Devil Side

by Lacey Dailey

  Gigi

  Max leads me into the heart of the hotel, his arm slung casually across my shoulders. The air conditioning feels remarkable on my red skin. Normally, I feel awkward walking around in just a maroon bikini top and jeans shorts, but in Vegas, half-naked chicks are a dime a dozen.

  Max’s lips hit my ear. “Babe.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I love you.”

  I grin and turn my head, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too.”

  The two of us spent the rest of the afternoon lounging by the pool, preparing for the moment I confront my father.

  Next month.

  Just because I knew what I wanted to do, didn’t mean I had all the answers. I certainly didn’t appreciate being ambushed. Next month, Max and I will travel back to North Carolina for his parent’s anniversary party. It was only when we were on a level playing field would I speak with my father. I am sick and tired of him relentlessly attempting to remind me of his power.

  He has no power over me.

  Not anymore.

  Until then, Max and I plan to hustle back to our suite and remain there until my father leaves. My mom told Renzo my father wouldn’t arrive until the evening. That is plenty of time for Max and I to get comfy in our suite and persuade Landon to spy on my father.

  It’s not super mature, but for once, I want live my life on my own terms.

  “Ya know, just because my father is making a surprise appearance doesn’t mean I’m going to miss your big day.” I say, moving beneath the high ceilings and opulent chandeliers donning the hotel’s lobby. “I’d rather him show up at the studio before I let that happen.”

  He grunts. “Let’s not talk about it until it’s here, yeah?”

  “You nervous?”

  “More than nervous.” He tugs at the collar of his T-Shirt, dampened by his still wet skin. “I want everything to go perfectly.”

  “The effort you put into it is the reason why it’s going to be magnificent. Your dedication shows.”

  In just three days, Max and I will head to the studio so he can finally record Make A Move. I’m still learning the ropes, but I’ve gained a newfound respect for musicians and all the energy that goes into their art.

  Max struggled to choose whether he wanted to start his melody with Johnny like he did when he played live, or use the piano and some bass to give his song some subtle glitter. It wasn’t something he’d normally do, but now that he has the resources, he’s testing out every possibility.

  He’s still adamant he wants to the record to sound as indie as possible and avoid a lot of extra sounds taking away from the magic of the music.

  “I’m freaking out.” His thumb punches the button to the elevator. “What if I fuck it up?”

  “You won’t fuck it up. You just gotta sing, baby. Gray and Trex do the hard stuff.” I cringe at my words. "Of course, what you do is hard too. I just meant…”

  “I know what you meant.” He kisses my nose. “I just sing and let the rest of them make me sound good. Thank you for coming with me, Gia.”

  “You think I’ve been faking my excitement? I haven’t.”

  “It’s probably going to take two days to record this song and another year to record the whole album.” He runs his hands down his face. “We need to get Trex a huge bottle of bourbon for being so patient with me.”

  “That’s his job. He’s your producer. He helps you bring your art to life.”

  “I know. I just don’t want to be the artist that over obsesses, ya know? I want to get to the next step and actually release a song.”

  “Max, this record is your baby.” Running my hand up his arm, I finger the hairs at the base of his neck. “It’s going to take time. Don’t force it. When you have a few songs recorded, we’ll pick out a single and work on releasing it. Until then, take as much time as you need.

  “I can’t believe this is happening, Gia.” He bounces on his toes, grinning. “I mean, really, who does this happen to? One summer and twelve performances in Vegas and I have a record deal? What the hell is that?”

  “That’s talent, Max.”

  Some claim it’s impossible to feel absolute happiness toward another person without experiencing a hint of jealousy.

  That’s a lie.

  As I gaze up at Max, noting the way his eyes gleam and he hums the lyrics to the song he wrote me, I sense nothing but joy toward Max’s future success.

  The elevator door springs open and we link hands as we wait for people to exit. Max reaches outward, keeping the elevators doors open with his free hand. He winks at me as I start to move.

  “Hello, Giovanna.” I trip over the place where the elevator and the carpet meet. My grip on Max’s hand turns desperate at the sound of his voice. My previously heated blood turns to ice.

  I stand frozen, watching as the elevator doors slam shut. A distraught breath punches out of me. I squeeze Max’s hand to the point of combustion and quickly summon the speech I’ve been practicing for months.

  With my lungs in my stomach, I pivot and lift my chin. “Dad.”

  His dark eyes are dripping with disapproval as he scans me. The skin on his forehead looks like rubber when it tightens, taking in my outfit. He growls at the way my hand strangles Max’s, and the wrinkles around his lips grow more prominent with the gesture.

  I want to cower beneath his harsh gaze.

  I hate it. I hate how how small and irrelevant I allow him to make me feel.

  “It’s time to come home, Bambina.”

  “Hi.” Max blurts, stepping forward. “I’m Max Mitchell. I’m dating your daughter.” He lets go of my hand and offers it to my father, ignoring the blaze inside his pupils.

  He’s not supposed to be here yet, and I’m willing to bet my mother didn’t consider the time difference when she reported my father’s arrival to Renzo.

  Fuck.

  He’s here now, and I have two choices: run or fight.

  “You’re not her boyfriend, Mr. Mitchell. She’s engaged.”

  My mind is made up.

  Fight, Gia. Fight. Fight. Fight.

  “Are you delusional? I am not engaged.”

  “Yes. You are. Would you like to argue about it?”

  The Gigi he knew would’ve backed down in an instant. I’m not that girl anymore. I possess the strength it takes to stand taller than the height my father has always put me at. I’ve always possessed that strength. With the support of Max and Renzo, I see that now.

  This Gigi does not back down.

  “I’m not engaged.” I say firmly, rolling my shoulders back. “You and Aldo bombarded Benny and I with that cohabitation bullshit. I smashed that hideous ring with a fucking meat tenderizer.”

  His eye twitches. “Watch your mouth!”

  I take a step toward him. “Fuck!” I spit. “Fuck, shit, damn, hell, asshole, cockweed, pussy licker, cunt guzzler!”

  That. Felt. Good.

  “Gia!” Max whistles. “Baby, he gets it.”

  My father’s face reddens, his nostrils flare with noisy breaths “Get. Your. Things.”

  “If you think I’m going anywhere with you, you’re shitting yourself.”

  He barrels forward, reaching for me. “Now, Giovanna!”

  I stumble backward. Max’s arms slip around my waist. Smoothly and seamlessly, he lifts me off the ground and sets me down behind him. “Don’t shout at her.” Max shifts so I’m blocked from the view of my father. “She doesn’t want to go with you and she doesn’t have to. She’s an adult, competent enough to make her own choices.”

  “Giovanna isn’t capable of making her own choices. That’s why I make them for her.”

  “She is capable. She’s been making them on her own for months.”

  “Yes and look where she ended up. Dressed like a stripper in a gaudy Vegas hotel with a wannabe musician.”

  Max takes a solid step in the direction of my father, a vein in his neck throbbing with his next words. “Don’t insult her.”

/>   “Don’t tell me how to parent my daughter, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Looking over Max’s shoulder, I find my father staring at him as though he’s nothing more than a pile of garbage on the side of the street.

  It kills me.

  Can’t he see it? Can’t he see the hands I have twisted into the sides of Max’s shirt? Can’t he see the desperation in my eyes—the plea that yearns for him to love what I love just because I’m his daughter?

  “Dad.” With a squeeze to Max’s shoulders, I slip past him. Less than two feet of distance between us, I lift my chin and look him directly in the eye. “I’m not coming with you.”

  He nearly implodes.

  “It doesn’t matter if you yell or try to make me feel less than you over the choice I made. I left. Please, open your eyes and just attempt to understand why I did. I live here now. With Max. Either accept it or don’t. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I’m not coming home.”

  “The hell you aren’t.” His eyes blacken when he seizes my wrist and wrenches me away from Max with so much force, I cry out in pain. Wetness fills my eyes as I struggle to pull my arm free. The more I grapple, the harsher his grip becomes. His nails dig into the sensitive skin covering my wrist. I whimper and work harder to rip myself free of his hold.

  He chooses that same moment to let go. I don’t have a moment to right my footing before I’m flying backward into a heap on the floor.

  Max roars.

  “Back the fuck up!” Sweat runs down the sides of his neck. Max pops his knuckles and throws his fist in my father’s face. I scream at the sound of a pop, watching my father stumble backwards.

  Max moves toward him with rigid gestures and sharp words. He twists his fist in the front of my father’s shirt, tugging so their chests are pressed together. “Touch her again, old man. I fucking dare you.”

  “Do you think you are protecting her? Good luck with that when you’re sitting in jail with an assault charge stamped on your record!”

  “Dad, no!” I scramble off the floor and launch myself at Max, tugging desperately at his arm.

  A large group of strangers have gathered around us, each donning ghostly expressions and unhinged jaws. My father cranes his neck, smiling sinfully through the blood running down his face as he examines all the people who witnessed Max assault him.

  “Find the fucking door.” Max spits in his face, oblivious to the way I’m hanging off of him. “Or I will throw you through it.”

  “See you in jail, Mr. Mitchell.” With blood gushing from his nose, my father uses his shoulder to ram Max in the chest. The impact is enough to send me to the ground for second time in minutes.

  Max lifts both his middle fingers. My father sneers at him, licking blood off his top lip before turning and storming from the building.

  Tears dripping down my cheeks, I watch my father disappear and the muscles in Max’s back flex. The hands by his sides curl into fists and he takes several raucous breaths. I sniff, and the sound has him spinning on his heels.

  Reaching for me, he grabs me under the armpits and hoists me to my feet, running the tips of his fingers through my tears. The sight of them seems to make him angrier. “You dad is scum, Gia. A total piece of shit.”

  “You punched my dad in the face, Max!” I shove his chest, wiping frantically at my tears. “Do you think he was joking about pressing charges? Can you even comprehend the magnitude of what you just did?” I punch the elevator button, hunching over with my hands on my knees. Air is luxury as I scramble to pull it back into my lungs.

  “Gia?” His hand grips the back of my neck, rubbing deeply. “You okay?”

  “No, I am not okay!” I stand up, crushing the collar of his shirt beneath my fingers. “The consequence for that one punch has the potential to ruin your entire career.”

  My knees weaken. Is he going to get bad press before he’s even able to launch a career?

  “My dad is a judge, Maxwell!”

  “Your dad can get on his knees and suck my dick.”

  I shove my thumb and forefinger in my eye sockets. “Have you lost your mind? That one punch could ruin your entire life, Max. Was it worth it? Was it worth your record deal?”

  “I don’t give two fucking shits about a goddamn record deal right now, Gia. He put his hands on you!” He slaps his chest. “Let him press charges against me. I’m pretty fucking sure this hotel has security footage of him touching you first.”

  “You don’t understand the amount of power my dad has.”

  “We aren’t in North Carolina, sweet cheeks. We’re in Nevada. I am not afraid of your shitface father. Let him come for me. No state is going to be wanting one of their judges broadcasted as an asshole who gets aggressive with his daughter.”

  Did he just call me sweet cheeks?

  He runs a shaky hand through his hair, tugging. “I don’t want to screw up this record deal for Max, but if any man puts his hands on you, there are consequences. Your dad got a front row seat to that.” He hurls a furious glare at the group of people huddled beside us. “What? You all shocked to see a man sticking up for his girl in the face of a douchebag father?”

  I’d be mortified at all this attention if I wasn’t so hung up on the fact he just referred to himself in the third person.

  “Max?”

  He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even acknowledge that I called his name. He continues to scowl and shoot daggers at all the poor civilians who just witnessed the biggest shit show of my life.

  A few people offer their sympathy, speaking to Max in hushed tones. Max mumbles his appreciation, shaking their hands.

  I can only watch, gawking and wondering if the events of this afternoon re-wired my brain. There’s something about Max’s voice that doesn’t sound quite right. It’s not as breathy as it usually is. It’s deeper—much raspier with inflection that wasn’t there an hour ago. It’s almost the voice he uses when he sings, but it’s missing the smooth quality that polishes it up. His words are gruff and not as pronounced as they typically are.

  Once the strangers have wandered away, he gives me his attention, planting himself in front of me. I give him a once over, noting all the things that seem… off. It looks like him—same hair, same clothes, same height. But it isn’t him. This man is looking at me with eyes a shade darker than Max’s. His jaw is razor sharp and taut. The bones beneath his skin vibrate with with his uneven, rugged breaths. His wide shoulders look tense enough to be painful.

  Our eyes meet, and I stumble backward.

  I am pummeled with realization.

  It’s not my name I’m talking about….

  I was on the surface the whole time…

  You won’t like who I become when I get angry…

  His name is Aiden...

  Wisps of awareness curl around my mind, clutching my body as an intense tremor runs through it. My throat runs dry. I attempt to swallow as I take a tentative step towards him.

  I can't explain how I know, or why it comes to me.

  "You aren't Max, are you?"

  His breath quickens, and he opens his mouth to speak. He makes a noise low in his throat before breaking eye contact. It barely registers with me that he is seconds away from bolting.

  He clutches his chest, clawing at it as though he’s trying to open it to allow air through. He makes another noise before shaking his head vigorously.

  I reach for him.

  “Aiden?”

  17

  Max

  Aiden and I have always been aware of each other. It isn’t always like that. Some who are like us may not even know they’re split. More times than not, they wake up with massive chunks missing from their memory. They suffer from blackouts.

  I’ve always been aware of Aiden.

  I just didn’t know why he was there.

  I didn’t understand why I had him, just that I did, and that I liked him there. I considered it a gift to be able to disappear and reappear a little while later when everything was more manageable. It
wasn’t until I was adopted, and my parents started to ask questions did I begin to understand that not every kid had an Aiden.

  The first clue I was split was the way I talked.

  Can we have a peanut butter sandwich?

  Our socks don’t fit.

  We like the guitar.

  Will you leave the lamp on for us?

  My moms didn’t understand why I kept talking like there were two of me, and I didn’t understand why they didn’t get it. Weeks after my adoption, they came to the conclusion that Aiden was an imaginary friend. That’s when I knew I was different.

  From then on, I pledged to keep Aiden a secret. I think maybe I was afraid they’d try to fix me or take Aiden away. So, I changed the way I spoke. I needed Aiden. It was impossible for me to function without him.

  After years of therapy and system mapping, I know now it’s implausible to think Aiden could ever be taken away. He is forever, and not everybody has somebody like him. It’s rare to be split, and the vast majority of people wouldn’t be able to comprehend the way we operate. Which is why I don’t tell people.

  Aiden is a secret because I don’t know how to explain why there’s two of us or why substantial portions of our childhood are missing from my memory and not his.

  The switch last night happened fast—much faster than it usually does. One second I was standing in front of Gia and the next, Aiden’s fist was flying into her father’s face. I disappeared after that.

  Violence is my ultimate undoing. The roaring panic I feel when witnessing fists fly and blood splatter imprisons my breath and makes me dizzy. In the split second it took for Aiden’s fist to crack against his jaw, I went black.

  I’m not privy to the events that happened after that. I resurfaced just in time to hear Gia’s lips whisper Aiden’s name and watch Aiden take off before I was gone again—unwilling and unable to watch her walk away from us.

  If there was a certain way I’d want Gia to find out I was split, that was not it. Not only does she have to deal with the blowback of her boyfriend assaulting her father, she has to wrap her mind around the idea that she got way more than she bargained for when she fell in love with me.