Dances with Monsters

by D. C. Ruins

  She needed water and aspirin, and a cup of strong, black coffee, so after mustering up her strength, she slowly sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She shoved the comforter back and rose unsteadily to her feet, noting that the clock that normally sat on her nightstand was missing when she checked the time. She took one step and realized she was practically naked. She gasped and looked down, seeing her black strapless bra was askew and she was in nothing else but a black lace thong. Her eyes flew to the pile of clothes and shoes by the wall and her mind raced, trying to recall the blur that had been the night before. She'd worked her last shift at Cliff's. Her sisters and Bunz had plied her with shots. And they had danced. Then Heath had brought her home.

  That brought her up sharply and she clapped a hand to her mouth as more memories flooded her. She vaguely recalled trying to kiss him outside her apartment, and she remembered him practically carrying her to her bedroom. She remembered looking at his back while he pulled off her pillows and then...

  She groaned aloud as she remembered stripping in front of him.

  After another moment, she took a deep breath. It was coming back to her now—he had repeatedly turned her down and finally had bodily placed her in bed. When she opened her bedroom door, she saw the clock on the floor in the hallway. She stared at it for several long seconds, feeling utter confusion.

  "Because you threw it at him," she hissed to herself as the memory finally flashed in her mind. Sudden recollection of shouting curses at him made her cringe. And she'd cursed at him and thrown the clock at him...all because he'd refused to sleep with her.

  She heaved a sigh of relief and brought the clock back to her nightstand. She reached for a T-shirt and yoga pants and rubbed her hands over her face, perching on the edge of her bed to collect her thoughts. She was incredibly grateful that Heath had decided not to capitalize on her extreme drunkenness from the night before and she felt a surge of admiration, appreciation and even affection for him. On the heels of that thought, sheer mortification and humiliation overtook her and for a moment she thought again that she might throw up, or start crying.

  Oh, my God, she thought, panicked. What must he think of her now? Between the confession of her past the other night and now her sexual forwardness from last night, he had to be completely fed up with, confused, and turned off by her. What sort of message was she sending, especially to him? Granted, no one had been around to see her behavior toward him except him, but that was worst of all. Her face burned with shame and self-loathing. She had never been one to blame things on alcohol, but she normally tried to make a point to stay away from alcohol harder than wine for a reason; hard liquor always hit her much too hard and had resulted in some bad decisions over the years. After college she'd given it up, although that hadn't been public knowledge. She shouldn't have thought she was out of the woods last night or free from the hard-hitting effects of strong liquor; she clearly wasn't, and she'd just made a hugely enormous fool out of herself.

  She knew that a drunken mind tended to speak the truth, and if she were being honest with herself, she did want Heath. She was attracted to him, he was the first truly nice person of the opposite sex outside her family she'd met in almost a year, and there was something about him that made her want to be around him all the time. However, her presentation was completely out of line, and not true to herself in any manner. She felt sick when she thought that her actions from the previous night negated the cathartic release of unburdening her pain the other night. How seriously could he take her now? And if he had taken her up on her offer…she knew she would have woken up this morning feeling a thousand times worse, because she would have lost all respect for them both.

  She spent a long moment bent over, her hands on her knees, staring at the carpet, allowing the full embarrassment and shame of her behavior from the night before to settle over her, so she could come to terms with it and begin to move past it. Finally, she got up with a heavy sigh and walked out of the bedroom, Rocky at her feet. She put the coffee on and fed her cat, then swallowed a few aspirin, gulping down some water. She leaned over the counter and gripped the edge, staring at the coffee and waiting impatiently for it to finish its brew.

  As she sipped at an enormous cup of black coffee that she generously laced with sugar, she glanced at the clock and noted that she'd slept in extremely late. Family dinners were usually around four o'clock and it was almost noon now. She still needed to go to the market and come back and make the dishes she'd been assigned; this week, she was in charge of a caprese salad and a dessert. Then there was the daunting task of pulling herself together and making herself look halfway human so as not to rouse her parents' suspicion.

  She realized she'd never let Heath know the time of the dinner. For a moment, she wondered if she should even bother telling him; it was pretty presumptuous on her part to assume that he was still interested in coming given her behavior over the last couple of days. In fact, if she were to presume anything, it would be that he was officially finished with her and her bullshit. She definitely owed him an apology, however, and she would make sure he received one. But for now, the memory of the night before was too strong in her mind, making her feel still too sick, that she couldn't bring herself to contact him just yet.

  She gulped down the rest of her coffee and followed it up with a slice of dry toast, then struggled into jeans and a T-shirt to go to the market. She decided to walk; it was a typical cloudy, misty spring morning, which she enjoyed. She strolled along the aisles of the fresh, small grocer; it was her favorite in the city. It was dimly lit with wall sconces offering a soft, homey glow, and the floors were wooden. The shelves carried unique items that supermarkets tended not to carry, as well as a bakery with the freshest items, and a seafood counter and deli with the choicest cuts of meat and fish.

  She was in the dairy section, considering her options for fresh mozzarella when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She dropped her final choice into her basket and pulled the phone out, and surprise and a slight sense of dismay went through her at the sight of the number. It was Heath.

  "Good morning. Didn't want to risk waking you—just wanted to know what time I should be over."

  Drew was floored. He still wanted to come? A thousand different replies went through her head. She wanted to say more, so much more, but since he hadn't addressed the previous night, she thought she had better steer clear of it, too. Besides—it was only right she apologize to him face to face.

  "Good morning. It's at four. You can just come to my place and then we can walk over."

  "Sounds good. See you then. Should I bring anything?"

  "Just yourself…and a big appetite."

  "No problem. Later."

  She didn't know how to feel about it; perhaps, she told herself, he was just that good of a person, someone who followed through with things even if he was otherwise done with the situation. He knew that he was expected and he intended to be responsible and show up. There was just simply no other feasible explanation.

  She thought again of the previous night and winced, slapping a hand to her forehead and drawing the stare of the woman next to her at the cheese display. Drew glanced over at her, her hand still cupped around her forehead and offered a weak smile before turning and walking away. She gathered the rest of the items she needed and zipped through the checkout line, then headed home. Rocky met her at the door, his tailed curled like a question mark by way of greeting and she scratched his head quickly before heading into the kitchen to set her bags down. She was making tiramisu for dessert, and by the time it was completed it would only have a few hours to chill in her refrigerator before she brought it over. The caprese salad could be thrown together at the last minute.

  Once the tiramisu had been put together, she popped the dish into the refrigerator and checked the time. She had a couple of hours before dinner, so she decided a nice long soak in the bathtub was called for. She ran the water as hot as she could stand and added some scented bath salts,
then stripped and submerged herself, and promptly fell asleep. She dreamed she was back working at Cliff's, except her job now was to dance in her underwear on the bar while the clientele sprayed her with tequila.

  She woke abruptly with a jerk, sending water splashing over the edge of the tub and sending Rocky scampering out of the bathroom when a few droplets hit his back. "Sorry," she called after him. She reached for her phone on the toilet to check the time and was horrified to see that she had only forty minutes to pull herself together. She frantically drained the tub and turned on the shower head just long enough to wash her hair as quickly as possible and scrub herself with a loofah doused in cucumber-melon scented body wash, cursing to herself the entire time. She wrapped her damp hair in a towel and raced into her bedroom, quickly dressing in a pair of jeans, a ruffled, bright yellow tank top and a cropped white cardigan. She stepped into a pair of leopard print flats and ran back into the bathroom, towel drying her hair as she went.

  She heard a knock on her door just as she was finishing with her hair. Though it was generally straight, it was long and thick and had the tendency to be unruly and therefore required some additional attention. She finished taming it and swiped her lips with clear pink strawberry-flavored gloss she'd gotten for a quarter in Chinatown and hurried to the door, glancing at her watch. He was ten minutes early.

  She pulled the door open after undoing her locks, her stomach tensing with apprehension. She glanced up at him, noting how nice he looked in jeans, newer-looking tennis shoes and a lightweight knit pullover in a pewter blue color that almost perfectly matched his eyes. He held something in his hand, what looked to be a long, slim printed bag.

  "Hi," she said shyly, her face burning again. Her heart rate increased and she felt anxiety clawing at her throat.

  "Hey," he replied easily, as if nothing had happened. He stepped into her apartment as she moved back a little more. "How you feelin'?"

  "Um…utterly ashamed of myself and embarrassed, for starters, and thank you for asking," she replied bitingly as she locked the door. She heard him chuckle behind her. "It's actually not funny."

  He shook his head, smiling slightly still. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughin' at you."

  "Listen, I'm sorry," she began, feeling a little tension leak out since he seemed to find the whole thing funny. "I was—I was way out of line last night."

  "Stop," he said. "Shit happens."

  "Shit happens," she agrees, "but that was on a whole other level. That was not—I don't act—I'm not like –"

  "Forget about it," he interrupted, and met her gaze with a half-smile. "Seriously. No hard feelings. Not even for throwing your alarm clock at me and cussing me out and disinviting me to dinner."

  She cringed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "Yeah. Sorry about all of that."

  He laughed again. "I'm just givin' you shit. I seriously am not worried about any of it."

  She swallowed, looking up at him. She wanted to say more, but decided that it was best to leave well enough alone for now. "Okay. I have to make this caprese salad really quick then we can go. What's that?" She pointed to the bag he carried.

  He lifted it and reached inside, and halfway drew out a bottle of red wine. "I thought your family might like it."

  "Oh, thanks. That was nice of you. What kind is it?" she asked curiously, reaching out to take the bottle. The label read "Montepulciano d'Abruzzo". She glanced back up at him, lifting an eyebrow.

  "What's wrong?" he asked immediately. "No good? I don't drink wine, so I just went off the guy at the store's recommendation."

  "No," she replied. "This is actually my mother's favorite red wine. And mine."

  "Oh, good," he said with nod. "It was a wild guess."

  She handed the bottle back to him with a smile. "Pretty amazing wild guess," she commented, heading into her kitchen and pulling out the ingredients for the salad. She put it together in record time and placed it in a glass bowl with a lid. Then she reached into refrigerator to pull out the dish of chilled tiramisu. She placed the lid on that dish and stacked the salad on top, then added a small plastic container. Heath watched as she gathered everything into her arms.

  "You got it?" he asked. "Need some help?"

  "No, I got it, thanks," she replied. "You can get the door."

  He held the door for her as she stepped past, careful not to trip on the carpet as she was often prone to do.

  "What have you got there?" he asked, nodding to the large dish on the bottom as he pulled her door closed behind them and used her keys to lock up.

  "Tiramisu," she replied. "And these are chocolate shavings to add later."

  "Impressive," he commented.

  "I hope you're hungry," Drew said, her voice a warning. "My mother will take it as a personal insult if you don't eat a lot."

  "No worries there," he said easily. "Far be it from me to insult the chef."

  Drew couldn't take it anymore. "Why are you so calm?" she demanded.

  "Why are you so wound up?" he immediately returned, lifting his scarred eyebrow at her.

  "Because I know them," she said. "I know what they're capable of, I've seen what they can do –"

  Heath laughed again and shook his head. "Sorry. Not laughin' at you. Just—you talk about your family like they're violent insurgents or criminals or somethin'."

  Drew briefly considered his words and decided he might not be totally off-base with that comment. "I have seen what each of my sisters has gone through; I've participated in what they've gone through—now it's my turn. They're ready for payback."

  "Just relax, Drew," he said, nudging her gently with his elbow. "Let's just have a good time. I'm looking forward to meeting your family."

  She looked up at him doubtfully, but let the matter rest. They moved across the open courtyard in the middle of the apartment complex and up the stairs toward her parents' unit. Heath stood behind her, calmly holding the stack of dishes she handed off to him while she knocked on the door. She could already hear the loud voices of her uncle and father dominating whatever conversation was being had.

  Finally the door opened and her mother stood in the doorway. "Drew!" she exclaimed as though it had been a hundred years since they'd seen each other, instead of just over twenty-four hours. She kissed her daughter's cheek. "Honey. You're late!"

  "Five minutes, Mom," Drew said exasperatedly. "I was trying to make sure the caprese salad was fresh." She turned and took the dishes from Heath.

  "Yeah, yeah," her mother muttered, pushing her inside by the shoulder. She beamed at Heath and held out her hands. "And you must be Heath." He offered his hand but she ignored it and gently took his face into her hands instead, touching her cheeks to each of his. Drew hid a smile at the look of mild surprise on his face. "Come in, come in."

  She led them into the living room where Drew's father and her uncle were sitting on the sofas with her brothers-in-law, discussing some sporting event that Drew had no real interest in. Her father glanced up as Heath entered the room behind her. She cleared her throat nervously.

  "Daddy," she said, moving to her father's side and bending down to kiss his cheek.

  "How ya doin', cupcake?" he asked mildly, but his steady gaze was on Heath. Drew didn't miss it and cleared her throat again.

  "Daddy, this is Heath. Heath, this is my father."

  Mr. Carnevale glanced up impassively at Heath as he moved toward him. Heath extended his hand. "It's nice to meet you, sir," he said quietly. "Thank you for having me in your home."

  Mr. Carnevale's face stayed impassive, but Drew saw a gleam of appreciation and respect in her father's eyes and felt immense relief. Her father rose to his feet and reached out and clasped Heath's hand, giving it a firm shake, and Drew noticed a small half-smile form on her father's face. It was a good sign; it meant that Heath's handshake had been equally as firm. Drew had heard her father say on many occasions how important a man's handshake was to him, that it said a lot about him as a man.

  "Anytime, Heath
," her father was saying. "I'd like you to meet my brother, Gino."

  Heath shifted his gaze to the slightly shorter man, who gave him a mere nod and took his proffered hand. "Nice to meet you, too, sir."

  "And these two bums," Mr. Carnevale went on, "are my sons-in-law."

  "Ryan," Toni's husband said, rising to his feet and offering Heath a handshake and a smile.

  "Vince," Nik's husband said, doing the same. "Huge fan, man."

  "Oh, thanks," Heath said with a humble nod, but Drew knew he was uncomfortable with any recognition of his MMA celebrity.

  "Fan o' what?" Uncle Gino demanded grumpily.

  "Gino, you don't know this kid?" Mr. Carnevale said, surprising Drew. He reached out and clapped Heath's shoulder. "He was in all the papers a few months ago. Big MMA guy. Fought his own brother, ah, marrone. Used to be a Marine, got an honorable discharge."

  "Geez, Dad," Drew said. "I didn't know you knew his whole bio."

  "What, I get it wrong?" Mr. Carnevale demanded. He glanced at Heath. "Am I wrong, kid?"

  "No, sir," Heath said calmly. "That's what happened."

  "See?" Drew's father continued, reaching out to pinch Drew's cheeks lightly. "Your old man knows what he's talkin' about."

  "He's a hometown celebrity," Vince added. "Nah, forget that. He's a national celebrity!" Drew rolled her eyes; she knew he would inevitably ask for Heath's autograph at some point in time. Heath stood amicably, but she knew him well enough by now to know how uncomfortable he was with it.

  "Okay, okay," she said lightly. "Give him a break, he just walked in."

  "What's that you got there?" her father asked Heath, pointing to the bag in his hand.

  Heath glanced down as though he'd forgotten he'd been holding it. "Wine, sir. I thought you and your family might enjoy it."

  "Let me see this," her father said musingly, pulling the bottle out of the bag. He examined the label and nodded. "This is Drew's mother's favorite. And hers. And Gino's. Look, Gino." He held the bottle up so Uncle Gino could read the label and he nodded his approval.