by Mj Fields
“Sorry, pardon,” I murmur, knowing there’s little chance she heard me over the noise of the crowd.
“Malditos Americanos.” Whatever she said was delivered with venom.
“Move.” I give her the same attitude, more than ready to unleash even more American ’tude.
“Gabrielle, mover,” the voice, familiar, I look up as a hand takes mine, maneuvers me in front of him, and begins moving through the crowd.
I look back to see Momma Joe smirk, wink, and raise her complimentary glass of champagne.
“What do you need?” he asks, splaying his hand across my waist and pulling me tighter against his hard, really fucking hard, body.
“Out of here.” I close my eyes as and allow myself to let him lead.
Once I feel the evening air hit my face, I open my eyes and look around. We’re in an alley, it’s dark, and I can breathe again.
“Are you well?” He flexes his hand against my waist, and heat begins to rise beneath his touch.
“What are you doing here?”
When he doesn’t answer, I push his hand away, turn to face him, and step back, giving my body much-needed space from him.
His eyes are bloodshot and hooded a bit. Matteo Arias looks …
“Are you drunk?”
He holds up two fingers. “Light-weighted.”
I don’t know why but, even in my state, I smile then open the translation app that I downloaded on my phone, tap out, “Nothing wrong with that,” and show him.
“Goat and chicken hat?” he asks.
I quickly turn the phone and look at the screen, “Oh my God, no, it’s—”
“Joke.”
I look up to see he’s smiling.
His smile, his face, him … Matteo Arias is more beautiful than any piece of art that I have seen all day.
I lean back against the brick wall and smile at the ground as I say into the app, “Thanks for getting me out of there.” Then I show him the screen.
“My privileged.”
He means privilege, but there is no need to correct him.
I use the app again. “Your English was better at the concert.” I hand him my phone.
He laughs and says something into the app before handing it back to me.
I read it out load, “Translating is exhausting. It gives me a headache after at times. My brain shuts down after that. I like this app. But, to be honest, there isn’t much need for it when I’m with you. I can see what you feel in your eyes.”
Wow.
He takes the phone from me, dictates into it again, and then hands it back to me.
In order to stop my face from bursting into flames, I read this one to myself.
- Excuse me for being so forward, but you look stunning, Tris. But, so far, my favorite thing you’ve worn is my shirt.
I glance up at him then back down, biting my lip until I realize that I am.
A door is swung open and a woman, the same woman I believe, says his name, “Matteo!”
“Hush,” he whispers as he turns and shields me behind him.
“Matteo, le hemos vendido la última pieza, El ángel de las alas recortadas, a una Italiana.”
I pull out the app because the use of Italiana more than likely has something to do with Momma Joe.
He tells her that’s wonderful news.
She squeals and begins spewing something, and I read along.
- We are good together, Matteo. I’ve spoken to your lawyer and have agreed to sign the necessary paperwork. I will marry you, Matteo. I will be your wife.
“Maybe Francesca has it right. You’re all pigs.” I squeeze out from behind him and begin to walk back into the hell that I just escaped to get away from the hell I’m in.
He grabs my hand, stopping me, and she steps in front of the door, blocking me from going back in.
In plain English, she says, “I will not have you taking a lover if part of the marriage proposal clearly states abstaining from sexual activity with others publicly. She’s in the public.” She crosses her arms in front of her. “It is her or me.”
“May the heavens forgive me, it’s her. It’s Tris.”
I yank my hand away. “Been on this head-trip before. Bought a one-way ticket out. You can both go fuck yourselves.”
“Tris,” he calls after me as I push past the same bitch from the restaurant, Gabrielle.
“Oh, no, Matteo!”
I look back and see him sliding down the brick wall, his eyes fighting to stay open, and he says my name.
“Just lovely,” I grumble as I push past Gabrielle, who seems to freeze at the sight of a grown-ass man passing out.
“Tris?” Momma Joe calls behind me.
“Gotta light-weighted over here,” I groan as I sling his arm over my shoulders to help him stay on his feet.
When he chuckles softly and smiles, I look at him as I hoist him up. His dimple deepens just enough to look not only sexy as hell, but sweet and adorable.
“Oh, that’s not going to work. I’m immune to that shit right there.”
“Hospital,” Gabrielle finally speaks.
“No. Tris?”
“Momma Joe, can you have the car come back here so he isn’t splashed all over the internet tomorrow?”
“Of course, Tris.”
“Gracias,” he slurs.
Safely inside the car, I watch as he tries to tug at his tie.
“Let me.” I brush his hands away and quickly unknot it. Then I unbutton the top two buttons.
“Gracias,” he pants, rolling his head so his cheek rests against the leather seat and he’s looking at me.
“Are you okay?”
He closes his eyes and scrunches them together.
“Translation: pain?”
His lips briefly turn up in the corners.
Momma Joe opens the door and looks in. “I have a piece of art to pay for. Get him back to the hotel.”
“Where?”
“He’s staying at The Principal, too. I’ll grab a car and get there as soon as I can.”
“You’re letting me go alone with a boy?”
“That’s no boy. That’s a man. I think you can take him out if necessary. And, of course, Tris, I trust you.”
Before I can thank her, she hits the car roof and we begin to move.
When I feel his hand against mine, and his fingers slide between mine, I look back at him. He looks like he may throw up.
“Sorry I fucked up your proposal or whatever that—”
With his free hand, he cups my cheek, pulling my head back against the seat, and whispers, “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Apparently, you passing out erased my anxiety attac—”
He rests his thumb against my lips, and I close my eyes.
“Rest.”
Stripped
Tris
Getting him into his room, via the employee elevator would have been a chore had it not been for Miguel, the driver.
“Two glasses?” I joke as he sits in a chair and attempts to untie his leather dress shoes.
He forces out a quick, “Si.”
I drop down in front of him and begin to untie his shoe as he attempts to move it away from me.
“No.”
“Yes, si, knock it off.” I easily capture his foot and remove one shoe, looking up at him as I tug at his sock.
He narrows his eyes. “No.”
“Do you have troll toes, or are you just one of those guys who hates his feet touched?” I pull his sock off. “Of course, they’re perfect.”
“Translate,” he says breathlessly.
I pull my phone out of my bra where I shoved it, tap the app, and set it on his lap.
“I expected gnarly feet but, of course, they’re perfect.”
The app translates.
“Troll toes?”
The app translates in audio, “Dedos de los, dedos de los, dedos de.”
“Well, there you have it.” I laugh as I try to capture his other foot.
I look up at him and can tell by his expression that this truly bothers him. So, I do what we do in this family. Well, they do. I just flip shit and try to make him laugh.
“Dedos de los dedos de los dedos de.”
The app translates, “Fingers of the finger of the fingers of.”
We both smile, and I pull his other shoe off.
“That will totally be the chorus of the next song I write.”
“Your soul … extraordinary.”
“See? Now you’re definitely missing out on my other skills if this gets you saying all those kinds of things.”
“Skills?”
I stand up and nod.
He huffs. “Sexual.”
I roll my eyes, more at myself than him. “This is not sexual.” I take his coat sleeve and pull it off. “This is me being helpful.” The app does its thing as I continue. “You saying things like your soul is extraordinary is basically porn to a broken heart, so maybe you should watch your words, Matteo. I mean, my God, you have women accepting lame-ass proposals through your lawyer. You scold me about being sexual? So, Matteo, what the hell is that all about? Because I’m only seventeen?”
He sighs as he attempts to shrug out of his coat and mumbles something, and the app translates, “Don’t give a damn about seventeen. I know you’re a woman, for fuck’s sake. I will not break your heart.”
“Well: then”—I laugh—“he does have a broody side and is conceited. Throw in cheating asshole, and you’re exactly my type,” I joke as he paws at his shirt.
He huffs when the app translates and says, “No asshole. Conifiado pero realista.” Confident but realistic. He grows more agitated. “I need rest. Bed. Ahora. Then you salir, por favor.”
I help him as he stands and keep him upright as I guide him to the suite’s bedroom.
Once in the bed, he rolls to his left side. “Gracias.” He pauses then mumbles, “Now leave.”
“Sleep well, Matteo.”
I walk out of the bedroom then look back. I don’t feel comfortable leaving him like this—alone with no one to make sure he doesn’t throw up or need help.
He’s rich, like really rich, and he doesn’t have a person to help him when he needs it? I mean, I get wanting to be alone, but if he knows he can’t handle his alcohol, then why would he put himself in such a position?
Two fucking drinks? I almost laugh. Almost, because it’s actually not funny. It’s scary.
I send Momma Joe a text, telling her, He’s passed out, and I’ll be back to our suite when I know he’s okay. Love, T.
Her reply, I’ll be back to the hotel in less than fifteen minutes. Let me know if you need anything. Love you, M.J.
I reply without a thought. I wish Mom and Dad would trust me like you do. Love, T.
Her reply: Bella regazza, I was as much a mess as they are when my four were growing into men. You will be the same, my dear. Keep that in mind in the future. Unfortunately, manuals do not come out of your vagina when you give birth. Love you, M.J.
I reply, No babies in my future. Not now, not ever. Love, T.
Her reply, Never say never, dear one. Love you, M.J.
I made a promise to God, even though His existence is doubtful to me, one seeking absolution.
I heart the text.
I know in my heart that I did what was best, I do, and even Marcello, who is the biggest asshole on the planet, has never thrown it in my face. Sometimes, I wish he would have instead of everything else he has done.
I look in the mirror above the couch, something I try not to do unless I’m in the bathroom, when the glass is fogged over, and I wait to see the change, hear the monsters, feel the rushing anxiety, the sickness in my stomach, and the static.
It doesn’t come and, for some reason, that pisses me off.
Hell, I can’t even count on my monsters to show up when I need them.
“Why the hell do I need them?” I huff at my insanity. “Fuck it. This is a good thing, right?”
I walk around and tidy up the clothes that I removed from him and pace for about five minutes as I try to make sense of what is going on with me. Normally, a message from Marcello would send me into, at very least, a two-day funk. Today, the picture … I should be out for a week. And never have I brought it up in “casual” conversation, ever.
Matteo. It had to be Matteo Arias.
When I hear a muffled noise come from the room, I quickly turn and tiptoe toward the sound. When I see him opening the nightstand drawer and grabbing a bottle of pills, I immediately head toward the fridge to get him a water.
Hurrying back in, he obviously hasn’t a clue that I’m still here.
“I brought you water to—”
He whimpers a sad, “No. No. No.”
“Yes, yes, yes, Matteo. You want to be friends; you need to accept my help.”
He drops the small pill bottle. It certainly doesn’t look like an aspirin bottle; it looks more like a prescription bottle.
I pick up the tiny pills and begin putting them back in.
“Please,” he says, trying to reach the bottle. “One.”
His eyes begin to roll a bit, and my hands shake as I quickly hand him one.
He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, and I place the pill on it. Then he speaks in slurred Spanish, and I feel my anxiety creeping up.
“Not now, yellow fucker.”
I hurry out and grab my phone off the table. Then I rush back in as I reboot the app.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers, cradling his head.
“Tell me what to do, Matteo. Please, let me help you.”
“No, no. Go. Go now.” He curls into a ball on his side.
“No.” I sit down next to him and start doing what Mom would do, what Dad would do, what he did do—I begin rubbing his back in small, soft circles.
“Tris,” he sighs, “you should leave.”
“I’m not leaving until you feel better, or you let me take you to the hospital.”
“No hospital. No.”
“Fine, do what you tell me. Rest your head. Rest it on my lap.”
He responds, and then the app tells me, “I need to be on my left side. I cannot move. You should leave.”
I slide off the bed and hurry around it. Then I slide back in and pull his head onto my lap. “What hurts, Matteo?” I ask softly.
“Everything.”
“The worst?”
“Head.”
“Okay.” With one hand, I begin to rub his head nice and softly, careful not to pull his hair. With the other, I scrape my nails gently over his scalp.
“Tris,” he sighs.
“Hush. Rest.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
“Alma hermosa.”
“Anytime.”
It feels like forever, like an eternity, before his breathing evens out and he falls asleep.
When my phone alerts me of a message, I cringe, thinking it may wake him.
I toe off my shoes, knowing I can grab it with my bare toes without much hassle and do exactly that. I finally inch it to where I can grab it and quickly silence it before responding to what I assume is Momma Joe’s text.
It’s not. It’s an unknown number.
Youre new BF is a fucking dick. Tell him check himself. He comes at me again, I’ll come back with more than a fucking paint brush. (Italian flag emoji & black rose emoji) M.E.
Me: First, stay out of my inbox. As you know, it’s now filled with a hot Spanish flair. Second, check your class rank and your grammar. “You’re” slipping vale-dick-torian possibly (only because I’m not there. Still waiting for that thank you). And lastly, *laughy face emoji, laughy face emoji, laughy face emoji* okay, “capo dei capi.”(middle finger emoji) Not Yours.
“Fucker,” I hiss as I hit send.
“Tris?” Matteo says, and I
look down. “Thank you.”
“You’d have done it for me.”
“Anything.”
“Then kiss me.”
He does. He kisses me softly and sweetly, and I take a picture, memorializing the non-stage kiss.
When he pulls back, he looks up and sees me holding my phone in selfie position. “What are you doing? I feel better. You should go.”
“After you fall asleep, I will. Rest.”
“You should—”
I hold my finger over his soft lips. “Hush. Rest, por favor.”
He nods once and rests his head against me again. This time, however, he pushes his arm behind me and wraps the other around my waist.
I begin rubbing his head again. His hair is so soft and thick. I really hope this feels as good to him as it does to me.
My phone vibrates.
Unknown Number.
You’ve gotten your revenge. Come home. Stop fucking around. You’re supposed to be mine. (black rose emoji) M.E.
I reply with a picture, the one I just took.
I’m his. (middle finger emoji) NOT YOURS
I quickly block him then smile because, right now, for the first time in forever, I think I’m going to be all right.
Calm, at ease, monsters MIA, even with the monster instigator cranked up to WOW today, I am blissfully exhausted.
I lean down and inhale his scent—clay, leather, and musk. I instantly want to curl up with him and sleep. Instead, I tap out a message to Momma Joe.
He woke up with an awful headache and took a pill. He’s asleep now. Love, T.
Her reply: I’m glad he’s feeling better. I’m getting off the elevator now. Shall I knock or will you open the door for me? Love you, M.J.
I groan as I slide out from under him, careful to replace myself with a pillow, and then slide off the bed.
When my bare foot hits something, I look down.
The pill bottle.
After grabbing it, I read the name on the bottle, Arthur Schindler. The address on it is London, England. The name of the drug is peeled off but ends with an EN.
A light tap on the door startles me, even though I know it’s Momma Joe.
I should probably tell her, but something inside of me tells me not to.
I open the nightstand drawer, shove it in, and then I see a dozen more pill bottles. I glance at the labels, and the ones visible all say the same name, Adam Schindler.
