade would be up so this tucking-in process with Fin wouldn’t be so awkward. I get him to the couch, dropping him on it and he falls face-first into the cushions.

  He reaches out for me, saying, “Don’t go, Gwen.”

  Gwen. There she is again. I settle in beside him, taking his hand in mine. “Who’s Gwen, Fin?”

  He looks at me then, finally seeing me. “Oh, no, I did it again. I’m so sorry. I’m such a gobshite, fecker, pecker, shite fer brains.” And then he laughs at himself. “What a poet the boy is.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “This is all my fault.”

  He shakes his head emphatically. “No, no, not you, little nymph. It’s my damn heart, all twisty and sour. Gwen left me ‘cause I was a bastard. I am a bastard. Just like my da. It’s no wonder you didn’t want me either.”

  “Shhh,” I try to hush him, feeling pain at his words. “You’re not a bastard, Fin. Please don’t say that.”

  He nods. “I am. I know it. I treated Gwen like shite even though I cared about her. I made her feel like I didn’t. I was freaked. She wanted me to be someone I wasn’t. She wanted me to go to London with her and work, get a flat, be normal. But I couldn’t do it. Instead I kissed a girl when I was drunk and made sure Gwen saw me, then I told her I’d been having sex with someone else. I lied to break her heart, and I don’t know why.” He shakes his head, looking miserable with himself.

  “You were just scared, Fin.” I know the feeling.

  “I was a bastard. A real bloody bastard. And then she married my brother. An even bigger bastard than me who treats her just like my da treated my ma.” His voice cracks, making him pause. Then he whispers, “I ruined her life.”

  Things begin to piece together in my brain a little better, why he came to The States, why he doesn’t want to talk about his family. I take his hand, curling my fingers over his. “She made her own choices—”

  But he breaks in, stopping my w
ords with his mouth. The kiss is clumsy and quick, a desperate connection. I barely have time to respond before he stops and rests his forehead on mine. “I could’ve hurt you, too, so this is good. You got away from me. You can be with that Diego fella and be happy.” He squeezes my hand with his own. “You deserve to be happy.”

  Tears of guilt surface, stopping me from saying any more. I let my forehead rest against his until he pulls away, lying back. Then I move my head to the cushion of the couch beside his and wonder if I made the wrong choice. Fin is sweet and full of so much life. He’s hooked on me, and isn’t that enough? I really love being with him. And his words make me feel desperate to comfort him.

  But Diego . . . there are no words to describe what I feel for that man.

  He hasn’t called me or texted me all evening and I have no idea why. That note was so mysterious. And after everything he confessed to me, I have no clue what to think. He said in the note that I shouldn't give up on him. I have to hold on to that. But why did he say I deserved more? I can't even imagine what he's doing and I have an uneasy feeling in my gut as his past hobbies roll through my mind over and over. I just have to believe he'll call. And when he does I'll lecture him for a few hours, then get my answers.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I leave Fin to sleep on the couch as the sun is about to rise. I collapse into my own bed and don’t wake up until afternoon. My Saturday yoga class is a total wash, and the lunch I was supposed to have with my mother at the club was an hour ago. I roll out of bed and pull the tarp off of my tree-woman painting.

  I get it now, that’s how I've been seeing myself, it’s how I felt when I first put brush to canvas, alone and full of desperation. But I don’t want that woman’s pain to be the vision I have for my future. I don’t want to hand that image to Diego for his show and allow him to think I still feel that way. Because I don't. His honesty, his touch set me free, it made me feel like I finally wasn't alone anymore.

  Not to mention, the piece sucks.

  I consider the canvas and the lines of the tree, the shape of the woman, and make a decision. I know what I should do. What I should paint.

  What I see in me now. Today. That’s what I want to give Diego.

  I pick up my phone and see he still hasn’t texted back. Where the hell is he?

  I need coffee. I leave my room and see that the couch is empty. I’m not surprised. Fin’s probably headed back to my parents’ house to find himself a hangover remedy. I start a pot of coffee. It looks like I’m the first one up today. Which is odd. Usually Willow or Jade start a pot around nine. And come to think of it, where’s Lance? He’s usually here when I wake up. Of course, it’s Saturday and nearly one in the afternoon.

  Something bangs against Willow’s bedroom door and is followed by a male voice, cursing.

  It has an Irish accent.

  The door opens and my head nearly explodes. It’s Fin in his underwear, holding his toe like he stubbed it. “Damn feckin’ colonial shite builders.”

  I gape at him as he looks up and smiles at me. “Mornin’, Sunshine. Quite a grand night, aye?”

  “What did you do, Fin?” I hiss at him as he comes into the kitchen. “You screwed Willow? Seriously?” My voice is all pitchy and it hurts my ears a little. I try to lower it when I add, “You need to stop drinking so much. You turn into a slut.”

  “Aye, Ma. Whatever ya say.” He winks at me, then points to the hallway where he just stumbled out. “So . . . I shouldn’t ‘ave fucked that Willow girl, then? That was a bad idea?”

  I open my mouth, but my shock at the idea of Willow and Fin together, the vomit rising in my throat, none of it lets any words emerge.

  “She was sure bendy, that one.” He grins and his brow goes up and down.

  I cover my face with my hands. “Oh god.”

  He laughs like a lunatic, nudging me on the shoulder. “Gotchya. Big Fin had to please his own self last night, since all the slappers got scared away by you. Again!”

  I smack him on the arm. “Are you kidding me?! You are so insane!”

  He bows, as if to an audience. “You should see the evening performance.”

  I start to say, I have, but then someone shuffles out of the room where Fin came from. A waif of a female with a thin face and a scarf wrapped around her head, covering an obviously bald skull.

  The laughter bubbling from my chest turns into a choking sound. “Emma!”

  Emma gives me a tired smile, her eyes puffy, her skin sallow, making her look so much older than I remember her. “Hello, Verity.”

  I swallow, trying to gather my thoughts. I knew Jade’s sister, Emma, was coming this weekend. Jade only told us about a hundred times. I haven’t seen Emma since before the diagnosis, and my body hurts looking at her now. Her protruding bones, her swollen cheeks. It’s painful to see the shift. She’s like a ghost. A faded version of her old self.

  A million questions circle in my head, about why Fin was in there with her. I hope he wasn’t bugging her. “You slept in Willow’s room?” I ask her.

  “She’s gone to Pismo Beach this weekend with some guy,” Emma says, “She called it a RomWeekend or something.” She shuffles to the coffee pot, ignoring Fin. She takes one of the mugs from the cupboard and fills it before the coffee’s done brewing. “Sorry, I just can’t wait,” she says, apologetically. “My bones are killing me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I can get you some Ibuprofen.”

  She shakes her head. “Doesn’t work. I’ll be fine. It’s just another lovely side of the chemo.” She moves to the green chair, curling her brittle body into it like a settling cat.

  “Okay, well, let me know if you need anything,” I say, feeling like a horrible hostess. Where the hell’s Jade?

  “No worries,” Emma says, clutching her steaming cup to her chest. “I’m just going to drink my coffee to warm myself up and then I’ll be getting ready for an appointment.”

  I nod, glancing at Fin. He’s acting like Emma isn’t even here. Something definitely happened between these two. I just hope he wasn’t a douche to the her. Can’t he see she’s sick? Fin was pretty smashed last night, though. He could’ve done anything. And, apparently, he loves to follow women to bed like a stray cat.

  I give Fin a stiff warning smile. “So, I’m going to get some work done.”

  “See ya,” Fin says in a snarky tone.

  I shake my head at him and mouth, Asshole. But as I walk to my bedroom door I say aloud for Emma’s benefit. “Thanks for the date last night, Fin.” She definitely doesn’t want to get mixed up with him if he’s going to be acting like a drunk loon. If she thinks he’s with me, she’ll ignore him.

  I’m not jealous or anything, I’m trying to protect Emma.

  Okay, so I’m a little jealous. Of a sick woman. I’m ridiculous.

  “I live to serve,” Fin says, with a bow. Then he starts to wander out of the kitchen, towards Willow’s room. As he walks past the green chair, he says, obviously for my benefit, “And thanks for the grand fuck...uh...Emma?”

  “No problem, Limpy,” Emma answers back, without missing a beat.

  Fin nearly falls on his face, stumbling at the sound of his new nickname as he disappears into Willow’s empty Love Den.

  Emma turns and raises her brow at me. “You sure did a number on that one.”

  “I’m fairly sure I won’t be the last,” I mumble as I leave her to her coffee.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I try to call Diego when I feel like I'm more awake but he’s still not answering. I don’t want to seem desperate, or act like I don't trust him, so I only try twice and don’t leave a message. That note wasn’t enough to hold me off for days, I need more information. It’s so lame that I have to play this stupid game with him. A guy that not a month ago was my gay bestie.

  In the end I decide to head over to the studio and get some things done in the storage room if I can, since the Arbor Show is only a week away. It’s the most nerve-wracking drive to work ever, my brain comes u
p with a hundred scenarios of why he's being so mysterious, wondering if he'll be at the studio once I get there. And by the time I'm unlocking the back door I’m a bundle of nerves and I can barely get the damn key in the lock.

  I hear the alarm beeping and go over to punch in the code.

  “Hello?” I stand there, listing for any movement in the storage room but it’s obvious Diego’s not here. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or sick. I just want to know what the hell is going on.

  I start going through some of the paintings to distract myself, looking over the checklist and matching the numbers to the pieces to make sure we have the full show gathered together. Everything seems to be here, except . . . wait, where are the Bowan paintings? There were three of them, along with the statue—which is right there in the corner—I swear I saw Diego lock the paintings in the back room. But I don’t see them now, even though they're on the list as “In Stock”.

  I pull out my phone and dial Diego’s number again. This is more than relationship woes. If those paintings have gone missing, that’s upwards of a hundred thousand dollars in the wind. It’s ten at night but I’m sure he’s up, and he’ll want this ironed out right away.

  It rings once, twice, three times, and I’m thinking what kind of message to leave, what to say—use a few choice words, maybe yell at him a little for taking off without a word—when someone picks up with a smooth, “Allô.”

  A woman. With a French accent.

  My voice crawls back down my throat and into my stomach where it becomes acid.

  “Allô?” she asks again.

  Then a second voice in the background, an angry one. “What the hell are you doing answering my phone?”

  Diego.

  And the phone clicks, dropping the call.

  My pulse thumps against my skull, my hand still holding the phone to my ear like maybe I heard wrong, maybe that wasn’t Diego with Francesca who taught him how to be a criminal and used him, it wasn’t really Diego hanging up on me.

  Because how could it be true? He’s with her? He’s with her and not me? Did he lie again? Maybe he's still caught up in that web. Maybe he's still a con artist.