As she ran her hands over it she said, “Nice ink. What’s this mean?”
His eyes closed, his cock still like an iron pole under the sheet, he muttered, “Sempre famiglia. It means ‘family forever’ in Italian.”
“You speak Italian?” Why was she initiating all the conversation with this guy?
“Enough to find a beer, a bed, and a fuck. And to tell somebody to fuck off. But no, not really.”
“Huh. That surprises me. Seems like there’s a ton of Italians around here. More even than in the city.”
“There are. It was an early settlement for dagos off the boat at Ellis. But I guess there was a big push for assimilation around the time my people came over, and the language kind of died out in a lot of families. Most of my buds don’t speak it, either.”
She was working her way down his thick right thigh, and for a while they were quiet, though he was guarding—his muscles tightening in anticipation of her touch—so she knew she was getting to another problem area. Then she worked her way to his knee, which was a knot of ruched scars.
“Before you ask, Little Miss Nosy, I had my knee blown out for me about six years ago. I got a shiny new one.”
“Sorry. I don’t usually pester my clients.” That apology came out smoothly. Usually, she had to practice those.
He chuckled. His voice was deep, and his chuckles sort of rumbled. “S’fine. It’s entertaining. You don’t know when to shut up any more than I do.”
Emboldened by his indulgence, she ran her hand lightly over his scarred knee. “I have other clients who’ve had knee replacement. Their scarring isn’t as bad as this.” She stopped and replayed what she’d just said. “Um, not that this is ugly.”
Again the rumbly laugh. “Yeah, it is. I got no misperceptions on that point. The guy that blew it put my kneecap through the skin.”
“Jesus fuck!”
“No joke.”
“And you still surf and hike and whatever?”
“Sure. The new one took just fine.”
She wanted to ask more—like what the fuck he’d been doing that somebody could tear his kneecap off like that—but they were running low on time, and she still had another leg and a half to do. Plus, she really had been Little Miss Nosy. Which was so fucking weird and, frankly, freaking her out. So she got quiet, and he was quiet, and she finished his massage.
He had good feet.
When it was over, she got him his water, and he handed her a little envelope, and she led him back up front. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t say more to her except to thank her. And then he left.
Manny felt weird. That had been the weirdest session she’d ever had. It had been, like, intimate, or something. Just weird.
oOo
She was exhausted at the end of the day and not in the mood for company, not even Dimi. And certainly not his crew of dorks that, with him, called themselves Fierce Ferret. But it was band practice night, and she needed to at least check in and see how things were going. She’d lined up gigs for the next four weekends—two hole in the wall clubs down the coast, one of which was part of Battle of the Bands, a wedding, and a bar mitzvah. They did different setlists for different kinds of gigs.
Manny always thought it was funny as fuck that parents would book a band called Fierce Ferret, which promoted itself as an old-style punk crew, for their kid’s party and then be all shocked when they got people with piercings, ink, androgynous makeup and ‘edgy’ hair setting up on stage. But they took their original songs off the setlist for the bar/bat mitzvahs and weddings. Mostly, they just played covers for those gigs.
Before she made her way about halfway toward Providence, to the shack the band called home, Manny stopped at her own little apartment. She’d only had it a month or so, but she’d made it into her safe place. She’d done that within two days. It was a mess, the walls covered with all kinds of her special things, the flat surfaces stacked with books and papers and all manner of treasures, because she liked clutter. She needed clutter, really. Not filth, but clutter. It made her feel less isolated when she was surrounded by stuff.
Her life was dictated by her competing needs to be alone and to be connected to other people. When she was a child, she’d had no ability whatsoever to walk the ephemeral line between those incompatible notions. The resulting confusion and crisis had gone badly for her and her family. Sometimes very badly. But they’d stuck it out with her.
It was hard to be a kid who couldn’t distinguish between a loving touch and a hostile touch. It was hard to be the family of that kid, too.
But she had coping strategies now, and she had learned to interpret people and situations in ways more like normal people did. She just had to work at things other people did naturally. When somebody touched her, she had a whole conversation with herself about context clues and what that touch probably meant. A day out in the world therefore exhausted her.
She got home and stripped out of her work clothes, then took a quick shower to rid herself of the smell of the massage oils and aromatherapy bullshit. Most people loved that mingled scent, found it relaxing—which, of course, was the point. But by the end of a day, Manny could barely stand it. So she lathered herself up with pomegranate-scented soap and shampoo, which was sweet and yummy and refreshing without being cloying, and it kicked that whole lavender-sage-whatever crap away.
Then she dressed in clothes she felt more comfortable in—skinny, shredded jeans, burnished red Docs, a Ramones t-shirt, and her jewelry and makeup. Feeling like Manny again and not Emma, she heated herself up a microwave burrito, tossed back her meds with some orange juice, grabbed her keys, and headed to the Ferret Cage.
That was what the band called their house. They were such dorks.
oOo
Fierce Ferret was Manny’s little brother, Dmitri, on lead vocals; his best buds, Seth, on lead guitar, and Kevin, on drums; and Gigi, the hot Asian chick who’d answered their online ad, on bass.
Manny had trouble liking people, as a rule. But she really could not fucking stand Gigi, who thought she was uber-everything. Uber-hot, uber-talented, uber-smart, uber-what the fuck ever. She acted like she was too good for this little local band.
And all the guys seemed to agree. They all wanted in her pants. And she handed out access passes to those pants like little gold stars. When one of the guys did what she wanted, he got a trip to Gigiland.
She was a fricking bassist. She had a self-serving spiel she did about how important bass was, but as far as Manny was concerned, bassists were a dime a dozen. Manny herself could play bass. A little. Not that she’d get on stage to do it.
Gigi knew exactly how Manny felt, because Manny didn’t bother to hide it. Too much work, and not her problem. She was waaaaay more important to the band, seeing as how she was the only reason any of them earned a hot red cent.
Also, Manny was perfectly willing—happy, even—to cut a bitch who pissed her off. Or at least beat her quiet. She was small, but she knew how to be nasty.
Gigi seemed to understand that, and didn’t usually make too much trouble when Manny was around. But today, there had obviously been some drama before Manny got there. Even she could figure that out, because not a damn one of them was talking to any other of them, and it looked like Gigi wasn’t even around.
Awesome.
She went to her brother, and he hugged her. Dmitri had clearance to touch her whenever he wanted. She knew how to process his touches, and she wanted them. They’d been in each other’s corner since they’d been a family.
“I thought you’d be practicing by now, Dimi. Saturday is a Battle gig.”
“I know. We’ll get to it. Just having a moment, I guess.”
“What happened?”
“Usual shit. Kevin is pissed that Gigi and Seth were fucking in the living room last night. Kev said some shit, then Seth said some shit, and there was more shit, and then Gigi said she couldn’t deal with such babies and flounced out.” He shrugged. “I know where she goes. I’ll go
get her in a minute. She needs a minute to be dramatic.”
Knowing that her brother had his own hard-on for the Asian Princess of Garage Punk and also that he knew well how she felt, Manny kept her opinions to herself for once. “Okay, well. I’ve got some updates for the Battle gig and for the wedding next weekend. Can you go get her now so we can have a band meeting?”
He sighed. “Yeah. Sure. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in ten.”
oOo
The band meeting was tense, band practice went badly, there was another big blow-out that Manny couldn’t figure out what it was about, and by the end of the night, she was a near basket-case from trying to navigate all the emotions around her, and Dmitri hated everybody but her.
She offered to let him crash on her sofa so he could get some distance, and he took her up on it. So she drove him back to the coast.
She knew very well that she should go straight home and get calm. Fireworks happened when she wasn’t calm. But Dmitri wasn’t like her. He needed to expend excess energy, and he was practically bouncing with excess energy. He wanted to hit the clubs.
Manny couldn’t handle that, but she compromised. There was a bar in Quiet Cove that had a rep for getting rowdy. That wasn’t exactly the kind of wild night Dmitri was looking for, but maybe she could take him in for just a drink or two and then get home.
3
Luca felt a lot better after the massage. That little shit was really good. Mouthy, but good.
Actually, he’d enjoyed the mouth. He didn’t often meet girls who cared so little what people thought about the things they said. As somebody who found himself in trouble of one kind or another fairly often for speaking his mind before his mind had finished thinking, he could appreciate the unfiltered utterance.
She was a slight little thing, not his type at all. He preferred blondes with a little curve to them. One of his favorite spots on the female body was the join of hip and waist, that flare as the hip widened from the cut of a tight waist. A great place to get a firm grip. He especially liked it if he could get his thumbs into a pair of ass dimples while he was holding a woman like that. Mmmm.
Also tits, obviously. Tits were a fave, too. Little Miss Emma-Manny-Emmanuelle didn’t seem to have much of those, either.
There might have been a pierced tongue, though. Hard to tell, since he’d spent most of his time with his face through the headrest. But he thought he’d seen a little flash once or twice. That could be interesting.
And damn, she had a pair of eyes on her. A blue like he’d never seen before. They practically glowed. She hadn’t looked him in the eye often, but when she had, he’d felt pinned.
Anyway, whatever. He supposed he was thinking about her because he’d expected to have Heather and get some loving with his massage. Instead, he’d ended it with a massive hard-on and no relief in sight. Except the relief when he’d yanked one off in the blue room at the Westerly site he’d gone to right after.
He’d have preferred not to think about that. Jerking off in a fucking port-a-potty had to be a new low. But his cock had refused to calm down on its own.
He kept thinking about the little bit of a thing, what it would have been like if she’d climbed on up and straddled him on the table, like Heather sometimes did.
Those little hands with their black nails digging into his muscles. What he just knew was a tight little pussy gripping his cock. He bet she was shaved. She looked like a shaver.
Fuck, he was getting up again. Luca cleared his throat and shook his head. He pulled into the lot at the end of the block on Gannet Street. Carlo had invited him to dinner at the house, but he’d declined, saying he had a date. He didn’t, but for some reason, he was having trouble lately facing the domestic bliss of the house on Caravel Road. Everybody was in love over there. Pop and Mrs. D., Carlo and Sabina, fuck, even little Trey was in love with the damn dog. And Rosa had a new boyfriend and could talk about little else. The romance was thick enough to make a fella ill.
He supposed he could hang out with Joey, but Joey was such a sad sack. And fucking angry. Luca was finding the limits of his sympathy. It had been almost a year since he’d been shot, and still he sat around like a lump, growling at anyone but Trey. Luca felt like a heel, but he just couldn’t deal with that shit anymore, either.
They needed to find something for Joey to do. He wasn’t a moron—well, no more than he’d ever been. He simply couldn’t get around as well, or talk as easily. He could fucking work. He needed to fucking work.
Not a problem to be solved right this second, though. So Luca parked and walked down the block to Quinn’s. He’d get an overdone burger and sit at the bar with Hugh. Hugh was always good for a gripe session. And Rhiannon was off tonight, so he didn’t have to sweat some new awkwardness with her after last night.
It was still pretty early, not even seven o’clock, and it was a weeknight, so the place was close to empty. It wasn’t ever totally empty during open hours in the summer, but there was a lull in the later afternoon to past dinner time. Hugh didn’t do a happy hour—mainly because the kind of people who went looking for happy hours were not the kind of people he wanted in his pub—and his menu couldn’t be called extensive. There was a bit of a rush around noon, because his food was quick and cheap for lunch, and then there were some hangers-on after that, people who’d started drinking with their basket of chicken tenders and then just kept going. Then the place got quiet until around eight, when the locals poured in after their family dinners or whatever. And the summer people, too. Those who wanted to ‘experience’ the ‘real’ Quiet Cove and get off the tourist path. There were always some of them around.
By about ten, the jukebox would be hopping, games of pool and darts would be lined up, and people would be getting a good, honest drunk on. Things got loud most nights, but not out of control. Hugh kept a tight fist around the place. People who got out of hand got shown the door. If they didn’t want to see that door, they got helped out the back.
That was where things like last night happened.
Luca was sort of an unofficial bouncer when he was there. He and Hugh went back a ways, to their mutual fighting days. Hugh had about ten years on him and had been a kind of mentor. It had been Hugh, a straight-up heavyweight boxer, who’d suggested that Luca—who was having middling success in the ring but not really going anywhere, but who’d wrestled in school and done some martial arts training and had a naturally acrobatic kind of grace—transition from boxing to MMA. And Luca had been considerably more successful in the cage—right up to the point he’d almost been crippled.
He sat down at the end of the bar nearest the wait station. Hugh poured him a beer from a tap.
“Hey, Luc. You eatin’, too?” He slid the glass over.
“Yeah. Just a burger, like usual.” That meant double patty, two cheeses, and bacon. Well done. Luca liked his steak still breathing but his burgers fully dead.
Hugh nodded and opened the swinging kitchen door to shout the order, then came back. “How’s your arm? You were favoring it pretty good last night.”
Luca shrugged his right shoulder. “Not bad now. Had a massage, got it rubbed out.”
Hugh smirked. “I bet. Heather?”
“No, actually. New girl. Did a wicked good job. Hey—I’ll take a shot of Jack, too.”
“A new one for your lineup of blondes?” Hugh poured him a shot.
Luca laughed and tossed the Jack back. “Fuck you, man. And no. Just got a massage.”
“Not hot, huh?”
“She was hot enough,” Luca shrugged. “Just not my type. Plus, just met her. What do you think I am?”
“A ho. That’s what you are, buddy.”
Luca flipped Hugh off. “Envy is a deadly sin, man.” Hugh had been divorced for several years, since his wife had moved out and served him papers, unhappy with the life of a fight wife. Ironically, he’d retired from the ring less than two years later and had opened this pub. These days, as far as Luca knew, Hugh didn’t ge
t much play. He could have it if he wanted it—Luca saw chicks flirting with him every night—but he didn’t have much interest.
“Yeah, I know. I saw Se7en.” Hugh poured himself a beer and leaned on the bar. The two men talked aimlessly in the way of old friends without much news, just shooting the breeze about sports, chicks, and shit going on around town, while Luca ate his dinner and Hugh served customers at the bar, and the pub started to fill up.
Lynne came in around nine-thirty or so and sat down on the stool next to him. They’d known each other since grade school and had been playing around for years, whenever she was between serious things. Lynne liked having a boyfriend, but she got bored quickly. So she was between serious things fairly often—and currently.
Touch (The Pagano Family Book 2) Page 3
