I wasn’t hungry. At least not for food. I eyed his smooth, tanned, hairless chest and followed the faintest trail of soft hair down to where it dipped into his jeans. He was beautiful. A slow smile spread across my face. “Looks like I have some time to kill.”
I put my palm on his chest and pushed him inside the darkened house.
Bobby led me by the hand through the crowd outside The Catalyst. He was a sweet boy. I wondered what was wrong with him — something had to be off for him to have moved in with my brother. At the very least he lacked the ability to sense a clear-and-present danger—in both me and Christopher. We both screamed “damaged” from miles away.
People snarled as Bobby wove his way through the crowd, holding my hand close so I was right behind him. I rolled my eyes at the angry faces that turned our way. I searched the crowd for Christopher.
A jolt ran through me when I spotted him. He’d always had that effect on me, even across a crowd. I held my breath as I took him in.
His black hair was bleached a shocking white blond. He’d lined his dark eyes with heavy kohl and wore a flowing white poet’s blouse with tight black jeans and tall boots. He was surrounded by a group of vampire wannabes with white faces, red lips and black capes flowing behind them. The girl on his arm had her black hair pulled up on top of her head in a sexy, messy up-do. Her tiny rouge lips pouted at something Christopher was saying.
She was just his type: adoring and clueless. Or “simpering and dumb,” as Bobby had said.
The girl turned to face him, reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her body close to his. When he leaned down to kiss her, I blushed at how obscene it seemed. He groped her as if they were alone, unclasping her black velvet cape and throwing it on the ground. A stunning blue tattoo of gothic bat wings sprawled across her ivory shoulders.
His smile was seductive, but even across the crowd I recognized the disdain in his gaze as he looked down on the girl.
As far as I knew my brother had only loved two people in his life: our mother and Bridget. He would never love another. I wanted to warn her. My Budo karate training had taught me to protect the innocent.
We look at the world the way a warrior would. We actively observe and seek to become aware and vigilant. We remain on guard and ready to fight for the purposes of good — in defense of life and liberty for ourselves and others. The warrior stands up for those who are weak, for the innocent, for the vulnerable.
Budo required that I warn her. But I knew it wouldn’t matter.
“There they are,” Bobby said with a hint of something odd in his voice. I wondered if he was afraid of Christopher. I wouldn’t blame him. I let go of his hand as we approached my brother and went on ahead. I stood before my brother and waited until he moved the girl out from between us.
“Gia.” Christopher’s voice was flat, monotone. Just like his dead eyes.
“Can I talk to you? Privately.” The girl, who stood off to his side, clinging to his arm possessively, glared at me. I felt sorry for her. From what my godfather had hinted at, she’d be lucky to escape his clutches with just a broken heart.
“Inside,” he said. Then Bobby was at my side and put his arm around me. Christopher gave Bobby a look I couldn’t read. Was it a warning or a threat? Christopher turned on his heel and the small crowd surrounding my brother followed. At the door, Christopher gave a nearly imperceptible nod and the doorman unsnapped the red rope.
We filed in, following Christopher, who headed to a slightly elevated large table in the corner with probably the best view in the place. Every other spot was taken but for some reason this table, with enough seats for Christopher’s gang of vampire enthusiasts, was waiting. Christopher nodded at a security guard who briefly lifted his chin before walking away.
A waitress appeared at Christopher’s side. Bobby sat down beside me but I quickly moved to a seat on the other side. He was playing with fire. I tried to give him a warning glance, but he wouldn’t look my way, just stared at Christopher with a defiant lift to his chin. The vampire kids began ordering drinks.
Christopher looked at me from beneath slightly hooded eyes. “What do you want, Gia?”
“I said I need to talk to you. Alone.” My voice was steel.
He stood. “This way.”
I followed him through the crowd to the entrance to backstage. The security guard manning the entrance didn’t even blink as Christopher and I strolled by. A long hallway led to a series of closed doors. Christopher opened one and gestured for me to enter first.
He plopped onto a ratty couch, opened his gothic ring and dipped a long pinky nail into it, holding a bit of white powder up to his nose.
“Want a bump?”
I ignored his outstretched hand.
“What? You too good for it now or something?”
“What’s up with the vampire thing?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said and gave me a slow smile, which revealed pointy incisors that looked real. He watched me as he ran his tongue along his teeth. I kept my face deadpan. Vampire worship and emulation was so 1990s. Bored that he couldn’t get a reaction, he shrugged and crossed his legs.
“What about that girl you’re with? She seems sweet, innocent.”
“Oh, she is.” He looked down and swallowed and for a moment I again saw the little boy who worshipped my mother. He shook his head.
“So, are you just going to break her heart like every other girl since Bridget?”
He flew off the couch so quickly I shrunk back, heart pounding. He had his elbow against my neck and my back against the wall. His eyes were inches away from mine. “What kind of game are you playing?”
I didn’t answer—just stared into his dead eyes.
“Don’t ever fucking say her name again.” He growled it through gritted teeth. I didn’t answer, even though it would only take a slight movement to disable him with a kick to the crotch. I wanted him to calm down. When I didn’t move or answer, he finally relaxed and sat back down.
“Besides Gia, don’t you know we are cursed in love? There’s no use in fighting it.”
For a split second, my brother — the one my mother loved so much — appeared. He sounded like a normal person, like someone who was caring and rational. And then he was gone. He whirled and gave me a leer.
“So, what’s new with you, Gia? Are you already bored in the big city? Come down here slumming.”
“I came to give you a message,” I said.
“What on earth are you talking about?” His voice was silky and seductive, but held a hint of warning, danger.
“You’ve got to knock your shit off, Christopher.” He genuinely looked baffled. “With the girls,” I said. “I don’t know exactly what you are doing, but Vito said if you don’t stop, he’s going to stop it for you.”
“Oh. That.” He squirmed despite himself. Vito might be the only person in the world who intimidated Christopher. He still tried to pull off the tough guy act, though. “That old bag of bones? What’s he going to do?”
“He said if he has to, he’ll stop you himself.”
Christopher managed a low laugh, but it was laced with the slightest hint of fear.
“If you stop whatever you’re doing … he’ll leave you alone,” I reached over to his hip and unclipped his cell phone. “Call him. Now. He knows everything you do, Christopher. He knows it all. If you call him and tell him you’ll stop, he’ll leave you alone.”
I leaned over him, holding out his phone.
“Oh, the perfect Gia, swooping in to save the day. The little Italian princess is so valiant in saving her brother. Well, fuck you.”
I let out a long breath. “Just call him. This has nothing to do with me. The only reason I’m here is for our mother.”
Fury swept across his face. “How precious.” His voice was filled with venom. “Well I have news for you. Our mother is dead. Dead in the ground. She’s not up in heaven looking down with pride at her little girl so if
you’re doing anything for her, you’re a fool and wasting your time.”
His words were like a punch to the gut. I closed my eyes for a second so I could regain my composure. The last thing I would do is show him any weakness.
To my surprise, he reached for the phone in my hand and dialed.
A few seconds later, he spoke. I remained standing over him, frozen, afraid if I moved he would change his mind.
“Okay, old man. I’ll stop. For now.” The conversation lasted less than five seconds. He hung up and slid his fingers along my bare thigh.
“Looking good, sis.”
I slapped him across one smooth, chiseled cheek, but he didn’t even flinch, only gave me another slow smile. I walked out without looking back.
In a near panic, I fought my way through the crowd that was madly hopping up and down to the Reverend Horton Heat. The squirming mass was illuminated sporadically by flickering lights from the stage, making me disoriented as I pushed toward the door. The air seemed to be sucked out of the club by the frenetic energy and I fought to breathe as I pushed my way through the sweaty, bopping bodies that were bumping me this way and that. Finally, I broke free and flung open the door to the fresh night air.
I put my hands on my knees to try to catch my breath. My entire body shook uncontrollably. Christopher always had that effect on me. It was terrible to realize, but as much as I hated him, a tiny part of me, deep down inside loved him. That’s why it hurt so much. They say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Maybe the part of me that loved him came from my mother. Even if I despised him with every other part of my being, that small piece of me couldn’t get rid of images of his beaming face when he was with my mother. She was his life.
Unfortunately, when she died, anything that kept him in line, toeing the boundaries of society, also seemed to have disappeared. I didn’t know what he was up to in Santa Cruz, but the possibilities sent a chill through me.
My thoughts were interrupted by a blast of music as the door to the club opened. The next thing I knew Bobby had me pressed close against the wall, kissing me so fiercely it took my breath away. All thoughts of Christopher vanished. It was hard to believe I’d only met this boy a few hours ago. Usually all I wanted to do after sex was say goodbye and never see the guy again. But for some reason, I just wanted to crawl in this boy’s pocket and go home with him. Finally, I pulled away and turned to go.
“Hey.” He grabbed my hand and gently pulled me back to him. “Give me your number.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I looked away, down the street where the fog was rolling in from the ocean, making the street lights hazy orange. I didn’t have time for a boy in my life. Especially not this one. The strength of my attraction to him was dangerous. Unwanted.
“Come on.” His voice was soft, irresistible. He kissed the sides of my lips so gently, he nearly convinced me. I pulled away.
“I live in San Francisco.” That should be enough of a deterrent.
“Great,” he said, reaching down and slowly running his thumb over my lips. “I’m graduating from U.C. this year and moving to the city. I’ll call you next summer when I move. Maybe you can show me around.”
“You’ll have forgotten me by then.” My smile was teasing but I meant every word. A year was a lifetime.
He put his hands on both sides of my head and drew me in close, eyes searching mine. “I could never forget you.”
It was probably a mistake, but I scribbled my number on a scrap of paper. He’d forget about me in a year. I pressed the paper into his hands.
“Whatever you do, don’t ever let my brother know I gave it to you.”
I turned and walked away before he could answer.
Chapter Six
Dago
My debauchery wore heavy on me at the dojo the next morning. I was sluggish and lazy. My sensei, Kato, had no mercy. Not for the first time, I wondered if he somehow suspected what I’d done over the weekend. I respected him too much to ever let him see just how out-of-control my life sometimes got. But he seemed to have a sixth sense about him and knew when I had gone off the deep end.
Slipping into the well-lit wide open loft space of the Dojo instantly calmed me.
I’d been studying Budo karate for the last ten years. In high school, a cheerleader cornered me in the hall and called me a Wop, a Dago, a Guinea Negro. I started to walk away. But then she called my dad a greasy Italian.
I punched the girl in the face hard enough to give her a black eye before her friends tackled me, managing to give me a few cracked ribs before a teacher broke it up. In the emergency room, my dad told me he was hiring someone to come to our Pebble Beach home every day after school to teach me martial arts. He said I could pick the style I wanted to learn. I did a little research online and decided to study kyokushinkaikan, also known as Budo karate, because I liked its code of honor.
I’d copied my favorite passage about the honor code onto a slip of paper I kept in my wallet:
“It is the duty of a warrior, not only to protect one’s life, but to protect one’s spirit. Warriors must train their hearts along with their bodies so their spirit is fierce and invincible.”
The other reason I chose Budo was because I read that knowing the art could mean this: The destruction of an opponent with one blow. It seemed so efficient.
I knew I was too arrogant to excel in karate the way I wanted to because so much of the Budo philosophy involved being humble and of gentle spirit. I was more attracted to the ass-kicking part. But deep inside I knew if I were ever going to grow to the skill level Kato was, I’d have to get my shit together mentally and spiritually and emotionally. Like Kato.
The first thing I’d done after I moved to San Francisco, after taking shooting lessons and getting a permit to conceal and carry, was research my new dojo. Kato was one of the best sensei in the nation. As soon as I learned about his dojo, I knew I wouldn’t settle for any other one.
At first Kato told me his class schedule was full and started to walk away. In frustration, I did a half-hearted kick at the wall. With lightning speed, Kato caught my leg with hands that felt like bands of steel and gave me a look so fierce I nearly ran out the door. Instead, I looked him in the eye and confessed everything to him — that Budo had saved my life and that it was the only thing that was keeping me afloat. His eyes searched mine. He saw it was the truth.
He threw me a robe and we began training that day.
Kato was in his forties and a firm, but gentle task master who commanded respect by his presence alone. He kept his sleek black hair longer in the back and his toned and fit body put Michelangelo’s David to shame. It was no surprise that many of his students had crushes on him.
Today, Kato must have sensed I needed some guidance because he worked me twice as hard as he usually did, telling me to concentrate and pushing me until I was begging for a break.
I rarely sweat, Kato worked me so hard that by the time he let me take a break I had rivulets of perspiration dripping down my temple. I gulped down two bottles of water and wrapped a wet towel around my neck.
Kato wasn’t even breathing hard. He sat down beside me. “Got plans later? Susie is making your favorite.”
“Oh man, I promised Dante I’d come up for lunch.” I guzzled my water, ignoring how some of it dribbled down my chin.
“Susie and the boys are going to be disappointed,” Kato said, handing me a clean white towel.
“Not as much as I am,” I said and grinned, wiping my face. “Tell her thanks. I’ll stop by sometime next week. I need my Susie fix.”
Kato was one of my favorite people in the world, but I loved his wife, Susie even more. She grew up in Berkeley, raised by two old hippies. She was a stay-at-home mom who baked her own bread, grew her own vegetables, and made her own granola. She wore her long hair in pigtails, wore armfuls of jangly bracelets, and dressed in flowing skirts that brushed the ground. She pretty much exuded the Zen that Sensei Kato ta
ught his students.
Kato and his family lived in a rougher area of the Mission but were close with all their neighbors. His two little boys called me Gia-Ko, a riff off of Gai-Ko, which roughly translates to a derogatory form of “Westerner/Non-Japanese.” They think the pun is hysterical. Even Kato smothers his smile when they say this, but when Susie — who is usually so mellow — caught them saying that once, she chased them around the house with a dishtowel. I hugged Kato goodbye. “Tell Susie I’ll take a raincheck. And I’ll bring the wine.”
After I got home and showered, I retrieved my Ferrari out of the garage and pointed it north.
The drive to Calistoga was cathartic. Not as soul freeing as cruising Highway One south, but still it felt good to roll down all my windows and sing along to Beck’s Odelay at the top of my lungs with my hair blowing wild.
Traffic was light. Not many people were heading north on a Monday.
“Dial Dante,” I said once I passed Santa Rosa.
“Yo, what’s your ETA, paesana.”
“Be there in thirty.” I hung up and cranked up the Beastie Boys, singing along.
Eighteen minutes later, I pulled into Buena Sera’s parking lot. The white-washed walls of the restaurant were surrounded by purple, blue, and red flowers on vines and in big pots.
Dante was waiting for me outside at a shady table under a trellis of grape vines. He stood when he saw my car. Even from across the parking lot, the white of his smile against his olive skin made my stomach flip flop. Today he was wearing white linen pants and a white shirt with the buttons done enough for me to see his smooth, tan chest. And once again it was clear I would forever be half in love with him. But I knew deep having him for my best friend was worth more than anything else on God’s green earth. Except maybe if I could bring my parents back to life.
He met me at the entrance to the outdoor dining area and grabbed me in a tight hug. I sniffed and he pulled back, searching my eyes. “Everything okay?”
City of the Dead Page 3
