by H. M. Ward
Pete sets his cup of coffee on the ground and pushes himself up. From the look of it, he’s pissed. His shoulders are squared off, his hands closed into tight fists, his jaw clenching.
What the heck? I bare my soul and he’s mad? “Pete?”
“I don't get you--sometimes you seem so fragile, but you always surprise me by getting back up each time life kicks you down. You have a temper that could easily rival my mother's, yet you forgive everyone around you. After everything you’ve been through, after having everything taken away from you, even after the way the people you love treated you, you still don't give up. Why? What’s the fucking point?”
I hop up and grab his elbow, spinning him around. He looks down at me with those eyes and in that moment I swear I can see every thought, every emotion, and the war raging within him. “What am I supposed to do? Curl up into a ball and die? Screw that. I got a second chance, and I'm going to make sure I don't waste it, no matter what. On the night of that rave, I thought I was dead. Finished. Caput! There was no way for me to survive. My last thoughts before I passed out were about how I wasted my life. I had so many regrets, then you—of all people—saved me.”
“Please don’t glorify my actions from that night. You know why I did it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know you just wanted to bang a good girl. Stop interrupting me, Ferro, this is deep stuff and I don’t share it too often.”
Pete looks down at me from under his lashes. There’s a softness to him that’s usually hidden. “I don’t know what to think—about anything anymore.”
“Are you sure?” I step toward him, closing the space between us. I brush away a lock of hair that’s hanging in his eyes and smooth it back. Tipping my head to the side, I rest my hand on his cheek. “I refuse to have any more regrets. If I cross a street today and get hit by a bus, I want to be able to say I did everything in my power to make my life awesome. I can't do that if I give up. It’s not for nothing, Pete. Life isn’t a sick joke with no point."
"You can't make past regrets vanish. What’s done is done and will follow us to our graves no matter what we do.”
My hand falls to my side as a somber wave of regret washes over me. “We’re both changing, I can feel it. It’s frightening because we don’t know where we’ll end up, and I don’t mean a prison cell versus a mansion—it’s more than that. I can’t change what happened, I can’t erase the mistakes I’ve made. I can’t make my father forgive me, and I don’t get the fairytale with the white knight. Instead, I’ve been given other things. A friend came out of that fire. I don’t know about you, but I really needed one then—someone who understood having a tyrannical parent and being an utter disappointment. For some reason, the two of us, in our failings gives me strength. I found hope again and I’m not living my life looking backwards. I’m grateful for what I have now, right this second.”
I press the pad of a finger to his nose. Pete doesn’t move. His gaze remains fixed on the yellowing grass. He inhales slowly before speaking. “Me? You’re grateful for me?” He asks the question as if it’s a cruel joke.
My eyes sting and it’s everything I can do to hide it. I throw my arm around his shoulder and tug him against me. Since I’m short, it doesn’t work very well. Actually, it’s silly—which is what I hoped for. “I am. This ballerina really jives with your inner poet. You should let that mofo out more often.”
Pete laughs unexpectedly and turns toward me. “Maybe I will.”
COOKIES, KISSES, AND CROWS
November 2nd, 4:28pm
Pete flops down onto the grass, lying on his back, and stares at the sky. He seems lost in thought. We stay silent for a long time. After a little while, he pulls me to him, and I use his chest as a pillow. I'm in a daze, in that comfortable spot between wake and sleep. The steady beating of his heart lulls me into a relaxed contentment.
He shifts slightly under me, and I vaguely distinguish the sound of a paper bag being crumpled. He moans once, the way I did eating the gold pizza earlier. He moans again, but this time it almost sounds erotic. My mind drifts in and out, and I'm not quite sure if I'm dreaming or if Pete Ferro is actually moaning under me.
“This, is amazing” he says, his voice husky and heavy.
“Uh-huh,” I breathe.
“No, really, Gina, this cookie is amazing. I’m so glad you were willing to share it with me. No wonder you love these—they’re orgasmic.”
Uh... I open my eyes and push myself up. He's eating my macadamia nut cookie. It's the only one in the bag, and now it's stuck between Pete's perfect lips. His crooked smirk is back, along with that damned dimple, and a sparkle in his beautiful eyes.
I reach down to grab it from his mouth, but one of his hands grabs my wrist, firmly. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
He waggles his eyebrows.
I reach again with my other hand, but he catches my wrist. My body twists to the side, both wrists clasped in his grasp, and I try to wriggle my way free, but it’s useless. I don’t have a choice. If I want that cookie, I have to do it the sexy way.
I dip my head down, and my teeth grab hold of the cookie. I pull up, but the cookie won’t budge. He’s not letting it go. I bite off a chunk and straighten up. I make an erotic sound in the back of my throat as I swallow the bite.
I glance down with a victorious grin but falter. There’s still too much of that cookie trapped in between his lips, and I want more, so much more. I shift, to straddle his hips, and sit just below his stomach. Pete’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn't say anything because his mouth is occupied with the remainder of my cookie.
“You know, I kind of like that you can’t talk right now, Ferro. Makes you a lot more attractive. I think I may get you a gag for Christmas or maybe as a wedding gift. I wonder if they sell cookie gags.”
His lips quirk up and somehow, he manages to make the cookie drop further into his mouth, slowly disappearing just a little at a time.
“Oh, no you didn’t!”
His only response is to waggle his eyebrows cockily. I’ll have to wax those suckers off of him one night while he’s sleeping. I can see it now: undercover Jenny tiptoeing through Ferro mansion, hot wax in hand. She reaches Pete's rooms and finds him sleeping in bed.
Back to matters at hand—I want that cookie.
The next move will be tricky. There’s no way I’ll be able to retrieve the remaining bite without touching his lips at least a little bit, like a kiss. Like a meaningless stage kiss, only it’s not a kiss. Nope. Not a kiss. It’s a sly ninja move to save my macadamia nut goodness from the evil jaws of sexy death.
It’s a rescue mission. Save the cookies!
Yes, I can do this!
I look into Pete’s eyes and completely lose my nerve when massive knots start to form in the pit of my stomach. I can’t kiss him, not even a little bit. I’m over thinking it and it feels like I’m standing at the edge of a cold swimming pool, dreading to put my big toe in, fearing the cold sting. The longer I stall, the more I lose my courage.
Pete makes the decision for me. He tugs on my wrists and pulls me down toward him. It’s all about the cookie, Gina. It’s not about his lips. I’ll just take that last little bite and back off as quickly as I can. I part my lips and wrap them around the cookie. They gently touch his in a sweeping motion. He pushes the last little piece of the cookie into my mouth with his tongue, softly caressing my bottom lip in the process. Liquid heat shoots through every single cell in my body, and I gasp. I try to back away, but Pete keeps me close. His eyelids drop, and he starts kissing me lightly.
His kiss is tender and perfect, and I struggle to remember that this is his MO, his specialty. He’s the master player, making women swoon with a smile and a meticulously perfected kiss. I try not to kiss him back but, with the chewing and the swallowing, he thinks I’m returning it. He lets out a sigh, and his tongue strokes my bottom lip once more.
It breaks me. I can’t hold off any longer.
With the cookie long gone, I kiss him bac
k, opening myself to him, and welcoming his kiss. I forget everything but the feel of his soft lips and the taste of his tongue as it dances with mine. I melt into him, and he places my hands on his shoulders before letting go of my wrists. With one hand, he cradles my head, twisting my hair in between his fingers, while his other hand goes to my back, pressing me firmly against him.
God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him. The first time Pete kissed me, it felt like my first time, like I’d never been kissed before. This, right here, feels like coming home. Pete’s hands travel everywhere at once, down my shoulders, along my back. I feel safe once more in his embrace, which is exactly why I have alarms and bells clanging loudly in my head, telling me to stop this. I ignore them. It’s like being in the eye of a storm. Complete calm amidst the destructive chaos around me. I know that this will destroy me, but I let it happen because I'm too weak to stop it. I need it. I crave it.
I'm lost in his lips, and I don't want it to end. His mouth breaks away from mine as he lightly brushes kisses over my cheekbones, down my jaw, delicately caressing every part of my face. Our eyes meet briefly and something snaps. All tenderness is gone and replaced by something else, something all consuming. Our lips meet again in a deeper, more passionate connection where every sweep of his tongue against mine sends me into a whirlwind of sensual hopefulness. My body aches for him. His hands keep me close the entire time, as if afraid I might run away. My fingers play with his hair, tugging every once in a while, earning a couple of the sexiest groans I’ve ever heard to reverberate in my mouth. He grasps my hips and squeezes, pressing me down at the same time as he pushes his hips upwards. I gasp. The pressure feels so good. He hits that sweet spot down below, and I rock into him once.
"Oh, God! More." I moan shamelessly into his mouth, and he gives me more.
He presses his hips to mine again, growling my name into the kiss.
His hands travel up my body until they cup my face, allowing Pete to sever our connection gently. We're not just breathless; we're both panting. I press my forehead against his and try to catch my breath. Pete's face breaks into a lazy smile, his eyes still closed. His eyelashes flutter as if he’s slowly waking up from a deep sleep. He is truly beautiful beyond compare, like a sexy angel that fell from the sky.
Pete looks at peace, and I trace every perfect feature with the pads of my fingers. He turns his head to the side and opens his eyes. “There, that should do the trick, don't you think?”
“Huh?”
“Over there.” He nudges with his chin. “Paparazzi. Hopefully, this will appease my mother, and she can get off your back for a while.” Pete points to a bush where photographers shoot in our direction.
My heart beats once and then plummets so far, so fast that it makes me gasp for air. It was all an act? Damn it! Of course, why else would he kiss me like that?
Constance had us followed; Pete saw the photographers hiding, and he gave them what they wanted. It’s as simple as that, just like when he was holding my hands earlier. I knew this wasn’t real, not for him. It's not like it was real for me, either. We're friends. That’s all we are, and all we’ll ever be.
“Good plan." I force a plastic smile on my lips and hide everything else. "Thanks.” I push myself up, wanting some distance, but Pete holds me there, grasping my hips and pulling me down on his--disco stick!
“Wait, don’t move!” he says. I try to wriggle free but, he’s holding me too tightly.
“Relax, Pete. You can let me go. You’re wearing jeans. No one will see your ginormous boner.” Pete’s mirth filled eyes connect with mine. "Ginormous, huh? It's nice of you to notice, but that's not what I meant." He reaches for the paper bag next to us, takes another cookie and, before placing it in between his lips again, says, “Ready for round two?”
My brow lifts slightly as my lips part. What? Do I want to do this again? The kiss was perfect, but I feel like I’m drowning in lust and things that will never be. But those lips, and deep blue eyes.
I suck in air suddenly, not realizing that I stopped breathing.
My eyes dart to the side. No, I’m not ready for round two. Every time we kiss, it results in him taking a piece of my heart. I don’t know how many times I can do this before there’s nothing left. I have to keep him in the friend zone. I can’t do the casual, flirtatious kisses without any true feelings behind them, not with Pete. Still, I don’t want him to know what he does to me.
My mask is on, and my walls are up. I smirk at him and push off his lap in a playful way that nearly brushes a nipple across his cheek. I’m a tease in that moment, I’m someone else—someone who doesn’t care.
“Sorry, Pete. I don’t do chocolate chip. I'm not that kind of girl. I told you I was classy.”
I’m crouched in Pete’s face, ready to straighten when a couple of black crows whip past me. One pelts me in the head. I startle and fall onto Pete’s lap. I’m trapped by Pete’s thighs propped up behind me.
At the same time, Pete starts to thrash. The crows are swarming and pecking at his face. I let out a scream.
“Omigod! Omigod! Omigod!” I flap my hands like I’m one of the birds. The crows keep pecking away at Pete’s face and his arms flail like mad, trying to get the birds away.
Pete is mumbling something. He can’t talk because his mouth is full of cookie and crows. It sounds like “Gnff! Gnff!” It takes a minute, but then I put it together.
Oh, shit! He’s saying, get off!
I manage to roll onto the grass, and Pete stands up, swatting the birds away. But the crows don’t leave. They stick around, pecking at the remains of the chocolate chip cookie Pete spat on the ground. The look on his face is priceless. I’ve seen Pete fight. I’ve even seen him up close when he has that angry look in his eyes, but nothing comes close to the venom he’s giving those crows.
I crawl over to the birds, shooing them away before he can commit birdicide. They take flight and Pete jumps, covering his head with his arms. It’s too much. I roll on the ground, laughing my ass off.
“Oh, my God! Pete Ferro! Scared of little birds! Tweet, tweet!” I howl in between laughs.
Pete doesn’t think it’s funny. He picks up our things, helps me up roughly and stomps off, pouting.
“Aw, Pete! Come back! They just wanted some of your loving too! Come on! Give a bird a cookie!” Pete flashes the middle finger at me, walking away in a huff. I have to run to catch up with him.
Every time a bird flies by, Pete jumps and covers his head, making me laugh even harder.
A SMIDGEN OF CATNIP
November 16th, 9:19am
I stare at my phone's screen, sitting cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by open notebooks. How did my love life get so complicated?
I read Philip’s text message over and over again as if I'll see the answers if I just read it one more time.
I’m sorry I got angry. I miss you. Please meet me at the club tonight? I want us to work this out, somehow. I need to see you
It's been two weeks since my date with Pete. I haven't seen or heard from him since, except hearing his door slam when he comes home in the middle of the night and when he leaves early in the morning. I have no clue where he goes or what he does, and I'm not in any hurry to find out. Even the gossip rags and newspapers haven't mentioned anything about him lately.
Apart from our heated kiss in Central Park, I feel like I’m closing in on nunnery more and more every day. I think back on my talk with Pete, the one about having no regrets. I don't want to be unloved and untouched forever. Philip's invitation is tempting. I hate that we parted on such bad terms, and we did have a connection. He knows about Pete now, yet he still wants to see me and patch things up. Maybe I should give this a try.
The intercom buzzes and the butler’s voice rings throughout my room. “Miss Granz, there’s a Mister Anthony Cleary at the door for you. He seems to be inebriated. Should I let him in or escort him off the premises?”
Anthony? What is this, revenge of the exes? What the
hell? I haven’t heard from him since my betrothal to Pete, and I have nothing to say to him. I am curious though why he’s here and inebriated this early in the morning--that's so unlike him.
I get up and walk to the intercom on the wall and click on the button. “I’ll be down to see him in the grand foyer, but you're staying close, just in case. Thank you.”
"Very good, ma'am," he replies, and I hear the intercom click off.
I quickly key in a reply to Philip’s text, drop the phone on the bed and head towards the mirror. My hair is a mess because that’s what studying for finals does to my ‘fro. I secure my hair on top of my head with a bandana and grab a sweater before I head out of my room. The heels of my oxfords click on the cold marble tiles.
Though my surroundings have become familiar, this place still feels cold and unwelcoming. My nightmares don’t help ease that feeling. I'm still waking up, out of breath, having sprinted down the frost covered halls of the Ferro mansion every night.
I make it to the top of the stairs and see Anthony pacing by the large wooden door in the grand foyer. The butler stands close by, keeping a non-threatening distance, hands clasped behind his back.
I clear my throat and make my way down the spiraling steps. Anthony sees me and runs toward the bottom of the stairs. The butler twitches, but I nod to him to stay where he is. Anthony isn’t a threat. He’s never passionate or brash about anything. He’s the human equivalent of porridge. Baby bear’s porridge. Not too cold, not too hot, just plain, boring, lukewarm porridge, with a smidgen of catnip. What did I ever see in him?
He looks awful. His hair is dirty and much too long, his face is unshaven, his eyes are bloodshot, and his clothes look like he’s been sleeping in a dumpster for the past week. And the smell! Drown a dead rat in beer, and let him stew in the sun for a day, and you still wouldn’t get close to the stench wafting off of Anthony.
