by Kim Linwood
“Why?” I turn on my father, daring him to answer me.
What do I expect him to say? He called me home and brought me here himself. I’ve always known that while he loves me, family comes first and always will. Our stupid fucking Family.
His jaw clenches. “Sit down, Andrea.”
“No. Not until someone tells me what’s going on.”
Dad sighs and wipes a hand over his face. “You and Marco are the future of our families, and regardless of our past… disagreements, it’s become clear over the past few years that a united front will benefit all of us.”
“Well isn’t this cozy?” I snap. “Sorry, Marco, it’s nothing personal. I don’t even know you.”
He turns to his own father. “What is this? Is it happening or isn’t it? I thought you said this was all set.”
Giuseppe narrows his eyes at Dad. “Emilio? Can’t you control your daughter?”
Mom looks ready to explode, glaring at me like this mess is all my fault, but my father puts a hand on her back in warning. The atmosphere has gone from vaguely uncomfortable to thick with tension. Every cell in my being wants to scream and run away, but I can’t allow myself to freak out and start a literal war. The blood of people I care about would be on my hands.
Shit.
“I’m sorry. Could I have a minute? I only landed a few hours ago and I’m still not quite feeling myself.” I need to get out. There isn’t enough air. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Leah steps in before anyone can react, her face the only one showing an ounce of sympathy so far. “Of course, dear. I’m sure this is quite a shock.” The glance she throws my mother could wither a whole forest. “Especially if you didn’t know what was going on. Why don’t we—”
My mother stands tall in her skinny heels. Her face is frozen in a perfectly made up mask of anger. “You need a minute, darling? I’ll give it to you.” Her words drip poison, and her hand curls around my arm, pulling me away from Leah, the sharp points of her nails digging into my skin.
Giuseppe nods at Montana and tilts his head towards me.
We pull away from the others, my legs moving on their own accord. Everyone’s watching us. I have the bizarre urge to wave my arms and screech like a monkey just to see what they will do. Maybe it would get me out of this farce of an engagement. Nobody could possibly want to be married to a crazy woman.
“Stop being a spoiled little bitch and grow up,” my mother lovingly hisses into my ear.
“I’m the bitch? Well if I am, I came by it honestly, didn’t I?” My veins heat with fury as anger burns away the shock of the last few minutes.
We weave our way towards the back of the restaurant with Montana following at a respectful distance. Or maybe he just values his life too much to come between me and my mother right now.
“He’s the perfect husband. One day, the two of you will lead the most powerful Family Chicago has ever seen. You should be thanking me.”
“Thank you? Are you freakin’ kidding me?” I tear my arm away from her iron grip, her talons digging gouges into my forearm. “Oh, well then let’s see. Thank you for never being there. Thank you for never seeing me as anything but a bargaining chip. Thank you for being a bitch. And thank you for ruining my life.” I turn away so I don’t smack her.
She doesn’t respond, but her angry breathing is clearly audible even over the rising buzz of everyone in the restaurant having something to say about us. The stripes she left on my arm are bright white against my skin, just barely not bleeding.
Maybe the threat of an actual catfight is finally too much, because Montana steps forwards. “Gloria, I’ll make sure she’s alright.”
Her voice is tight and quivering with fury. “Fine. Deal with her.” Had the situation been any different, she’d mean deal with her in the Mafia way. I’m not totally convinced she’s not anyway. “I’ll go make sure Andrea hasn’t destroyed all of my hard work.” She strides back in a huff.
“Am I supposed to thank you too?” I grumble at Montana as I stalk towards the restrooms.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” His expression is unreadable.
Around the corner and down the hall, there are two doors on the right. One marked with a man with a hat and a cane, the other a woman wearing a flowing dress. With a cane I could beat my way out of here, but all I have is a dress, so I guess that tells me where I stand.
“Going to come in with me?” I snap at him over my shoulder.
The glowing exit light over the door we entered the restaurant by beckons me from the end of the corridor. For a moment, I imagine myself charging out of it and leaving everything behind. That’s probably why Montana is following me. Not for moral support, just to make sure the rabbit doesn’t spring her trap.
He doesn’t answer, simply pushing open the door to the women’s room and looking around before gesturing inside.
I put my hand on the door, but hesitate. “Did you know?”
“Yes.”
I see. “Did it occur to you I’d want to know?”
“Of course.”
No protests or excuses. Just a man doing his job.
Well, fuck him, too.
I lock the door firmly behind me. Then I sit down on the toilet, drop my face into my hands and cry. Tears run down my face, pulled up from the bottom of my trampled heart. Everything is crumbling around me, my future, my education, and what little freedom I pretended to have. None of it means anything in the face of what’s expected of me.
It’s what you do when your family is Family.
I stand up and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are red, and black lines of mascara are already trickling down my cheeks. I wipe the worst away with a wet tissue, but it doesn’t change the fact that the person staring back at me isn’t me.
My hair’s too big, my dress is too tight, and my lips are too red. It’s just someone dressed up to look the part.
I look like my mother. Like a trophy wife.
Turning the water on full blast, I wet my hands and run my fingers through my hair until it’s nothing but a loose tangle of broken waves.
There’s a knock on the door.
“I’m not done,” I yell. I might never be done.
The door rattles, and I watch with horror as the lock turns from the outside. “Relax, it’s only me.” Montana slips in and closes the door behind him.
“Oh my God! I could’ve been peeing or… naked!”
He smirks. “Seen it already.”
“This whole bursting in on women in the bathroom thing, is it just me, or is this a hobby of yours?”
“Just you, beautiful.”
I rip another tissue out of the box and blow my nose, not making any attempt to be dainty about it. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
“It just is.” He hesitates, looking towards the door. “They’re waiting, and I’m not sure how much time I can buy you.”
“I’m not sure I like you anymore, traitor.”
Montana nods, accepting my words when what I really want him to do is fix everything. I have no idea how he’d do that, but a part of me wants him to at least try.
He’s so perfect, really. Line him up with Marc and they’d be two tall, dark and handsome Italian peas in a pod. One rough, one smooth, both more trouble than they’re worth.
Except he’s all wrong. Which comes back to him being perfect since this whole messed up situation is all wrong too.
“I don’t think I can go out there,” I whisper.
“Then let’s go.”
“What?”
“Let’s go. Fuck ‘em all.” A sliver of the man who talked me into forgetting myself on a plane peeks through.
We couldn’t. Could we? “They’d lose their minds.”
“Probably.”
“My dad’s going to—”
“Leave it to me.”
Montana stands at the door and holds out his hand. For the first time this evening, it’s my choice if I want to take it or not, a
nd I’m not quite ready. Taking a deep breath, I nod and turn back to the mirror. More smudges. I do my best to wipe away my raccoon eyes.
“You look great, panda girl.”
“Shut up, Mississippi.” I slip my hand in his. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, just like they always do when we touch. “You should blame this on me. It’s not the first time I’ve run off on them. Probably the worst so far,” I admit with a shaky laugh, “but not the first.”
He pulls me into his side. “That was the plan.”
“Seriously?” I give him a shove and look up to find him grinning at me.
“Babe, right now I’m your bodyguard, not your keeper. If you run, it’s my job to follow and keep you safe. Besides, Emilio’s not going to shoot you. Me, on the other hand…”
“Point taken.”
We escape the bathroom and quickly make for the back door. Of course, Franco’s there, eyeing us darkly. “Do I want to know?”
“Give me ten minutes. Please,” I beg my cousin.
He closes his eyes and groans. “Your dad’s going to skin me alive.”
“Love you!” I kiss Franco’s cheek as we head out the door into the crisp fall air.
Montana throws his suit jacket over my shoulders, since going back for my coat is out of the question. I’m practically swimming in it, but I snuggle into the warmth. It smells like him, and I’m enjoying that way too much.
“So where’re we going? Mexico? Canada? Disneyworld?”
“I’d hate to spoil the surprise.”
13
Andrea
“…OOOOONNNN ANNDD OOOOOOONNNN…”
The howl of a trio of drunken office ladies trying to give Celine Dion a run for her money assaults our ears as Montana and I walk into the bar. I’ll be nice and say they’re definitely giving it their all.
“Karaoke, really?”
Montana quickly sweeps the place with his gaze before leading me deeper, closer to the stage. “It was open and walking distance. Are you feeling picky? We can always go back.”
“It’s perfect.”
“That’s what I thought.”
The place is a dive, but everyone’s laughing and having fun despite the smell of stale beer and the gaudy neon lights lining the walls. A middle aged guy with an impressive comb over steps up as the girls giggle their way back over to the bar for refills.
I fit right in with my fancy dress, bedhead hair and walk of shame makeup. It’s kinda nice. The first time all day, really.
“What’s your poison?” Montana whispers into my ear as I slide into a booth. The first chords of Stairway to Heaven start playing.
I shrug. “Anything, as long as it’s strong.”
He grins. “Be right back.”
I admire the view as he walks back to the bar. It’d be easier to hate him if he wasn’t so damn good looking. Somehow, after being betrayed by my parents, I find it hard to blame Montana for the craptacular situation I’m in right now.
Do I wish he’d told me? Sure, but other than a strange habit of busting in on me in bathrooms, what’s he really done? He’s just muscle, as much of a pawn as I am.
A couple old enough to be my grandparents start swaying to the music. The man, who's wearing a Spirit of ‘69 T-shirt, smiles lovingly at his wife as she holds up a lighter and sticks her fingers between her lips to whistle.
Rock on, old lady, rock on.
At least they seem happy. It’s more than I can hope for at this point.
Montana comes back and puts down a glass full of something clear and bubbly with a wedge of lime in front of me. “Gin and Tonic for the lady.” Then he slides into the booth across from me with a beer so dark it’s almost black, crowned by a thin layer of creamy foam.
I take a sip and cough. “Are you sure about the tonic part?”
“Pretty sure. You okay with that?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Stomach melting suits my mood.” The second sip goes down smoother now that I know what to expect.
Surprisingly enough, the accountant-looking guy on stage gives a rousing rendition of Led Zeppelin's angsty masterpiece. The final haunting notes flow from his lips to huge applause before he joins the older couple, planting a passionate kiss on the husband’s mouth as the wife laughs and grabs his ass.
Woah. Rock on, indeed.
Montana looks around, surveying the crowd. “Never been here, but it came highly recommended on Yelp. Apparently Stacey had her bachelorette party here and it was ‘out of this world’.”
“Who’s Stacey?”
“Someone’s wife now, I’m assuming. Though, the review was a few years old, so she could be someone’s ex by this point.”
“No, there’s been too much bad wedding news today. Let’s drink to Stacey and Mr. Stacey.”
Montana smiles and raises his glass. “Cheers.”
We clink our glasses together and I take another swig. Each swallow goes down easier than the last, cool and crisp. This place might need the gentle touch of a pressure hose and a belt sander, but they know their mixology. A short, well-dressed man heads to the stage with three women in cocktail dresses.
“What do you think?” I nod towards the group. “YMCA?”
“No way. With those dresses?”
I kick off my shoes and put my feet up on the bench beside him. “Who brings their own backup singers to a karaoke bar?” Living on a Prayer blasts out of the speakers and my eyes go wide. “It might be the gin talking, but this. Place. Is. Awesome.”
Montana laughs. “To Yelp.” We clink our glasses again, then he leans forwards, capturing me with those black eyes. “So, I figure this could go a couple ways. We can get smashed and you start crying and screaming about what just happened.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Next option. I know I have to, but I don’t want to think about it yet.”
“Okay, then we get smashed, get into a bar fight with the Bon Jovi’ettes over there and spend the night in the slammer.”
“Door number three, Memphis.”
“Fine.” He picks up my feet and puts them in his lap, rubbing his thumb along my arches and making me shiver. “We still get smashed, but instead of fighting, I fuck the frustration right out of you. Repeat as needed until you’re feeling better or we pass out.”
“From the sex, or the alcohol?”
He winks. “Leave room for a little mystery, pudding pop.”
“Let me think…” I finish off my drink and rattle the ice around in the glass. I’m going to need more of these if I want to forget why I’m here. “Can I go with three, and maybe combine it with a little bit of one afterwards? How are you on post-coital sobbing?”
“Not a big fan, sorry. I think it makes me seem less manly.”
I snort. “It would take a lot more than a few tears for that.”
Montana slides a hand over my calf, and his deep, brown eyes heat up. “Good to know. How about a little singing?”
On stage? Me?
“I’m going to need at least one refill. Ask me again after.” I blink in disbelief as the backup dancers spin in an obviously practiced motion. “It’s going to take a lot more liquid courage if I have to follow that.”
He nods in agreement, even though his glass is still only half finished. “Be right back.”
I take a sip of his beer while he’s gone, making a face at the taste. It’s like drinking bread. Dark bitter bread. The DJ turns up the volume for the big finish as group on stage wrap up the song, the lyrics burrowing into my already buzzed brain.
Is it really enough to hold on to what you’ve got? Maybe Gina should’ve dumped Tommy and run.
What if she had dreams too?
Thankfully, Montana doesn’t give me time to worry about the lives of the fake people from a Bon Jovi song. He returns with six shot glasses on a little tray, balanced precariously on top of two large glasses of water.
I raise an eyebrow. “Sure you can handle that, old man? Or is that what the water’s for?”
“Ha. Ha.” H
e sits down next to me instead of across this time. “Shots, isn’t that what the college kids are doing these days?”
“Was it that different back in the olden days?”
“No idea. I never went to college. This I picked up in Berlin.” Montana puts three glasses in front of me, and three in front of himself. “But I’m twenty-nine, not ninety-two.”
“What were you doing in Berlin?”
“Was stationed there for a while before they shipped us to Iraq.”
“Army?” I prod. Being around him is like sitting with an old friend—an old sexy friend. I forget sometimes how little we actually know about each other.
“Don’t make me spit in your drink.” His grin takes the sting out of his words. “Navy.”
It doesn’t surprise me that he was in the military, though most people I know grew up in the Mafia, serving their time in a different way.
“So… were you sailing sand ships or something?” I laugh and reach for one of the shot glasses.
With a glare, he slaps a hand over the top.
“No? Building sand forts?”
More glaring.
He sighs. “It doesn’t really occur to people where supplies come from, does it? Or the air support from the carriers. I wasn’t on the front lines, no, but someone has to keep the ports open or everyone’s screwed.”
“Sorry.”
“I should be used to it. My family didn’t really get it either. Still don’t.”
“So why’d you go?”
He runs a finger around the edge of one of the glasses. “It was probably my version of—where do you go to school?”
“Durham?”
“Yeah. Let me guess now that I know you a little better. You go there because it’s as far as you can get from your family without actually running away.”
Bingo. I nod.
“Same thing. I wasn’t about to sign myself up for more school, but enlisting was four years of freedom.”
I bump his shoulder playfully. “Freedom? I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone call military life freedom before.”
