by Sunniva Dee
“Worth a try, right? Lay down.”
She runs her stare from my face to the grass. Iridescent in its lushness, it flutters in the breeze. “Here?”
“No, actually, on the other side of the fence.”
“You want us on separate sides of the fence?”
“Just this once, then never again.” I can’t help but stroke her cheek each chance I get. I do it now, and for a second, her eyes shut. “Go now, before I make love to you instead.”
“And that’s supposed to make me leave?” she purrs.
“Shh. Basta.”
She lifts her hands in lazy surrender while she backs toward the fence. Once there, she climbs it while I play-peer at the rim of her skirt. It makes her bite her lip at me.
“Now, lay down.”
“All the way down?”
I tap my chin. “Probably lay on your stomach facing the fence. Then, you have to lift yourself up on your elbows so you’re as tall as a toddler.”
“Oh, my god. He wants me to be an acrobat,” she mutters to no one beside her.
I walk up to the fence, clutch it with my hands while I watch her work.
“You know you’re being ridiculous, right?” she asks me, “all the while making me look ridiculous?”
“You just look hot.”
“’Kay. I’m doing it. Now what?”
I slide down along the fence. It’s made of flat, white, wooden boards aligned horizontally. They shine in the sunlight, and below them, grass flutters in the breeze. It appears in lustrous stripes between the boards too, but when my fingers clutch the third lowest plank, I see her, not the grass.
“Ciao,” I greet my woman, voice softer than I thought it would be.
“Ciao, cuore mio.”
“Two decades ago, I saw you like this. I didn’t know how to put it into words, and I didn’t know what it would mean to our lives. But you had toffee-colored eyes that siphoned light at me, and in the moment you smiled, you became my always-girl.”
Her hands find mine through the fence. Pink fingertips curve over my nails, joining us, apart but together. Her gaze is as light as it was long ago, but it’s wiser, and gravity brings her eyes to my lips.
I kiss her at the cusp of a summer that seems endless. Tongues wet, we dance until our hands clutch through the wooden barrier.
“You remember now?” I don’t hamper the slow invasion of my smile.
“No.” Silvina’s lashes sink until toffee love gleams through glistening shutters. “But I’ll never forget this.”
THE END
Before Gioele and Silvina, came Isaias and Tatiana. Read Indiscretions of a God while your mind is still with the Nascimbeni heirs. Click here.
Copyright © 2017 by Sunniva Dee
I guess I just forgot.
To ask him what he did for a living, I mean.
By the time I did, I was in—deep.
He was the perfect boyfriend.
Attentive, gorgeous, guessing my every wish and fulfilling them.
The sex was earthshattering.
He even dealt with my crazy mom the way no one else could.
He popped the question, God, such a perfect guy.
There was just one issue:
He slept with other girls on camera for a living.
How the heck do you deal with that?
1. WANNABE
I don’t know how he notices me. I’m just working my regular shift bussing at a small, upscale restaurant in the Valley. We see a lot of stars here, being so close to Hollywood, so it’s not surprising when he enters, feline-smoothly, with the air of someone who should be claiming the silver screen.
Frieda and I try to place him. We have Charlotte check him out too as she appears from the kitchen. Charlotte takes his order, “Lucky girl to be her waitress,” mutters Frieda while the two of us conclude that he’s a wannabe.
The wannabes come from all over to get famous in the City of Angels. Frieda thinks many are as good as the big stars even as they leave California with their crushed dreams. She’s got experience too. The girl has dated a slew of them. Those guys go for striking, and Frieda hits it out of the ballpark with her half honkey, half Asian beauty.
This specimen is older than the regular wannabes, though. They’re usually starry-eyed and baby-cheeked, in their late teens slash early twenties, and ooze a mixture of arrogance and insecurity. When they enter Mintrer’s, it’s not to eat. It’s to ask for a job to support themselves while they go to auditions.
But the god settling into a Section-C booth is relaxed, in his late twenties, and sports longish dirty-golden hair that’s styled into one of those sexy, just-fucked dos. There’s no way he’ll want a job here. If he did, experience or not Il Signore would be all over it, because our boss knows how to draw customers. Exhibit A: Frieda. Exhibit B: Charlotte. I could go on and on.
Charlotte is a non-fiery redhead, the only one in her club, we believe. Measured and deliberate, she’s the still-water-that’s-deep member of our trio, which makes it pretty funny now that she light-travels to the bar and serves the guy his wine in record time.
He’s cradling Mintrer’s signature crystal, a rosé rippling inside of it, when his gaze floats up and fixes on me for the first time.
“Damn, he’s fuckable,” Frieda groans.
“Stop it.”
“He’s looking at you, Savannah!”
I straighten. Tug at my little black apron and arch my eyebrows at him, all professional. His fork’s on the floor. Is that what he needs, new utensils? He must have unwrapped the napkin before the food came. Some people do that, get ready ahead of time. He’s probably ravenous.
I swallow as he stretches in the booth. Hands above his head, he’s touching the backrest with clenched fists. He watches me watch him but doesn’t respond to my unspoken question. I can’t stop my gaze from sliding down his arms. It’s gravity. I trail down the clear outline of his pecs too.
“You’re totally staring,” Frieda informs me. I turn, make my way behind the bar counter and start filling up water glasses. They’ll be for someone... as soon as we get more customers. Better pop in some ice too, belatedly or not.
A woman in a dark suit jangles the doorbell with her entry. She looks like business in black heels, a so-not-sloppy bun, and librarian glasses.
“Hi there, welcome to Mintrer’s.” Il Signore’s teen niece, Carmen, is nowhere in sight, so I make myself the impromptu greeter. I raise a smile at the lady, who scours the room and stills on Mr. Hotness in the back.
“Hey. There he is, thanks.” She bustles past me. The guy stands, poises to pull her chair out, but she grabs a hold of it and sinks down with no flourish. Then, she opens a folder, lipstick-black mouth instantly moving.
“Go get her drink order,” Frieda demands the way she does.
“I’m not their waitress.”
“Right, but you bus, remember? You can bus whatever table you want. Do it.”
Charlotte’s table four is being combative. Something about champagne coolers and not enough ice. Okay, yeah. I’ll be a bestie and help her with table eight in the meantime.
His eyes get bedroom-heavy as I approach, which is wild and uncommon and unexpected. Then I’m sucked in and wonder if they’re green or blue. Heat spreads in my cheeks as I pick his fork off the floor and pass him a new package of utensils. “Here you go, sir.”
He thanks me for the fabric-swaddled fork and knife with a voice so intimate it’s like he knows me. I’m not all about guys—my status quo is enough of an obstacle as it is—but there’s no suppressing his sex appeal.
I twist and smile at the librarian. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Diet Coke, please, plenty of ice.” She clips her order out without looking at me. “Seriously, I think you should consider it, Ciro.”
Hi
s eyes glide back to the woman in front of him. She’s so business she can’t be an older girlfriend. Is she his agent? Ciro. That’s a wild name. I love it.
“I can’t work with Donella again. There’s no chemistry, Sharon.”
“Honey, you don’t have to have a crush on her.”
I hear him sigh warily behind me as I start on my way back to the bar. “How long have I been in this business again?”
“Nine years.” She says it fast as if they often have this conversation.
“Right, so I know what I’m doing. You know I’m not picky, but if I can help it, I won’t work with her again.”
“Ciro. Take one for the team. It’s a damn good penny or I wouldn’t have considered it. The concept is violent and unexpected, and you’re going to have a blast interpreting it—I know you, sugar. Plus, Donnella wants to work with you again, which is awesome for your career.”
He’s rubbing a hand over his handsome-as-hell face when I return with the Diet Coke. By the pen in his hand, I’m assuming he gave up and will now be working with Ms. Donnella, whoever that is. I wonder if I can look her up on the internet. I’ll definitely be looking up a Ciro. I’ll make sure to get the spelling right too. All I have to do is hang over Charlotte when she processes his payment.
Charlotte ends up asking me to take over his table. She’s dating our Sicilian chef, and he doesn’t want her near the pretty guys. Yes, we’ve talked about it. No, she isn’t listening. Guess she has to learn firsthand that you can’t build a relationship on possessiveness. Trust is everything, they say. Me, I only know what the internet surveys tell me, because really I haven’t had a serious relationship since high school.
Oh Matthew.
I’m kidding. I never think about Matthew, the wrestler I dated for a year. We just—how you say?—“grew apart.” “Wanted different things.” Oh and he moved to New England to be an intern in his grandpa’s accounting business in the middle of nowhere.
The librarian waves me over, meeting my gaze sternly. It makes me flick invisible crap off my uniform on my way back to their table. I’ve been known to stumble over my own feet before, and I’m happy that I don’t tonight.
“Check, please,” she demands.
“Okay, no food?” I look from one to the other.
“Oh don’t worry about the check,” sex-on-a-stick murmurs. “Sharon, I’ll pick up your soda.” He curls his lip in an ironic smile as he shoves the documents back to her, pen on top. “I’m ready to order. Can I have the gnocchi a la gorgonzola, please, and another round of this?” He taps his glass, making it sing.
“Sounds good. And sorry you can’t stay, Miss,” I blurt fakely. The librarian glares in response, while Ciro chuckles. I guess there’s a reason why I’ve been here for a year and Il Signore’s still hesitant to let me waitress. In my defense, the restaurant feels warmer after the lady leaves.
I don’t spend my time thinking about guys, so it’s bizarre that I suddenly mull over the differences between Mr. Hotness and me. He looks about five years older. Clearly, he has his shit together, with an agent and being willing to turn down work. He knows where he’s going, what his future will bring, while I’m going nowhere.
But see, that’s how I want it. I’m all about conserving the status quo. This, right here, is good: my mother is okay, I have my group of friends, and we share an awesome house. Hell, the sun is up every day, beaming, and I pay my rent and eat just fine. What more can I ask for?
Carpe Diem. People say it but don’t really get it. So many spend their lives striving for some remote future instead of enjoying the moment. But what if the future didn’t come and they never lived the now?
After this shift, I’ll be on to my next job. I’ll pick up Mr. Dakapoulos’ dogs for their nightly walk, because fifty bucks a week is fifty bucks a week. Also, I love dogs, and I need the exercise. No matter what Frieda claims, I know what I’m doing with my now.
Frieda passes me the new glass of rosé wine. She does a weird flapping motion with her hand in the direction of Ciro, whispering, “Chop-chop.”
I balance it down the aisle. I’m fastish, but not as fast as Charlotte was with his first glass.
“Is that your supervisor?” Ciro asks, nodding toward Frieda.
Of course: he’s a wannabe after all, and here he is falling for striking.
“No, that’s my friend. You want me to introduce you?”
He squints at me like he’s trying to put together a puzzle, entirely unnecessary being that this one’s half-laid. Two more pieces, and voila, we’re done: Frieda will say yes, I’m sure, and another wannabe has found his striking until he hightails it back to where he came from.
His expression smoothens. “What’s your name?”
“Mine?” I must look surprised, because he follows up with a slow nod and—
“You have one, right?”
“Of course.” My laughter sounds as awkward as I feel. “I’m Savannah.”
“Nice to meet you, Savannah. I’m Ciro.”
“I know,” I blurt, and his eyes widen.
“Hmm. Does that mean you’ve eavesdropped on me?” He purses crazy beautiful lips over his teeth to stop himself from laughing. His nostrils flare though, giving him away, and my face goes traffic-light hot.
“Sorry.” I hike my thumb behind me, pointing toward the safety of the kitchen. “I… I’m going to leave now. Stick my head in the freezer or something.”
He snorts, unable to remain serious any longer. “You’re cute.”
“Nu-huh,” I say, all misplaced vehemence and head-shaking. He has the greenest irises with specks of silver and gold—Jesus, those are some arresting eyes.
“No? So, if you’re not cute, what are you?”
“Just normal.”
“Gorgeous, I think.”
“Stop it.” I lift my hands and cover my face with them. Then I tread backward, until I can swing away from him and step into the kitchen where I can breathe.
“Thank you, Savannah. I’ll have another glass as well,” he murmurs as I lower the gnocchi in front of him. I return to my station for the pepper grinder. Once I’ve crusted the desired amount over his food, I manage not to stumble when I do another loop back for the parmesan grater.
Thank goodness there aren’t any more hotties in Charlotte’s section. What if I’d have to juggle a full restaurant in my state of gold-fish brain and untrustworthy limbs?
I grate away, wishing we’d gone for pre-grated cheese in this place. Then I spill some over the edge and onto his super-handsome-guy slacks. Automatically, I lean down and start to brush parmesan off them. He lets me fuss over him. Leans back, even, watching me swipe miniature snowflakes off the fabric. But then I’m brushing thighs, not pants, because they’re rock hard—and is he an athlete? No, actors need to be in shape too—and oh my god, what’s wrong with me?
I stand back, slap my hands to my cheeks in the stupidest caricature version of shocked. “I’m sorry. What am I doing? I—”
“It’s okay. Spills happen, and that could have been wine. It’s nothing.”
“Yeah, but I was totally touching you.”
Savannah! Are you kidding me right now?
Stunned silence. Then glittering eyes narrow with humor and travel over my face. “I have no complaints.”
I take a moment in the bathroom after that. The mirror throws back a girl with long blonde hair, giant eyes, and a face that screams, “Unfit for marathons in the scorching heat.” He could stay for coffee too, I realize. Ice cream. A last minute cheese platter. What if I’m stuck with Ciro for the rest of the night? I drench a stack of paper towels in cold water and dab myself until I feel better.
Steeled for another flustering encounter, I return to Ciro’s table with more wine. The glass only clinks a little bit against the surface as I deposit it.
“So, Savannah
. Do you live around here?” His question doesn’t sound like a trick to color me tomato again, but I’m still careful with my answer.
“Yeah, a few blocks away. It’s almost walking distance from here.”
“Nice. This isn’t the cheapest area,” he states the obvious, being that it’s close to our community college.
“Yeah, I share a house with a few friends. Seven, actually.” I giggle lamely.
“Seven, huh? That’s a lot of friends.” His mouth draws into a breathtaking smile.
“I know. They’re a mess.” I point backward at Frieda, who keeps herself busy by the register, acting like she can’t see us. “Frieda is one of them. She’s a nut. What about you? Do you live in the Valley?”
“Yeah, up in Hillside.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder.
“Oh, in one of those beautiful mansions?” I gush. Crap, if I’d taken a moment to think through my answer, I could have not broadcasted how impressed I am. It’s just that I’m in love with Hillside. The view those houses have over the Valley must be mind-boggling.
“Mine isn’t that pretty, but yeah.”
“Is it a Spanish revival?” I’ve heard that expression on flip-a-house shows.
He tips his head to the side. “Does that mean you don’t find Spanish revivals pretty?”
“No, I do! I just didn’t know if you did. Maybe you’re not a Spanish revival kinda guy.” I try not to chew on my lip.
“I do like them. And my house is more of a funkis bunker.”
“A funkis... bunker?”
“Yeah. You know what ‘funkis’ is?”
“Yeah, it’s a... Nope.”
“It’s an architectural style that started in the thirties. Basically, funkis-style houses were built to be functional, not pretty, and my house is a big square thing a few stories tall with a couple of simple balconies.”
“So you live in a giant, above-ground bunker with balconies?”
He smiles. “I do. A white one.”
