Gabriella (Gaby) is the diva of the bunch, and her knowing I’m coming home was no doubt grounds for the drive up from NYC. Her Gia-esque attitude exemplifies white girl privilege. She is a snot, racist, homophobic, anti-everything not serving Gaby.
In other words, the spitting image of my father. She and I have significant underlying issues (mostly dormant), and she is here for no other reason than to give me strife. The problem is in my moving here—I’m essentially poking the bear.
Believe it or not, I’m pretty subdued around my family.
I step out and Cat busts past Mama to get to me. “Oh, my fucking God! Sal!” Cat yells, hugging my neck as Mama and Gaby exchange looks of horror. “You look incredible.”
“He looks like a damn thug!” Gaby snarls up her nose, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. I flip her the finger.
“Lucas Salvatore!” Mama scolds as I sprint up the steps and hug her. I give her obligatory kisses on both cheeks. “I have to go finish dinner. Don’t be long!” She turns back and says, “I called Emily and told her you were moving back home. I even invited her for dinner, but she has to work. Maybe you two can go have dinner next week.”
“Great!” I dismiss with a smile as I don’t want to get into this right now. I just drove for three days, woman. Let me catch my breath before you have me making your little Sal-Ly nipoti.
My mama, matchmaker in hell.
Swaggering back to the truck, I shrug as Cat smiles. “I take it they’re not happy about my being here?”
“They’re not happy with many things,” she laughs, clutching my arms. “Are you staying here?”
I give a blank look, not knowing where I’m sleeping tonight. “Why don’t you stay with me at Nonna’s house?”
I’m shocked. “You have Nonna’s house?”
She leans in closer and whispers, “I not only have Nonna’s house; I have the fucking title in my name, but the girls don’t know so shhh!” I’m floored because Cat and I have never been particularly close, but she’s not been tight with the witches, either. We’re both the black sheep. “Mama’s cooking dinner for everyone, so you should prepare,” she warns, standing on her tiptoes at the backside of the truck. “Nice bike! Love that paint job!”
“So, what are you doing?”
“I’m doing the financials for the fishery,” she says, checking out my truck. “But I work a lot from home because I can’t stand the smell of fish.”
I snort as she sits in the driver’s seat.
“… Whose panties?”
“Bad topic.”
“Are they Iris Kettles’?” she asks, lowering her voice. Her eyes light with curiosity as a simple smile elevates on her lips.
My gaze shifts up. I try to give my best innocent look, but only end up looking guilty as sin. “Believe me, all we heard about is the ‘insert epithet’ Salvatore is screwing.” With her big green eyes, she eagerly asks, “So, is she Japanese?”
“Half,” I answer, standing between the door and the truck.
Swiveling, she puts her feet on the threshold of the door. “You got a picture?”
“Do I got fucking pictures,” I boast, pulling my phone from my back pocket. I open the folder and hand it to her. “Be careful, swiping,” I caution, setting my hand on the roof, as she gives a playful grin.
“She’s freaking gorgeous, Sal,” she compliments, looking through the pictures. “Are her eyes seriously that blue?”
Popping a piece of gum in my mouth, I nod. I take a pack of smokes from the carton in the door. I pack the box as she keeps ogling. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The happiness in Cat’s expression says what I already know—I’m one lucky motherfucker. “Can you hand me the lighter in the cupholder?”
“Yeah,” she says, grabbing it. “You want the panties, too?” I shake my head with a snarl. “Baby brother got himself a girlfriend!” she teases. “Whoa!” she yelps, moving the phone away before returning to look again. “Baby brother got a fucking eight-pack,” she marvels, turning her head to look at the picture and reaching to lift my shirt. “Holy shit! What happened to you?”
“I grew up.” I flick a brow.
“Jesus.” She blinks with a straight face. “Are there more of you where you come from?” She makes it sound like I’m from another planet, and we end up laughing. “God, her back mural is intense.”
I point at the phone as I exhale. “You should see it in person. I never could get the light right on the colors at the fountain.”
“Look,” she says, handing back the phone to me. “I know you think all the witches are against you, and I understand why, but I also know you’re going to need a friend here. I want to be that for you.”
I’m leery, but something in me wants to believe she’s telling the truth. “When did you give up?”
“Last year, when I got blamed for Maria getting shot,” she seriously says. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Do you know who did?”
“My guess is Stella, but it could be Gaby because she’s a goddamned conniving bitch.”
I hug her and think maybe this won’t be as brutal as I imagined.
But as always, when I have these positive thoughts, things turn south quick.
Too bad I can’t turn South.
Over the next week, I move into Nonna’s old bedroom. Cat hates sleeping on the first floor, so she has taken up residence in two of the bedrooms on the third floor. She’s a bit of an odd duck, but I am, too. So, it works.
Since I’ll be in the offices, I have to buy suits. This from the boots-and-jeans-I’m-scooping-horse-shit-Kid and having a damn blast doing it. With my father’s delight about my being home, he gives my ass the Platinum card, even though I don’t need his money. Cat and I buy out the damn mall.
I’ve left Iris messages every day, but she hasn’t returned my call. I try not to worry. Anna’s probably got her busy in the garden.
I’m getting dressed for work Monday morning and have my pants hanging loose on my hips when Cat busts into my bathroom. “So,” she says, easing up onto the bathroom counter. Her eyes flash down, and she sees way too much. “Good God!” she yelps, closing her eyes tight. “We needed to buy you some damn underwear! Put that thing away! Zip your fucking pants, boy!”
“You busted into my bathroom!”
“Erase! Erase! Erase!” she chants as I tap her on the shoulder. “Okay, so this Juliet place,” she quickly resumes, showing her tablet to me with the Juliet website opened up. “You do this stuff there?”
“Yes,” I answer, tugging on an undershirt and tossing on my dress shirt. “We spank sluts’ bottoms continuously twenty-four seven. Vast, non-stop orgies!” I wink.
She smacks me hard in the bicep. “Lies!”
“Are you riding with me to work?”
Her eyes dart to the ceiling. I consider telling her the answers aren’t there. “Yeah, I’ll go get dressed,” she says, easing off the counter. “Are there cowboys there?”
“Do you need a cowboy to lasso you?”
“Yeah.” She blinks starry-eyed. “Oh! A bunch of the people in the office are going to the bar on Friday night; you wanna come?”
“Sure.”
She leaves but quickly sticks her head back in my doorway. “By the way, Salvatore, you look amazing!” She smiles. “Calm down. You got this.”
“Hurry up, Cat!”
“I’m going! Jeez!”
I’m tying my tie when I notice my phone light up. The ID says Cruz’s Ma, so I pick it up. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” Trudy says, sniffling. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know where Deacon is,” she panics exhaling. Her voice trembles with fear. “He’s been missing since the day you left. I wanted to call you and ask you please—kindly—if you hear from him, tell him to call me because I’m worried sick.”
“Where is Iris?” She says nothing as I watch my express
ion change in the mirror. “Where is Iris?” I repeat, louder.
“Things got rough at Anna’s when you left, Sal,” she whispers, ashamed. “I accidentally blurted about you having to get married.”
“You what?!?!” I burst, full of contempt, worry, and embarrassment. “Why in the hell did you do that?”
Her high-pitched voice cranks up an octave. “I thought she knew!”
“No, she didn’t fucking know!” I crouch down and grip the bridge of my nose. “But she sure as shit does now! Are they together?”
“Yes,” she whispers sobbing. “I’m so sorry. Anna is worried sick about Iris, and you, and I’m trying to hold it all together.”
“If she is with Deacon, they’ll be back.”
But we may be over.
And this is how I start my first day of work.
Happy Fucking Monday.
Attending meetings, I learn how things work, and how to make the coffee machine make water for tea. I pay special attention to the relationships between the staff and start mentally profiling the important ones. In a strange twist, my father has yet to discuss the real business. He’s testing me.
Just like I test Iris.
I leave no less than six dozen messages.
I look pretty good in a suit. The jacket enhances my broad shoulders, and the well-fit pants snug everything just right. The single ladies in the office seem to notice. I’m charming and flirtatious, but I pay them no mind.
After declaring I had a bubble butt by midweek, Cat brought me a pair of Old Poppa’s cufflinks and thick black leather belt.
God, I could whip the crap out of Iris with this.
How poignantly perfect.
I’m touched by her generosity to share our past, and she often says how much I remind her of Old Poppa, the original Luca Raniero. I proudly carry around his name—Lucas—but rarely is it ever used. My father and family insist I embrace the fullness of my Italian/Sicilian heritage, and I grew up being called Salvatore. Lucas was reserved for someone I didn’t quite know.
Maybe I should get to know him.
Working 9-to-5 fucking blows, and by Friday, I cannot wait to go to the bar. Cat and I decide to Uber it because we plan on getting fucking smashed. We’ve been drinking two bottles of wine per night from different regions of Italy, but we want something a little more substantial. She wants her bottle of vodka; I want a barrel of whiskey.
The bar is close enough to Nonna’s we could’ve walked, but Cat insisted on wearing these five-inch stiletto heels to pick up a guy.
Which guy? She doesn’t know.
But she assures me if he’s good looking and tall (those are her only requirements), she’s rollin’ on his rod—her words, not mine—until dawn, and I should sleep with earplugs in. Basically, said guy could be a bum with no money, no job, no car, no house, but if he’s good looking and tall, she’s DTF.
I’ve heard about this all week long.
My sister is a fucking slut.
I know, I know.
But the thing is—I didn’t know. I assumed she was just some crazy cat lady, staying at home alone, eating pints of Ben & Jerry’s while binge-watching Netflix and reading steamy romance novels.
This is what I believed.
Not that it was true.
In learning about her, I found out a few interesting tidbits of information, though. One, I think she may be my new best friend. Second, she’s as fucking psychotic as I am. Weird counting, random thoughts, and idle babble, Cat does it all. And three, and this is so fucking wrong of me to say, but I’m doing it anyway—my sister is fucking hot like genuinely smokin’, and if I wasn’t her brother…
That said, some dickwad messes with my smokin’ hot, psychotic, new best friend, I will fucking kill him.
Good looking, tall guy won’t get a second roll.
I’ve never had this protective brother position before because I was always the younger brother who left at eighteen. When your sister is three years older than you, and she’s crying about the nineteen-year-old boy who broke her heart at sixteen, and you’re thirteen, there isn’t much you can do.
Things change, buddy.
Baby brother grew up.
And guy better watch it.
The bar is a neighborhood pub where everyone knows everyone else. It’s got a weird familial vibe like Juliet but without the kink. I’ve decided to go for classic daego styling. Jeans, not ripped (sorry), a button-down, and a black leather jacket. My hair was slicked back, but with the rain pouring, the light waves of my bangs keep flopping in my face.
Before I started working, I decided a haircut was in order. I trimmed it once in prison when I went to meet Anna, but it was still too long to be considered professional. I had it shaved up the back and faded, but kept the length on top. I don’t look like I’ve got a dirty mop on my head anymore. I’ve tapered back on the facial scruff as well, but I still have the goatee and soul patch. It’s just much shorter and doesn’t look like a fluffy bush attached to my chin.
Cat is mingling, and I’m following her through the fray. It’s packed and getting worse by the minute. We finally wedge up to the slick wooden bar which is probably a good thirty feet long. At least five bartenders are serving. Craft beers on tap are flowing, and limes are getting squeezed.
On the far end, someone drops a tray and everyone cheers. “Woohoo!”
Near the end of the bar, a girl jumps over the mess on the floor and tosses a vodka bottle before opening it and putting the pour spout in. She’s working it, flipping glasses, and entertaining as hell to watch. Wiping her hands on the apron attached at her waist, she rushes to our side when I have an – Oh, shit, get me off this ride – moment.
“Hey Cat!” she says, smiling and avoiding me. She makes Cat’s drink with a full performance, showing her shit off. “Appletini, my lady.”
“Thanks, sweetie.”
Emily stares at me. “Double Jim Beam, neat, Raniero?”
“Ya.”
“Should I start a tab, Cat?”
“Yes,” I say, grazing over her fingers as she sets my glass down.
“I don’t have time to talk to you.”
Fuck.
As one might expect, I’m drunk as a skunk when the bar closes. After watching Cat dance with a dozen male suitors, I paid the tab and tipped Emily Lee Granger way too much for her smart-mouthed, rude service. Cat took some schmuck – an investment banker – home for a roll on his rod.
And now I’m standing outside in the parking lot, waiting for the girl whose heart I broke to appear. To pass the time, I leave two more messages on Iris’ phone. I text Trudy, and she responds. There has been nothing but dead air from her end.
At 3:13, Emily surfaces alone.
“You really shouldn’t be waiting in the parking lot, Sal,” her sweet Southern belle voice says. “People are going to think you’re a creeper, which I’m not so sure you aren’t.”
She pops her trunk and drops her apron and coat inside. I reach to hold the lid, prohibiting her from shutting it, and therefore, leaving. “We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Us?”
She shakes her head. “There is no us. I trusted you, and you let me down. You hurt me. You rejected me.”
“I…”
“No,” she interrupts, frustrated, and unwilling to talk. “By not showing up or calling, the message was clear. You had others far more interesting than me. And I get that, I’m over it, but I’m not going back up that mountain just to get pushed off again. You broke my heart.” We stare at one another. She is emotionless while I’m drowning in self-pity. “Let go of my trunk or I’m pushing the alarm.”
I don’t know what to say, so I stand there and let her drive away. It sounds arrogant as hell, but, girls do not turn me down—ever. I can always find a way to charm, flirt, and weasel my way in. Rejection like this is not something I’m accustomed to, and it flips a switch deep in my brain.
I am an asshole.
60
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Fish Eye
“Where are my fucking shoes?” Cat yells, scouring the house. “Have you seen them?” she asks as I’ve taken up residency on the sofa with a constant sports infusion. I’m watching college football late on Saturday afternoon.
Polishing off my sixth beer, I begrudgingly ask, “… Which pair?”
“The red pumps!” Cat bites, like I’m supposed to read her mind. Looking beneath the sofa, she crawls on the floor under my legs, which are outstretched on the coffee table. “God, this is filthy! Someone should clean this up! Where are they?” Her head pops up on the other side of me. “I wore them when I brought that guy home two weeks ago,” she contemplates, furrowing her brow and wiggling her lips. I hate how much of myself I see in her. Hopping up, she rambles, talking with her hands. “Tall. Blonde. Mustache. Good at oral. Horrible at sex.”
I roll my eyes and wave to the laundry room. “Ben.”
“Yes! He banged me on the washing machine!” She runs off with a renewed vigor.
Here are some cold hard facts.
I canceled my appointment with Dr. Harry, but we did a video session. He says I need to visit Colorado before the new year so he can run some tests, including bloodwork. Until then, I keep taking the pills like a happy little camper. I’m reasonably certain, if anything, they are making my neuroses worse.
Deacon and Iris are still missing. Both their tracking devices are offline. I don’t know if they removed or disabled them, but Trudy and Anna call frequently.
Trudy finally apologized for her behavior at the gas station. She uses emotions like no one’s business, and she claims she pissed me off so I wouldn’t change my mind. Piss me off to get my head out of the game.
Don’t fuck with a mother.
They’re damn mean.
I believe her, but my worst fear is Deacon and Iris got hitched in Vegas. Arguably, I deserve no less.
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 48
