Masterson In Love

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Like a guardian angel on my shoulder, Roman's face pops into my head. If he were here, he'd know exactly what to do and what to say to make me feel safe. Of course, if he was here, there's also the chance that he would put himself in harms way, and I definitely don't want that either.

  While my man is a badass, Shrek is no joke either. He's a drug dealer, a woman beater, and bottom of the barrel scum. I've always imagined that a beast like him, with virtually no conscience, must drink snake venom for breakfast. Certainly not a hot cup of civilized coffee from Java The Hut. What on earth is he doing in a coffee shop filled with college kids?

  Coincidence or not, contemplating why Shrek may be in the same coffee shop as me is not what I should be doing right now. Right now I need to concentrate on getting the hell out of here. Quietly and cautiously. So that's what I'm going to do. That's what I'm pretty sure Roman would advise me to do.

  I think carefully about that. I've learned a lot these last few months talking to Roman about his many adventures when fixing issues for clients. Sticky situations he's found himself in. One of the first things he taught me was to always be diligent about assessing my surroundings as quickly and quietly as possible. Whether I felt I was in imminent danger or not.

  I notice that there are two doors to Java. The glass double doors in the front and the single glass door side entrance that leads to the small parking lot. I don't know what Shrek looks like, but his voice came from the direction of the front door, and I can see with my peripheral vision that there are two large, plainly dressed men in sweats and sneakers sitting near that door. The stature of the guy in the gray sweats seems slightly familiar, and it very well could be Shrek, although I couldn't swear to it in a line-up. But just the slight peek I did get of him is setting off all sorts of inner alarms and red flags. My gut is telling me to get the hell out of here fast. Another lesson Roman has been trying to teach me.

  "Listen to your gut Duchess and not your head."

  I look to my left and make the decision that Sloan and I could probably exit the side door undetected if we're careful. Luckily I have on Sloan's oversized, dark blue hoodie, which acts almost as a shield of sorts. I look just like any other random, nondescript college student.

  I pull the hood up, grab my latte, and try to leave as casually as I can without bringing any attention to myself. Java is bubbling with patrons, and Shrek seems to be quite engrossed with something he's either watching or reading on his cell phone.

  "Now," I speak softly to Sloan. "And walk casually."

  As we start moving to the door my cell phone rings.

  "Hell," I fuss as I fumble to answer it.

  I forgot to put it on vibrate, and I'm afraid that the volume may turn someone's head towards our direction, so I abruptly answer it without even looking to see who's calling.

  "Yes," I whisper curtly.

  "Elizabeth?"

  Holy hell, it's my father, and he's calling from a number I don't recognize.

  "Dad?" I answer the phone quietly, as Sloan and I continue to hightail it out of Java.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Yes."

  My father never calls. "Is everything all right with you?"

  By this point, we've exited Java and have approached Sloan's new company car. Another one of the perks of her promotion. I don't dare look back inside the shop, but I just have a feeling that someone has their eyes on me through the glass pane, so I do it. My stomach still rolling with nervous energy.

  What I see are a pair of eyes staring through the glass ... and straight through me.

  Dead eyes.

  And now I know for frackin' sure.

  It's him.

  I quickly divert my eyes away from his dead fish ones, while Sloan begins to pull out of the parking lot. I'm so rattled that I totally forgot I was on the phone with my father.

  "You sound like you can't talk. Is that gangster with you?" my father asks abruptly snapping me back into the moment.

  That gangster would be Roman, and of course my father's first thought is to blame any perceived distress I may be under on him. My father's opinion of Roman and Uncle Joseph hasn't waivered one single iota since the blow up at my birthday dinner. In fact, I'd venture to say that his imagination has only made his terrible opinion of both of them to become even worse. He imagines Joseph and Roman to be hard-core gangsters. Killers. Thugs. Seducing his only sister and daughter with money and sex. Needless to say, I think my father watches way too many mob movies and organized crime documentaries.

  "What do you need, Dad?" I ask looking back at Java as Sloan pulls out of the lot.

  "I'm calling to find out what your plans are for the holidays."

  That's odd. Why didn't Mom ask me?

  "You're asking?" I ask incredulously.

  "Yes, I'm asking. Is it so strange for your father to ask if you're planning on coming home to have dinner with your family? Your uncles plan on coming this year, so your mom is going all out. Just wanted to know if you wanted to show your face for once."

  Oh that explains it. He wants to put on a happy family front for my uncles.

  "Are you inviting Aunt Juliette too?" I challenge.

  "No, Elizabeth. You know that's not going to happen. She won't come without that husband of hers."

  "Well yeah, Dad, that is pretty common with married folks. They spend the holidays together."

  "Well not in my house. Not those two. I can't do it, and I won't do it. Your uncles don't want to see him either. Hell, one of them might knock Joseph out for the ridiculousness going on down there with you and that boy."

  "You told them?"

  "About you playing house with your cousin? I sure as hell did. And like I said, you're lucky that they didn't drive to the city the night I told them. They were ready to. Baseball bats and all."

  "How very old school gangster of them."

  I hear my father sigh heavily. "I didn't call to argue with you, Bitsy. I called to find out your plans for the holidays. That's it."

  "For Thanksgiving or Christmas?"

  Honestly, I didn't feel like going home for either if my father was still so dead set against my relationship. And he was right. My uncles were ten times worse than him. I'd probably get the third degree through dinner, dessert and football. Not my idea of a good time. Plus, I hadn't even talked about the holidays with Roman. I just assumed we'd spend them together, and I know he doesn't want to spend it with me in Penn-Washington. That would just be my birthday dinner all over again.

  "Both."

  "I don't think I can make it for Thanksgiving. Maybe Christmas. I'll let you know." I just felt like telling him something somewhat believable, so I could get off of the phone.

  "Your mother really wants you to come."

  "And I'd really like to come, but I'd like to bring my boyfriend."

  "That's not happening."

  "Then I'm pretty sure I'm not coming."

  "Think about what you're saying, Elizabeth. You've known this guy for less than a year, and I've known that family of his for most of your life. You need to consider for just a moment that I may know what I'm talking about. He's going to hurt you or worse get you hurt."

  "Dad, he manages a major league baseball player and a nightclub. That's it. He's not the Godfather or a Goodfella."

  "He's your cousin."

  "By marriage, not by blood, and it's a marriage that you don't even acknowledge by the way. So don't force me to make a choice, Dad, because I will choose Roman. I am in love with him."

  "I know you think you're in love with him, but time has a way of revealing the truth about people and their intentions. You don't know him yet. I'm just asking for you to give this some time. Don't make any rash decisions, like cutting your mother and me out of your life, until you've really gotten to know him. I'm still learning new things about your mother all the time, and we've been married for over twenty-seven damn years."

  "I haven't cut you out of my life, Dad. I'd say that you are the on
e pushing that agenda. And I didn't say that Roman and I were getting married tomorrow. All I said was that we're together, and at some point you and mom are going to need to get on board with that, if we're going to be in each other's lives in any sort of healthy way."

  Sloan starts to give me a narrow glare, which is a long time signal between the two of us for me to get off of the phone. I think our stealth like departure from Java has rattled her, and she needs the two of us to debrief.

  "I have to go, Dad."

  "Just think about Christmas if you can't do Thanksgiving. Think about us, Elizabeth. The people who raised you. Who have supported everything you've ever done. We've never spent both holidays apart."

  This conversation is getting way too uncomfortable for me. My father and I never talk like this. My mother yes, but not us.

  "Are you sick?" I ask in my attempt to understand where this is coming from.

  "Sick?"

  "Do you have cancer or something?"

  "Oh good lord, Elizabeth, no."

  "Okay then good. I'll call you guys later, Dad. I promise."

  "Bye, sweetie."

  It hits me hard after the call disconnects. I think I'm starting to realize just how big the chasm between my parents and I is growing. Even though my mother and I communicate semi-regularly through texts, she must have put my dad up to that call, because she is still worried about me.

  Great.

  And now I feel guilty.

  My father sounded really disappointed towards the end of our conversation. I know that he's right to some extent. Eventually I'm going to have to do something about it. I can't just let my relationship with my parents disintegrate. I mean they're my parents for God's sake. But what about Roman?

  "Earth to Bitsy." Sloan snaps her fingers near my ear. "Hello? Earth to damn Bitsy!"

  "Oh, my bad."

  "Yeah, your bad. I get you have daddy issues, but what just happened back there at Java is way the hell more important for us to discuss right now. We need to tell somebody what just went down."

  "Tell somebody? Tell who?"

  "Are you on crack?! The police for starters, and then maybe the Dark Knight. Hell, let's tell everybody."

  "Uh, that would be a no and a hell no."

  I haven't involved the police (stupidly) in this thing from the beginning. I guess it was my way of protecting my ex-boyfriend Ethan at the time. I knew on some level in my gut that he had something to do with the attack based on his reaction or rather his lack of one. So bringing the police in at this point would probably raise more questions than it would solve.

  Why didn't I call 911? Why didn't I report the assault? Why didn't I go to a hospital? Why did I keep so much cash in the house? All very valid questions with no logical answers, other than I was a blooming idiot.

  And telling Roman? I'm petrified of pulling him into this. It's been a while now since he and the Kings have had a new client to fix something for, and it's so obvious that he's itching for a new challenge. Especially a confrontational one. If I told him about this, he'd definitely go looking for Shrek. He'd probably kill him or come very close to it.

  It took me forever to talk him off the ledge when I first told him about everything that happened inside my apartment that night. I practically begged him not to interfere, and that was before we fell in love. Now that we're together, I don't think he'd listen to me at all. He'd just react.

  Telling him about what just happened would only thwart all of my efforts to keep him out of it. Not to mention that he'd probably put me on some sort of lock down for "my own safety" which would drive me completely nuts. I won't be able to take a poop without him knowing. I can't live like that.

  No ... telling him would definitely be the wrong move.

  "Why not?" Sloan asks as if I've lost the last little bit of sense I had left. "What is the likelihood that some street thug, some around the way drug dealer, who knocked you out cold in your own fucking apartment, just happened to be grabbing a coffee at Java? That's pretty much our hang out. A Penn hangout. Smart college kids. Why would he be there if it didn't have anything to do with you or he who will not be named?"

  Sloan refuses to mention my ex Ethan by name, since he dropped off the face of the planet yet again. She feels like he used her to find out information about me, and then dropped her like a hot potato once he was finished. He's on her ever-growing shit list of people whom she has "no words for." Especially because she had given him the benefit of the doubt.

  "There's no way Shrek could have known that I was going to be there, Sloan. We just decided to go an hour ago. Not to mention that he who will not be named told me that he used to sell pills for the guy. Which means that he has to be familiar with the campus and campus hangouts. How else do you sell drugs to college students if you aren't familiar with the area that you're selling them in?"

  I just answered my own question as to why someone like him would be at Java. If I think rationally about things, he's probably been there many times. Roman's told me a thousand times to "follow your gut then follow the trail," because it usually leads to the truth.

  "Okay, okay. Excellent point." She seems to finally exhale a bit. "So it could have been a total coincidence, but the fact remains that he knows exactly who you are. And while you definitely were covered up in the hoodie, there's no guarantee that he didn't notice you. I mean we look at people all the time when they come in and out of Java. It's just human nature to look at people when they come in and out of a small shop like that. I'm not trying to scare the shit out of you, Bitsy, but I'm just thinking that you should at least mention this to somebody. Somebody that could keep an eye out for the douchebag or at least on you."

  "I hear you," I say.

  And Sloan's right. Telling someone would be the smart thing to do. The obvious thing to do. But I know that person shouldn't be the police, and it definitely shouldn't be Roman, so that leaves me only one other choice right now.

  Not to say a word.

  7

  Roman

  The most beautiful woman in the fucking world is sitting butt naked, cross-legged, on the floor of my living room in front of my massive glass window that highlights the beauty of the Philadelphia city skyline. In her right hand, adorned with a single gold bracelet (which I gave her tonight) and petal pink nails, she's holding a glass of cabernet in a long-stemmed glass.

  I watch with rapt anticipation as she motions to take a sip.

  And then another.

  She's so fucking sexy.

  Her body is covered in a thin layer of sweat that gives her skin an intoxicating satiny finish and makes her glow like a Christmas bulb. That and the last orgasm I just gave her, have a lot to do with my girl's glow. She's breathtaking, and it makes my dick rise in appreciation, actually for the third time tonight.

  If I didn't know better, I'd swear that every physical movement, every twist and turn her body makes in my presence seems very much like a deliberate and expert seduction of me.

  The total consumption of me.

  But I do know better. I know that my dear sweet cousin, my Elizabeth, doesn't have a deliberate bone in her body when it comes to her sexuality or the art of seduction. In her case it's effortless.

  It just is.

  Body and soul. She's mesmerizing inside and out, and I'm definitely one lucky son of a bitch. It's also one of the reasons why I can feel my insides winding and twisting like an angry, knotted ball of yarn right now. I don't want her to leave this apartment. This room. I don't ever want her to go. I hate the shit.

  But every Friday night since the Glamazon got a promotion pushing even more drugs to overpaid doctors, I've let Elizabeth's pretty ass talk me into the rawest deal imaginable. She's been hanging out with the biggest pain in my ass for no good reason other than the fact that the two of them claim they need some "bonding" time.

  What the fuck? I don't get it.

  I'm either working to make some money, or I'm in between my girl's legs. End of story. I don't need
to hang out with my boys just because. I'm not fourteen years old. That shit is dumb. Why would I pick getting drunk with a bunch of assholes over pussy? My pussy. A warm and wet one that strangles my cock, because it loves for me to be inside of it.

  Or why would I watch a ball game and eat Buffalo wings with the King brothers, when we could be handling something for a client and billing them? Making some fucking money.

  The shit just doesn't compute to me. It's either one or the other. Money or pussy. Not some fuzzy gray area where you don't get either. That just seems un-American.

  But I'm not a woman, and I've come to the conclusion, since starting a relationship with Elizabeth, that not every decision she makes is for me to understand. She may actually want to spend time with the man hungry princess, because she truly enjoys spending time with her (although I realize I will never totally understand that relationship). Sometimes I think this is just another way that the Glamazon has chosen to fuck with me. I wouldn't put it past her shady ass.

  But while it's imprinted on my fucked up DNA to suspect, to not trust, to always be on guard; I also need to try and trust that feeling deep in my gut that tells me that Elizabeth doesn't have any ulterior motives. That she's not like the usual club skanks I've spent many of my nights with. Temporary bed warmers. Scheming gold diggers.

  Or like my mother.

  She's nothing like that woman either.

  Elizabeth isn't using me for sex, for money, or to fix her daddy issues. She isn't emotionally draining me like some needy leech. She doesn't need me to make her feel prettier or more important. She feels all of that on her own. She draws from her own well.

  I've dealt with some crazy, fucked up women in my life, but that's not Elizabeth. It's not even remotely who she is. So that's why when she sat me down, after trying her damnedest to cook me the worst crab bake I've ever had, I couldn't resist complying. I couldn't say no to her or her inedible bribe. Or at least part of it.