I’m on a mission to make him notice me in a different way. I want him to see me as sexy and cool, in fact everything I’m actually not.
Our guardian emerges from the house. Dario and I have christened her Miss Bossy. She’s been around for three years, and has given us about as much affection as a plank of wood. She’s so annoying that I can’t even be bothered to hate her.
“Get in the car, Lucky,” Miss Bossy says, fussing with her hair. “Dario,” she orders tartly, “say good-bye to your sister, and make it quick.”
Miss Bossy has been assigned to accompany me to Europe in spite of my protestations that I am quite capable of making the trip on my own. However, Gino insisted. “You go, she goes,” he’d barked at me. “When she delivers you safely to the school, she leaves. That’s it, no discussion.”
Gino. King of the “no discussion.”
Miss Bossy opens the car door and climbs inside.
Dario mouths “Jerko!” behind her back and starts kicking pebbles from the driveway toward the limo. They ping off the front of the car.
“Quit it,” Marco says sharply.
Dario continues scowling. Like I said, he’s not happy I’m leaving.
I run over, hug my brother, and whisper in his ear, “Stay cool, don’t let ’em get you down. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Dario tries to keep it together, but I can see the frustration and sadness in his blue eyes; he’s actually holding back tears. I feel terrible.
“C’mon, Lucky,” Marco says, sounding impatient like he really can’t be bothered with this. “You don’t wanna miss your plane.”
Ah yes, Mister Handsome, that’s exactly what I want to do.
I give Dario one final hug and blurt out, “Love ya,” which of course embarrasses the crap out of him.
Dario mumbles something back, and suddenly I find myself sitting in the limo and we are off.
Gino is nowhere to be seen. He’s away on a business trip.
What else is new?
CHAPTER TWO
The plane ride to Europe is endlessly long and boring. Fortunately, to Miss Bossy’s annoyance, I am not seated next to her. I am seated beside a voluptuous bimbo in her forties who seems to be freaked out by flying. The woman has overbleached blonde hair, and is wearing an astonishing amount of caked-on eye makeup. Her skirt is so short that it barely covers her leopard thong. I get several unwelcome flashes before she downs two Mimosas, covers herself with a blanket, and falls into a drug-induced sleep. Earlier I noted she slurped down a couple of sleeping pills with her booze. Nice. To my delight I score a window seat, which means I don’t have to bother with her. Instead I gaze out the window, thinking about Marco. Even though he escorted me to the airport, does he even realize I exist? He never speaks to me except to bark orders. He barely looks at me. Does he have a girlfriend? What does he do when he’s not busy trailing Gino? What exactly is his deal?
Marco’s attitude toward me sucks.
I sneak a Cosmopolitan magazine off sleeping bimbo’s lap, and read about how to give a man the orgasm of his life.
Hmm… sex… not a subject I know a ton about. To my chagrin I’ve never even been kissed—and that’s because I’ve never spent time in the company of boys, thanks to Gino and his protective ways. Like I said—since my mom’s murder, me and Dario have been kept virtual prisoners.
Oh yes—you can double-bet that I plan on making up for my life of seclusion. Indeed I do. An adventure lies ahead, and I’m totally ready to run with it.
Halfway across the ocean, sleeping bimbo awakes and immediately turns into Chatty Cathy. She starts giving me an extremely tedious rundown of her extremely boring life.
I attempt to appear interested, but it doesn’t work and, halfway through her discourse on why all men are dirty dogs, I drift off into a welcome snooze.
She doesn’t speak to me again.
~ ~ ~
Upon landing, Miss Bossy discovers there is another girl from Los Angeles aboard who is also on her way to L’Evier. She is a tall girl, taller than me, and I’m five seven. She has long red hair worn in a ponytail, and a pale complexion. I hate her outfit, all neat and buttoned up, while I have on jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt—much to Miss Bossy’s annoyance. She’d tried to get me to change before we left L.A., but I was having none of it. It wasn’t as if she could force me. No way.
The girl and I stare at each other while waiting for our luggage and the arrival of the L’Evier car that’s supposed to meet us.
“I’m Lucky,” I finally say.
She frowns. “I’m not,” she says with a bitter twist. “My parents are forcing me to do this.”
“Uh… I mean my name is Lucky,” I explain.
She gives me a disgusted look. “That’s your name?” she says, as if she’s never heard anything quite so ridiculous.
She should only know who I’m named after—the notorious gangster Lucky Luciano, whom I guess Gino must’ve hung with way back in his criminal days.
“Yup,” I say. “That’s my name. What’s yours?”
She hesitates for a moment before revealing that her name is Elizabeth Kate Farrell, only most people call her Liz.
Not a bad name, although no way as cool as Lucky.
The truth is that I love my name—it’s a one-off, nobody else has it. Besides, if my mom agreed to name me Lucky, then it’s all good. It’s the “Saint” I’m having a problem with.
“Why are your parents forcing you?” I ask, curious as ever.
“You want the truth or the story I’m supposed to tell?” she says, tugging on her red ponytail.
“Uh, let’s go with the truth,” I mumble, delighted that someone else might have something to hide.
Liz gives me a long penetrating look, obviously trying to decide if she can trust me or not.
I stare right back at her, challenging her with my eyes, willing her to go for it.
“Got pregnant. Had an abortion. Now here I am. Banished.”
Liz says this all in a very matter-of-fact way. I am totally stunned. Pregnant. An abortion. How old is she anyway?
“Wow,” I manage. “That’s heavy.”
“You think?” she says with a sarcastic grimace.
And then Miss Bossy brings over an elderly emaciated man with pointed features, watery eyes, and a thin moustache. Apparently he is a teacher from L’Evier sent to drive us to the school, located a good hour and a half away from the airport.
The man speaks English with a thick foreign accent. “Come you with me, young ladies,” he says, mouth twitching, which causes his whiskery moustache to do a funny little dance. “I am Mr. Lindstrom.”
We follow him, trailed by a fat porter who wheels our luggage while breathing heavily, as if near to a major collapse.
By this time I am tired, confused, and filled with questions I wish to ask Liz. If she was pregnant that meant she’d had sex. And if she’d had sex that meant she knew all about it.
As a virgin with absolutely no experience I need to know everything.
It’s essential. Details, please. Everything!
* * *
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Lovers and Gamblers Page 76
