A door screeches open and—
“Frizzy!” The annoying male voice ushers me into wherever we are by tugging at my hand and yanking me next to him. “Your face has never looked more beautiful.” Baz embraces me with a chuckle. “Let’s get this off,” he says as he tugs on the eye mask.
I squeeze my eyes and when the space before me comes into focus, I realize we’re in some kind of cold and sterile space. The screech of the door and the concrete floor suggest a warehouse, but the stark white walls and the absence of any adornments suggest a possible location for an illegal organ harvesting operation. Of course, my mind is in a dark space right now and having recently watched Eli Roth’s Hostel isn’t helping. “Bazzy, if you were wearing hospital scrubs, I’d be a blur out that door.” I gesture with my thumb to the door behind me.
“Oh, Izzy,” he tsks at me. “I know better than to clue you in. The scrubs are in the other room, along with a few sharp objects and a rather large container of dry ice.” It doesn’t surprise me that he knew what I was getting at; he did watch the movie with me. “Now, if we can proceed…” he gestures towards another door, “the dry ice is melting.”
“You do know that dry ice doesn’t actually melt.”
With a shake of his head, Baz mumbles something under his breath about being a know-it-all. He grumbles something else, but I clearly hear him follow it with, “I don’t know why I’m helping.”
Mazzy shoves his shoulder and he opens the door. Suddenly the sterile silence is replaced with music. But not just any music…as we enter, the song switches from Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” to an instrumental version of “Beauty and the Beast.” But what happened to the vast room before me with this change blew my mind.
What was conceivably a warehouse was something more like a warehouse turned art gallery. Pop-up, temporary walls were everywhere. As I studied the immense room, the flashing images on the walls began to register. The room was a timeline of Diego’s and my relationship. From start to present, there was our life together set up as a photo montage of our love.
I walk to examine the closest set of walls. A gasp escapes my mouth when I discover the incredible amount of detail from our lives together put into this project.
I feel Mazzy hovering just over my shoulder from behind me. “He started working on this before the wedding,” she informs. I look back at her incredulously. She just shrugs.
“How? Who?” And no sooner do I ask that last question, do I realize, I know the answer. Shock fills my face, “You! Holy shit, Mazzy. This is incredible.” I stumble and trip over whatever words tried to follow.
“I’ll concede that it’s incredible because the subject matter certainly is incredible.” She beams at the images flashing before us. “I just simply collected them.” Her modesty where her art is concerned is staggering. If there was one thing, Mazzy did better than produce music it was creating something from nothing, finding the masterpiece from within.
“You are now listening to—” the music stops and a DJ’s voice breaks through the short-lived silence. Lights and the flashing images from around the room dim except for where we’re currently standing. “—the kind of life and love people write songs about.”
When Green Day’s “Good Riddance” comes on, I can’t help the chuckle. And the wall before us becomes a projection of our early days. Pictures I didn’t know existed mixed with those I did play out across the small wall while an animated silhouette of a couple plays out our early beginnings in the foreground. As the couple moves, so must we. Sometimes they would stop and admire the images as did I.
The music continues through a playlist that could be the soundtrack of our life together. It’s evident that Diego with the help of Mazzy put a lot of thought into this project. From song choices to arrangement, the music along with brief breaks for words from the show’s DJ told our story even without the imagery. Our story played across the walls and jumped to the next set when it ran out of space. Directional arrows or digital neon signs would help lead the way when the next direction was uncertain.
Forgotten was the heartache that waited for me when this walk down memory lane ends. Forgotten was Sasha Stafford, the waiting and invasive paparazzi, and the incessant media outlets vying for an inside scoop from the “scorned wife.”
The story took me through the tremendous warehouse and a lifetime of memories all the way back to where we started. The images of our life together disappeared and we were left with just the silhouette versions of Diego and me. Diego’s silhouette dips me in his signature, over-the-top display of affection and kisses me. Well, the silhouette version of me.
She’s left standing there, staring at him as he walks through the door projected on the door we walked in. As she stood there alone, the sadness filled my heart and leaked from my eyes. But before the first teardrop could fall from my face, what happened next took my breath away.
Chapter Thirty: If You’re Going Through Hell
March 2007
Another week has gone by and the separation is getting to us both. Sure, our covert meetings and endless phone calls keep us connected, but the physical space between us threatens to be more than either of us can handle.
On the plus side, I contacted Edward Jameson a few days after the charity event where we officially met. His insight into some of Sasha’s past endeavors was enlightening and set me on the right path to find the nail in her coffin. “I love that woman like she was my own daughter, but she has a mean streak to go with her sense of entitlement that is beyond frightening. I don’t know how Bean never heard the rumors, but believe you me, there have been many. Of course, you’ll never find them in print. That she-devil could charm a snake-charmer, but that didn’t stop the footballers from talking.” When I tried to interject, to explain, he stopped me before I could start. He explained he knew about the clause in the trust left by Sasha’s mother, how his friend was in denial about Sasha finding that someone special. “The problem is,” Edward had said, “Sasha is likely incapable of finding someone else special.” He said he was sure that Sasha was the cause and effect behind many of the fallen deals for players and coaches. “When news of your wedding came with the news of you signing with London United, Sasha took on an even bigger role with the team and its players. Bean was so excited, he couldn’t see the forest for the trees.” He went on to give me names to look into. He even suggested some media outlets that might be willing to help. When we were done with the ugliness at hand, Edward offered some words of advice and hope. “Don’t give up. Remember what you’re fighting for and—as cliché as it sounds—what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Please call if I can help.”
That was about two days ago. The names he’d given me have proven to be mostly helpful, particularly the media outlets. While Ken and his team continue to look into it, I find myself getting ready for yet another dog and pony show for Sasha.
Tonight’s event is a who’s who gathering for the international women’s charity, We Are Women. When I discovered what tonight’s event was, I cringed. After Izzy recovered from losing the baby, she put her focus into this charity. I know she hasn’t done anything with them in an official capacity, but she takes every opportunity to support them.
Of course, she confirmed my suspicion that she’d be going during one of our late-night conversations. “I’ll be there,” she’d said. “As planned.” My stomach had threatened to revolt. Seeing Izzy there and not being there with her will be harder than any match I’ve played on the field. The trepidation in her words elicited a seismic reaction large enough to shake the foundation of the dam holding in the contents of my stomach.
I jostle the image and memories of that conversation from my mind and take in my reflection. If I had to describe myself, I’m sure the masses would not see what I see: defeated and hollow, the shell of a man under duress. If you were t
o ask me, the monkey suit only makes me look worse. Maybe it’s because tonight’s monkey suit is compliments of Sasha. I chose out of Izzy’s book and decided to pick my battles. The suit was of no consequence to me, so I didn’t fight her on it.
Bzzz…bzzz, the vibrating ringer on my cell phone buzzes through my self-assessment. Caller ID says it’s Sasha, the clock on it says it’s twenty minutes from seeing Izzy. I tussle with the ideas of making Sasha wait and being on time to see Izzy as soon as possible. While the consequences to the first of the two options are inconsequential, the real struggle is in seeing Izzy and noticing the sullen look when she sees me.
“Fuck it,” I toss the phone back in my suit pocket and grab my coat from the table in the foyer. Better to see her than not.
Getting down to Sasha and her waiting limousine had it perks. Between being timely and dressed appropriately, Sasha was rendered completely speechless for the majority of the ride to the venue. When the silence continued, I laughed out loud at the absurdity. Could it really be that easy to shake her up?
“Care to let me in the on the joke, Santo Feo?”
And just like that, she’s rankled my amused state. “Careful, Sasha,” I warn. “Your desperation—albeit amusing—is giving you creases in your face,” I spit back.
She’s the perfect shade of red when we pull up to the event’s red carpet. I shake in silent amusement as our door is opened. I turn around after getting out and offer her my arm. “You are absolutely camera ready,” I declare to her.
I couldn’t have planned her reaction better. As she steps from the limo, her face becomes a scowl with the rage-colored blush still in place. I tuck her arm under my own and place her hand on my forearm with the most genuine smile I’ve managed in Sasha’s presence. The cameras flash and I’m elated that our contradicting expressions, especially her unmistakable discomfort and disgust, are being captured by all those in attendance.
She can’t regain her composure fast enough as she resorts to “shielding her eyes” from the flashes with her free arm. I think the span of my smile grows wider as she struggles to school her expression.
We dodge every question aimed at us. Well, she dodges while I continue to be silently exhilarated by her continued discomfort. We passed several media personalities wondering about her dress, my suit, and our relationship. Still she ambled by each. Until one question.
“How will tonight go with Diego’s estranged wife as one of the primary benefactors of the night’s events go?”
The first time she was asked, I hid my smile when she just trudged forward. The second time it was asked, there was no hiding my delight when she looked at the inquisitor as if he’d grown two heads. The third time was the charm.
“I’m sorry,” she stated as if she were apologizing for him, not to him. “Are you implying that Izzy Santo is the main donor for this event?” She doesn’t bother to hide her incredulity. When he confirms, she reiterates her disbelief before continuing on, “Preposterous.” She practically storms the rest of the way down the red carpet and into the Royal Opera House.
So caught up in her ire, she left me to fend for myself the rest of the way. I answered questions about Izzy and her involvement with the charity and kindly declined when questions veered towards my marriage and “obvious” relationship with Sasha.
A collective gasp and an almost hush washed over the hundreds of gathered fans wanting to catch a glimpse of those attending. Light chatter was drowned out by the sound of dozens of camera flashes going off. And then a break in the silence has me turning. “Izzy!” someone shouts.
My head whips back to the space behind me and there in a champagne colored strapless dress with stark white pearls against her olive colored skin is Izzy. Her shoulders and the tops of her arms wrapped in a brown see-through shawl, the brightness of her tattoos just peeking through. Delighted by the sight before me, I fail to register the new questions being shouted at me.
And then my world fell out from under me.
From somewhere behind her, Johnny Specter, the fucking suit from her birthday all those years ago, appears. I know from Izzy, things never got very far with them, but seeing them together…now…it stirs up old feelings.
Johnny actually became a well-known figure in the world of celebrities and sports. He made a name for himself as a renowned manager. It wasn’t easy seeing his face being plastered in celebrity rags and tabloid magazines knowing he might have shared a moment or two with my Izzy.
A hand on my elbow brings me back to the present. My eyes meet Izzy’s and there’s relief mixed with a look of urging in her expression. Her silent plea reminds me what I’m doing here. So, I give her an imperceptible nod and turn to make my way in.
Fuck. The last time I saw Izzy with Johnny had been smack dab in the middle of my first mess trying to get Izzy to give us another chance. Give me another chance.
Chapter Thirty-One: Breakin’ My Heart – Pretty Brown Eyes
July 1999
“I fucking swear,” I fiddle with the bow tie to the monkey suit I’m wearing, “they make these things fucking impossible to tie.” I pull the silky fabric from around my neck and chuck it across the room.
“It’s a tie, bro,” Baz picks it up and walks it back to me. “Let me.”
I let out a huff, but I let him work his magic. It’s not really the tie I’m frustrated with. It’s been almost three weeks since Izzy used me and I walked out before she could use me again. My dick wasn’t happy with me, but even at nineteen years old, it’s not all about what that fucker wants.
Just the thought of Izzy stirs my dick to life and I have to adjust in this tuxedo. “Take it easy, dude. You’re practically my brother.” Oh shit! My tongue is twisted and I’m sure my expression is filled with shock and awe. That’s the closest Baz has come to admitting what I have been certain of for some time. Whatever his reasons, he has to know he’ll always be my brother. He gives me a telling look, “Another time. Right now,” he turns me to look in the mirror, “we have a date.” He finishes straightening my bow tie.
“Ha!” Our eyes meet in the mirror and I know he knows I know. “Hottest date you’ve ever had.”
“You sure about that bro?” He asks with a raised eyebrow. My own eyebrows screwing up in confusion. “I do believe I’ve had one date that you’d even agree was hotter than you.”
Izzy.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me going tonight?” I ask for the millionth time. I’m desperate to go. Clearly. I’m wearing this penguin’s uniform and no one held a gun to my head to make me. Izzy’s going to be there tonight. Of course, she is. It’s her record label’s event in honor of the university music programs in the Southern California area.
Even if Baz said he wasn’t okay with me going, I’d find a way in, to the event. I wear desperation like I wear this suit: hand-tailored to a perfect fit.
“Like I could stop you from going,” he says, slipping on his tux jacket. “Just remember something for me,” he pauses waiting for me to agree. When he gets the nod he’s looking for, he continues, “This event is Izzy’s baby. Don’t do anything to fuck it up.”
He’s gotten awfully protective over her and if it were any other man, I’d hate it, but something feels right about him protecting her.
“I’ll be the perfect date,” I give him a wink.
He just rolls his eyes. I grunt as I’m putting on my tux jacket. “You’d swear you were wearing a straightjacket with all the grunting and groaning you’re doing.”
“Kinda of feels like it. Fuck,” I run my finger between my neck and the collar, “it’s like you’re not supposed to breathe in these things.”
When we’re ready, we head out to the car service Baz said a friend hooked him up with. I remember when he said it there was something about the way he said it that made me wonder what ‘fri
end’ meant.
We’re on the interstate and Baz is keeping up the small talk. He seems incredibly nervous. I’m not going to ask because he’ll just turn it around on me. And right now, I’m okay. Right now, I’m not working in extremes, I have a level head and I’m more eager than anything to see Izzy.
“Wow!” It’s all I can muster as we pull up to the venue. The Walt Disney Concert Hall is—there are no words for this place.
“Wow is right,” I hear Baz draw out.
I’m so lost in the architecture that I’m startled when the valet opens the door. I don’t even know how to begin to describe it. Sleek? Bold? I’m not an art or architecture major, but this—
Its metal shell sweeps and curves in strips creating sharp edges where it forms a corner. You could say it looks like scrolling sheet music made out of metal. The whole place glows from lights shining up from the ground.
We walk the red carpet up the stairs to the entrance doors where two doormen are holding a pair of doors open for party-goers. I’m thankful for the small crowd because I’m just as distracted by the interior, I’m afraid I’d get lost staring at this.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“What is it?” I can hear the concern in Baz’s voice.
“Dude, this is the shit Izzy grew up with. How the fuck am I gonna win her back when this may never be my reality?”
“Untwist yourself.” What the fuck? Baz really has been hanging with Izzy. That’s her and Mazzy’s ‘thing.’ “It’s not like she didn’t know all that when she started dating you. Besides, the only way you’re winning her back is to hand over your nuts.” Whaa—”Possibly literally.”
Love Needs Another Chance (Truth About Love #3) Page 19
