by Jaci J
~~~~~
I should have known better. She gave up on that fight too easily. Nothing with London is ever easy, and I mean nothing. I let the little monster slip away, and now I’m paying for my fucking mistake.
“She did that?” Cam laughs, pointing at my poor car. Within a few hours, London was able to wreak havoc on my car.
Yes, I’m assuming she did this. The ‘I hate you’, written with blood red lipstick across my windshield was my first hint. My second is the gleaming metal mail opener sticking out of one of my punctured tires. She really is fucking crazy.
Rubbing at my temples, I try really goddamn hard to rub away the pounding headache.
“Looks like it.”
“I- I,” he stutters on his laugh. Hand to his stomach, he laughs, barely able to get his irritating words out. “I can’t believe she did that.” Sadly, I can.
~~~~~
“Fuck off!” she shouts at me when my fist meets her door. That’s not likely. I took a motherfucking taxi here since my car is now at the dealership. I stood on the sidewalk and hailed a goddamn cab to get to her. I’m not about to tuck tail and run on home.
“Not fucking likely, London. Open the door!” I beat on it hard enough to rattle against the frame.
“NO! Go away,” she screams though the door at me.
“Yes. I can, and will, do this all night, baby.” When will she learn? She says she hates me? Well, right back at you, princess. She’s got me standing out here talking to a closed door. “London, I swear to God―”
Practically falling into her apartment, she glares at me when she throws the door wide open. Her face is full of disgust when she takes in my disheveled state. The woman drives me mad. I forget to care about my appearance when I’m busy chasing her ass around.
“What do you want?”
“You popped my fucking tires.”
London smiles proudly, actually beaming at me when I remind her.
“Yeah, that was fun,” she sighs with satisfaction, rocking back on her heals with a delighted gleam in her eyes. I’m sure it was loads of fun.
“How’d you manage that?”
“I just, ya know, stabbed it in,” she declares, gesturing violently with her hands. “I shoved it between the rim and tire, sort of how I’d love to shove a knife between your ribs.”
“Why?”
“Why do I want to stab you between the ribs, or why did I stab your tires?” I give up. I’m being punished for loving her, and it’s a fucking sin of the worst kind. There is no better explanation for the hell she’s putting me through, every fucking day of my life.
I leave. I turn towards the door and I go. She’s won. Today is just not my day. Walking down the hall, I shake my head, trying to figure out how I got duped by London. The twisted bitch outplayed me.
Turning around, I take a few steps backwards, watching London who is standing in her doorway with her arms crossed and a smile from ear to ear, but I do have a little something for her before I go.
“London?” I call after her.
“What?” she snaps. I step back into the elevator, watching her eyes widen cautiously as I smile at her in return.
“We’ve got a work function tomorrow night … Formal. Be ready by eight, and wear a dress for me.” She looks shocked but nothing comes out before the elevator slides closed and I’m left feeling just the slightest bit of satisfaction.
Seven
Miss Non-Date-Ish
London
“So, is this like a date?” Matt asks with a giddy little giggle. Lord, you’d think he was the one going on this nondate. His excitement is unwarranted because this is so not a date. I’m not sure what the hell it is, but it is absolutely not a date. After Dante left me with his little something special last night, I had no choice but to go.
Smoothing my hair back, Matt twists the long strands around his hand in some twisty up-do. “Are you finally giving in?” He asks with hope in his voice. I almost choke on my wine when the words leave his mouth.
“Fuck no!”
Pursing his lips, Matt taps the comb against them thoughtfully. “I don’t know. This is all,” he says, waving his comb-wielding hand around my room, “very date-ish.” Staring at him in the mirror, I shake my head. He couldn’t be more wrong.
His eyes shift and I follow them over to the black velvet box on the counter that holds a beautiful dainty diamond bracelet inside of its soft walls, declaring that this is possibly a date. It’s not a date, but try telling Matt, the romantically inclined.
“It’s work, it’s not date-ish,” I clarify. I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince; Matt or myself. Dante seems to think it may be a date with his gift. I considered not going, but with Dante, I don’t know if it’s honestly a work thing or a lie, but I’m not willing to take the chance.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Matt argues. I’m going to slap him.
Clasping the bracelet around my wrist, I sigh. I’ve crumbled like a stale cookie. Matt would not let up while doing my hair, nagging at me until I gave in. I’m not sure if the bracelet is Dante’s idea of an actual gift from the heart, or if it’s one of his crazy personalities playing some sort of game with me. But it’s just too pretty to ignore, date or not.
Softly shaking my hand out, the delicate bracelet settles on top of my hand, the diamonds catching the light. It’s lovely - perfect, really. As usual, Dante has sucked me in and he’s not even here. Lord, help me.
There is no relationship, yet there is. We see each other every day. We work together. We fight like two crazy people. We fuck each other madly, and argue whenever we’re not fucking. It’s certainly a love/hate relationship.
I want to hate Dante and hold on to it like a life preserver so I don’t fucking drown in his bullshit. I want to push him away and punish him. I want to hate him, and I’m failing miserably.
“You look nice for your date.”
“Shut up, Matt. Now zip me up.”
~~~~~
Here I stand on the fucking sidewalk, dressed to kill and staring at the black limo idling at the curb like an asshole. Looking down at myself, I smile. I’m in my perfect floor-length, cobalt blue dress with it’s long, soft organza skirt and capped sleeve, fitted lace bodice. I look pretty, like really fucking pretty.
Would Dante notice? No, f course not because he’s still inside the limo, doing God knows what. I only know that he’s not out here opening my door and helping me in. He’s not complementing my really nice fucking dress―a dress he insisted I wear when he said that I must accompany him to some function. It’s a work thing he said, so here I am, but where the hell is he? Not acting like a gentleman, that’s where.
I open my own door and I help myself into the limo. Sliding in, I find myself in my usual spot, right next to Dante.
“Nice gentlemanly manners, asshole,” I mutter at him while situating myself. Looking up from his phone, he stares at me like it’s the first time he’s ever seen me and no, it’s not a stare full of adoration, it’s a stare like I’ve grown two fucking heads.
“What?” He implores, clearly exasperated with me already.
“You just left me standing on the sidewalk.” I point out to him, shoving my thumb back towards the door.
“And?” He asks. God, he’s dense.
“And, you were at least supposed to open the damn car door for me.”
“I was? Isn’t that a prerequisite for a date? Was this a date?” He asks, looking truly perplexed. Well, no, not when he puts it that way but he’s always opened my door. Why stop now?
“I thought you hated me? I’m really fucking confused here, London,” he growls, sitting his phone down. “What do you want from me?” I umm … I don’t know what I fucking want.
“Nothing. I don’t want anything from you.”
~~~~~
It’s the usual. Dante monopolizes everyone’s attention as soon as he sets foot in the grand hall. People stop mid-bite to stare. Drinks are set down and conversations are for f
orgotten. Hell, even the waltz is halted to watch him walk in.
I haven’t gotten used to the wonder Dante elicits; I’ve only grown immune to it. To everyone he’s something special, but to me, he’s a special something that involves a lot of vulgar names.
Arm wrapped around my waist, Dante escorts me through the room. “So, what is this work thing for?”
“Work,” he answers smoothly. Evasive is what he’s being.
“Yes, I got that when you yelled it out to me before disappearing into the elevator, but what kind of work thing is it for, exactly?” Sighing deeply, he rubs the back of his neck. He’s uncomfortable, and I know I’m about to hear the lie.
“The company donated to the cause. We were gifted an invitation for our contribution.” In other words, Dante donated money in order to get us in here, which got me here with him. It was his excuse to get me here.
Walking by a table, a woman in an elegant black dress reaches a hand out, placing what I assume is a program, in an uninterested Dante’s hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Marcello, for your generous contribution,” she fawns as he walks off without so much as a glance. Pulling at my waist, he hauls me in the opposite direction.
“Over there,” Dante points at a table, guiding me along with him. That wasn’t an invitation or a question.
“Yes, Boss,” I say sarcastically. Glancing down at me, he smirks and squares his shoulders.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he replies, softly squeezing my hip. “Boss,” he repeats, trying it out. “I think I like when you call me that.”
“Don’t get used to it, asshole.” I’m never calling him that again.
Rolling his eyes, he lets me go and gives me a soft little push towards our table, dismissing me when a man in a suit approaches him with an outstretched hand.
“Go. Sit. Stay out of trouble,” he whispers to me while taking the man’s hand in his.
“Dante,” the man booms in greeting.
“Ask nicely,” I demand, smiling between him and the suit standing next to us, waiting for Dante’s attention. Grabbing onto my shoulders, Dante spins me towards the table. “Go sit your pretty ass down, now.” With another little shove, he’s done with me. Dipshit.
Stomping my 5 inch gold Allenissima’s to the table I was so politely pointed to, I glare at Dante over my shoulder while he smirks back. When I’m trying to be funny, I’m not, but when I’m pissed off, I’m obviously extremely funny.
I stare a moment too long because before I know it, I’m mesmerized. He’s in a classic black three-piece, perfectly fitted suit. The jacket is open, and a suspicious cobalt blue tie is around his neck. He’s beautiful, but he’s just so wrong. Looking down at myself and back up at him, I can’t help but to smile: we’re perfect together. It’s just too bad I despise him for my life at the moment.
Turning towards the table, I stop the waiter and pick up a champagne flute. I look it over, twirling it between my fingers before downing the crisp, cool liquid. It’s a nice etched glass. It would make a great tool to gut Dante with I think while setting it back down in front of me, waiting for a refill, but alas, I don’t want to cause a scene so it’ll stay part of my dinnerware… for now.
Dante saunters up to the table thirty minutes later, all casual and effortless in his suit. Sliding seamlessly into his chair, he smiles at me before he busies himself with his watch. He’s incapable of sitting still. Right, left, and right again. Looking over his shoulder and back to me, he shifts around. “Dante?” Why is he so twitchy?
Lifting those inky black eyes, he smiles softly at me, erasing whatever weirdness he had going on a moment ago. “Let’s talk,” He mutters, shaking his head. Yes, lets do.
“So how have you been?” I mock. I don’t care how he’s been because I know. He’s been crazy. “Ambush any villages? Kill or terrorize any families lately?”
Sighing heavily, he rubs at his face. God, he’s so handsome. “Very cute, London. I’m wonderful though, thank you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, you’re wrong. I don’t care.” I couldn’t care less.
“I think you do you, little monster.”
It’s pretty goddamn irritating how comfortable I am just being me when I’m with Dante. Before I know it, I’ve consumed three glasses of wine and had two hours of endless arguments, back and forth banter, and laughs with the man who went from the man I loved to the man I hate.
Sitting at the table with Dante, who is ignoring everyone but me, Cam materializes next to me with his hand out, “Dance with me?” He asks, staring at Dante, taunting him. I can never turn down the chance to irritate Dante. Placing my hand in Cam’s, I let him help me up.
Rocking back and forth with Cam, I stare over his shoulder. He requested a dance and like the lady I pretend to be, I obliged. See? I can be sweet and accommodating.
“This shit is so boring,” he mutters by my ear. I couldn’t agree more, buddy.
“My dancing or this function?” I joke. Cam is a nice guy; laid back and funny. He’s the complete opposite of his cousin, which I like.
“These stuffy, self-righteous assholes are what makes these things boring.”
“I agree.”
Cam and I dance. We chat and we make fun of the crowd together. It’s lovely. I can sense Dante watching me. Glancing over my shoulder, I find his eyes locked onto me. A slow, salacious smile slides over his sinful mouth. Lifting his chin, he lets me know just how much he enjoys watching me when his smile is replaced with a devious smirk.
Deja vu, strong and overpowering, wraps around my heart and squeezes when I look into his eyes. We’ve definitely been here before.
I was here, feeling this, not so long ago; blind to his ways, lost in his eyes, mesmerized by his swagger. I was such a stupid, naive girl to the man Dante is deep inside. He’s a liar … a master manipulator. He’s the monster that I should have watched out for. Stupid, stupid me.
~~~~~
“He’s sweet,” Betty sighs, glancing over her shoulder at Dante’s who is now talking with a man and his young son. Throwing back the last of my wine, I give the empty glass the stank-eye. I’ve lost count of my drinks; five, six maybe? What’s the difference? What I haven’t lost count of are the compliments Betty has paid to Dante.
He’s kind and caring, sweet and smart, generous and giving, but she forgot a few. He’s crazy, pigheaded, bossy, and deceitful, but I get it―she loves him. To Betty, Dante is perfect, but to me, he’s irritating.
“Yeah, he’s … nice.”
Dante’s sister adds in her bit, talking up the man and telling me stories about when he was little. They’re both wonderful women and he loves them, so I get why they feel the way they do about the bastard. I just don’t share the same views as they do, but I listen and nod because they’re both so sweet.
I chat with Betty, who is entertaining when not trying to sell me on Dante. It’s clear she cares for him like someone would a son and I get it, I really do. I appreciate her love for him. He’s all these great and wonderful things to her, but he’s also something entirely different, too.
~~~~~
My drinks are catching up to me because before I know it, I’m excusing myself to head to the ladies room.
Stopped a few feet from our table is a nervous Drew, just a few steps directly in front of me. Shifting from foot to foot, he fidgets with his drink when I stare suspiciously at him. What does he want?
“Mrs. Marcello,” He murmurs timidly. What the fuck did he just call me?
“Miss DelaCourt,” I correct him immediately. I shut that shit down real quick. His eyes widen and he starts gnawing on his lip.
“Oh, my apologies, Miss …”
“Just London,” I stop him before he gets going. Dante put him up to this, I’m sure of it. He’s a sneaky bastard.
“I wanted to apologize for … well, for deceiving you.” Yeah I’m sure he’s super sorry, just like Dante’s sorry for sendin
g him to watch me.
“All is forgiven, Drew.” A small smile slides over his classically handsome face.
“Leo,” he corrects me with a determined nod. Whatever. Leo’s eyes do a quick inventory of my entire body from head to toe, and his smile broadens. “You look lovely this evening, London.” Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Leo. With a smile and a compliment, I exact my revenge on Dante. He thinks he’s so goddamn smart, but I’m smarter, and a little drunk, which helps me form a plan.
“Why thank you, Leo,” I whisper softly leaning into his body. Touching his arm, I run my fingers up his suit jacket. “And you look awfully handsome yourself.”
“Thank you,” he beams proudly.
“Leo, are you busy for lunch tomorrow?”
~~~~~
Standing at the mirror in the ladies room, I smear on a little lipstick and smile at my plotting, scheming self in the mirror. I’m a drunken genius.
I’m putting on the finishing touches when I drop the damn tube of lipstick on the damn floor. Well, there goes the whole genius thing, but that’s not all. It only goes downhill from there.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, deciding that I’m going for it.
The tube rolls under the vanity. Stepping back, I step on my dress, causing it to tear and my foot slips out from under me―I go down. I land directly on my ass, feet out in front of me and my back smacking against the wall with a thud. The stupid picture of a fancy Parisian washroom slides down the wall above me to land on my head. The corner of the picture catches my cheek on it’s way to the floor, stinging when it pierces my skin. You’ve got to be kidding me? Sagging my head in defeat, I decide tonight is not my night.
Heaving myself from the floor, I waddle back to the mirror. Leaning in, I see a raised, pink slice of blood running down my cheek. Seriously? Grabbing a paper towel, I wet it and hold it to my stinging cheek. I look down and see the giant hole in the hem of my pretty dress. I just want to run and give up. Why do I even bother with any of this anymore?
