Life Before Damaged, Volume 7

by H. M. Ward

  "No, that’s all right, but thank you. I have a driver waiting for me."

  He smiles at me and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Another time then?”

  I nod, not wanting to tell him this can never happen. “Another time.”

  Another lifetime.

  POPCORN AND REALITY TV

  September 11th, 7:31 pm

  A week and a half worth of newspapers and magazines stare mockingly at me from their stack on the coffee table. I think I can die miserably now. My popped boob and I made every paper, magazine and trashy gossip website imaginable. More cameras went off than the ones right around us. The place was flooded with photographers we didn’t even notice.

  Most printed publications were blurred out due to censorship laws, but the internet is an unforgiving bitch, and my perky little nip is now more famous than my face. Going to school has been excruciating, knowing that everyone in my class, along with my professors, have probably seen the pictures.

  Not a single article depicts Pete and me as a budding young couple like Constance wanted. Instead, they focus on the fight between Pete and the photographers, my booby-oopsie, and the fact that Pete left with some beautiful rich heiress after being disappointed in the perks that Granz Textiles had to offer.

  Since the gala, I've become a hermit. I go to class and come back to the apartment. Phil has been texting and calling me incessantly. He even surprised me on campus in between classes with a hot cup of coffee. I had to make sure my driver was nowhere in sight. Otherwise, he probably would have reported it to Mrs. Ferro. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover the car is wired to record sound and video.

  And Pete. That’s the worst part. I haven't seen him since the gala. He hasn't reached out, and we haven't had any planned public appearances since. A couple of times I punched his number into my phone, wanting to talk to him, just to hear his voice and make sure he's okay.

  I even thought about asking if he wanted another dance lesson at the club, but I chickened out and shut off my phone instead. I couldn't face the possibility of his rejection. I never know which side of Pete Ferro I will get, and the thought of being turned down by the player is not something I need right now.

  How absurd is that? I'm scared of being rejected by the man who I'll be married to.

  “Hey, Gina! It’s stripper time! Check it out! Dick got a makeover and he's hubba-hubba-hot tonight!” Erin interrupts my pity party by yanking a magazine from my hands and tossing it on the floor behind the couch.

  She shuts off the lights before sitting down next to me and plops the bowl of popcorn on my knees. This has become a nice ritual of ours. Popcorn and real reality TV with my best friend.

  The lights are on in the stripper’s apartment, and she’s practically crawling up the man she’s with tonight. Not her usual M.O. She usually saunters in, acting aloof and slightly disinterested, until she starts to pole dance.

  Not tonight, though. She’s breaking her pattern and wow! She’s really going to town with this guy. His hands are all over her, squeezing her ass through her black leather pants, and then running up her back and tangling in her long brown hair. A moment later, he’s smoothing those locks down over her sequined gold top.

  This isn’t frantic or awkward. Dick is all passion and intensity of movement, worshiping every inch of her body, claiming every bit he can manage to touch.

  I wonder if they love each other.

  The way he’s holding her--like he doesn’t want to let her go, like she might vanish into thin air--makes me envious. The only person to have ever touched me like that was Pete; that is until he turned me down and walked away.

  Blinking twice, I clear my thoughts and look back at the show underway. The stripper brings her hands up to Dick's shoulders and removes his jacket. She tosses it to the side.

  “This is weird.” Erin says what I’m thinking. “She's breaking all of her rules.”

  “I know.” What the hell is she thinking?

  The woman removes his shirt as quickly as she can, their lips breaking contact only long enough to pull Dick's shirt over his head. From what I can see around our soon-to-be naked neighbor, Dick has a very nice body with broad shoulders and toned arms. He’s a looker.

  Erin is as engrossed in the show as I am. She is rarely this quiet while watching ‘reality TV.’ She’s usually busy doing vulgar running commentary, but not tonight. Tonight, we’re both quiet. Erin stuffs more popcorn into her mouth, unable to look away from the window.

  The stripper’s hands travel up and down Dick's torso and abs. When she reaches for his belt, he takes a step back, then another, pulling her with him, never breaking their kiss. When they reach the padded chair the client usually sits in, Dick spins them around and sits her down on the chair instead.

  Dick backs up to the pole, and the stripper points to her sound system with a remote. Music must be playing, because shirtless Dick with his broad, toned back starts to sway his hips, running his hands up and down his chest. Erin’s jaw drops and she squees.

  “Holy fuck! We’re getting a male stripper tonight! Must be one of those guys from the 'Whacker Shack' three blocks down. Those dudes are jacked! Show me whatcha got, Dickie-Boy!”

  Erin whoops and fist pumps, grabbing an entire handful of popcorn and stuffing it into her mouth. My eyes are riveted to the window across the street.

  Best. Neighbors. Ever.

  The woman is squirming in her chair, grabbing her breasts through her clothes and squeezing them, obviously excited about this unexpected turn of events too.

  Watching Dick move and how the stripper reacts to him sends my imagination to wild and dangerous territory. Mental pictures of me sitting in that chair, while an unnamed, blue-eyed sexy man dances for my pleasure, has the spot between my legs aching, my chest hurting and my fists clenching. Lust, heartache, and frustration dance a fierce tango inside my body.

  “I shouldn’t be watching this.”

  Erin pats my back without looking away from the window.

  “Yeah, me neither.” Her eyes are still glued to the glass.

  I squirm in my seat and try to look away, but a second later my gaze is locked on the guy again.

  Dick grabs hold of the pole with one arm and grinds against it suggestively before he squats slowly—languidly—trailing a hand along the pole, like a soft caress. He moves effortlessly. His hips sway slowly, suggesting what’s to come. The movement makes me think of another pair of hips that move just as seductively. A naughty part of the back of my mind wants him to do a full frontal, to satisfy the perverse fantasy in my head, but that would only add to my state of permanent sexual frustration.

  Dick slowly, in a very leisurely style rises from his squat, and runs a hand through his hair, flexing his arm muscles. He takes a step forward, closer to the woman and points to her. He’s saying something to her. She runs one of her hands down her stomach and slides it down into her pants, making me hotter down below and my breathing faster.

  Look away, Gina. Look away! Sirens are going off in my head, but my eyes are glued in place, unable to blink.

  Her hand moves up and down, her hips rocking slowly at first. The man keeps on moving his hips, watching her, and reaching for his pants. Holy mother of all things porn! He’s going to take it all off.

  From our vantage point, he seems to be unfastening his jeans but they stay up. With his back to us, it's hard to tell what he is doing. It seems like he’s just dancing for the woman while watching her touch herself. The woman is rubbing herself off madly as her hips buck into her hand faster and harder while Dick continues his sexy gyrating.

  The woman reaches her climax, made apparent by how her free hand grabs the armrest of the chair, and how her face contorts in obvious pleasure. Her head then sags limply on the back of the recliner, she's completely sated and I envy her even more.

  Dick walks to her and gently lifts her up to her feet. They turn so that the stripper’s back is now to us. She pushes on Dick's shoulders so that it’s
his turn to sit. Erin and I are both craning our necks from side to side as if it’ll help us see around the stripper and get a better glimpse of Dick's face.

  Of course, it doesn’t work. It’s not until the stripper walks toward her sound system that we get a full view of the gorgeous man sitting in the chair. His chest is all firm muscle, his dark hair a mess, and there’s three-day old stubble on his face. His piercing blue eyes are looking into our loft, straight at me, straight into me.

  It’s Pete.

  WALKING THE BAT

  September 11th, 7:59 pm

  “Holy fuck, Gina! Is that...?”

  Erin doesn’t finish her question or maybe she does but I can’t hear her, the pounding in my ears is too loud.

  I jump up from the couch and let the bowl of popcorn fall to the floor. In the background, a faint hum carries in tandem with the thrumming in my ears. Erin is saying things, probably very colorful expletives, complaining as she picks up popcorn from off of the floor--again--but that’s the least of my worries.

  I’m in a daze of anger and envy. I walk slowly toward the window. No, it’s not a daze. I'm in shock.

  The stripper has started her dance, spinning about the pole, but Pete’s eyes remain on me instead of her. His hands are gripping the armrests of the recliner and my nails are digging into my palms. The pain doesn’t register.

  When I get to the window, unclench my fists and place a hand on the cool glass. Too many emotions are whirling around inside of me to make any sense of them all. I look down to the street and see his bike parked just outside of her building. Strangely enough, my chauffeur, slash bodyguard, slash spy isn't there.

  I glance back up.

  Pete’s still watching me.

  The stripper is on her hands and knees, crawling toward him. I want to scream for her to stop.

  She can't do this.

  Not with him.

  Soon, she’ll be undressing him.

  Soon, she’ll be pleasuring him.

  She'll be taking him in her mouth before climbing on his lap, and then she’ll be fucking the man I'm supposed to marry right before my eyes.

  His gaze leaves mine to look at her, and he smiles crookedly. I don’t even want to imagine what's about to happen, let alone see it. I've seen him before with another woman, but that was different. I didn't know him then, and he didn't know me. It wasn't even deliberate.

  This display isn't about his insatiable need for sex with random women. This show is for my eyes only. This show is purposeful. My jaw locks and my gaze narrows. I’m so angry that my jaw is going to crack.

  I turn on my heels and rush toward the door, my hair whipping in my face as I do so.

  “Hey! A little help here, Gina?” Erin stops and rests on her heels. She’s still on the floor. “Gee? Gina! What the hell? Wait! Where are you going? Don't you want to see how the show ends? Gina!” Erin’s face pops up over the backrest of the couch, but I can’t look at her.

  "I need some air. Laugh at me all you want, Erin, call me whatever names you want, but I can't watch this. I'm going for a walk. Text me when they're done."

  Erin stands up and places the bowl on the coffee table. "It's dark out there and way too late to go walking on your own. You'll get mug-rape-killed!"

  I put on Pete’s old leather jacket and tuck my keys and cell phone securely in the pockets. After opening the door, I grab the baseball bat that Erin keeps there.

  "Then I’ll take your bat for a walk." I slam the door behind me before Erin can stop me and bolt.

  I fly down the stairs. I can’t even feel the steps under my feet as they land. Seconds later, I’m outside, taking in a huge gulp of the crisp night air. I start to walk down the street at a fast clip, with a baseball bat resting on my shoulder.

  I don't know where I'm going. I just walk, stepping over trash that’s been dragged to the curb for pick up.

  Pete did this on purpose.

  I know he sleeps around, I just don't want to see it. The fact that he deliberately chose her apartment, knowing I'd be watching, just sends his message to me loud and clear.

  ‘I’m a player and I fuck—always have, always will.’ I just don't understand why he did it. He's supposed to be my friend.

  We’re supposed to look out for each other, and not rip each other apart.

  I wrap my arms around my middle tighter, trying to stay warm. The bat is still firmly clutched in my hand and I squeeze it until my fingers hurt. FML. How did I get in this spot?

  Option one is Pete, my future fiancé and untouchable erotic dream come true, but also my worst nightmare, going against every single value I hold dear.

  Option two is Philip, the fairytale, everything I've ever wanted in man just a few months too late.

  Maybe it's time I take inventory of my values and do a little reassessing. Maybe I'm the one who has it all wrong. Would it be so bad to have a lover on the side, knowing that Pete and I won't ever have a real marriage? Can I go on living an entire life without the prospect of ever being loved?

  My questions go unanswered, and the loud, aggressive rumble of a motorcycle passing on the street jostles me from my thoughts. The sound is thunderous, especially when the bike comes to a stop right ahead of me and the rider gives the engine an extra revving. I look down at my feet and keep on walking, doing my best to ignore Pete. He's probably only here to bring me back home since my leash is nowhere to be found. I'm the Ferro pet running stray through the streets. I manage to pass by him, but not for very long.

  Pete puts his hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

  "Gina!" Pete's angry voice is muffled from inside his helmet, but it's no less menacing.

  "Get away from me, Pete!" I don't bother to turn around. I don't want to see his face.

  "Gina, get on the bike."

  I feel my self-control slipping away from me, bit by bit. I close my eyes and try to stay calm, but my hands start to shake, so I grip the bat tighter. I try to talk calmly, but my teeth won't unclench, my jaw is locked in anger.

  "Get away from me, Pete, I mean it."

  "Sulking around the streets alone is dangerous. Stop acting childish and get on the bike. I'm taking you back to your place now."

  I spin around to face him.

  "Childish? Do you want to see childish? Here! This is childish!"

  I lunge toward his precious bike and do what comes naturally. Holding the bat firmly, I take a swing. It comes crashing down on the headlight. Little plastic fragments go flying everywhere. A car drives by and slows down, but doesn’t stop. I take another swing, letting out a scream.

  “I HATE YOU!”

  And I do hate him, just as much as I care for him, too—and I hate myself for it. I put all my emotions into the swing. The bat hits the metal frame. On contact, a resounding gong echoes down the adjacent alley. The bat sends painful vibrations up my arms.

  “Have you gone fucking insane?” Pete screams from behind me and circles me with his arms, preventing me from taking another swing at his bike. My chest is heaving and my whole body is trembling with rage.

  I stare back at the bike and the bat in my hands, horrified. Oh, my God! What did I just do? I release it as if it were poison. The sound of the metal bat falling to the ground resonates as I watch it bounce from the tip to the handle a couple of times before it comes to rest in the gutter.

  Pete has this effect on me and I hate him for it. I hate him for all of it—the erotic passion, the violent jealousy, the attraction that won’t disappear no matter how much I wish it weren’t there.

  This isn't me. I’m not this lunatic. It scares me that Pete can push my buttons so easily. I don't want to be this person.

  Pete keeps a tight hold on me for a while. My rage simmers down. My voice is calm, but the words are still filled with raw emotion.

  "I hate you, so much. You lying piece of shit."

  Pete lets go of me. My feelings are so out of whack that I immediately start to miss his arms holding me tight. His answering voice is ste
rn but lacks conviction.

  "Good. You should hate me."

  I turn to face Pete. With his helmet on, I can only see the top part of his face, but his eyes show everything. Hurt and sadness. I point toward the general direction of my apartment building and try to talk past the dry lump in my throat.

  My body is still so tense that I’m shaking. I want to scream at him, but I keep my rage in check enough to speak.

  "Why? Why would you do that? I thought we had a truce?"

  Pete unfastens his helmet and takes it off. He has little imprints on his cheeks from where the protective padding was pressing into his cheeks. He runs a hand through his messy helmet hair and lets out a sigh.

  "The truce wasn't working for me. This is who I am, Gina, and despite what anyone says or thinks, you can't change that. What do you expect?" He places a palm flat on his chest and smiles as if he’s proud. "I'm my father’s son. We don't get to choose who we are. We're born into this world and we inevitably become who we are destined to be. This is me. Whether you like it or not, you'll have to get used to the women.”

  I step toward him, eerily in control now, and shove a finger into his chest.

  “You may be your father's son, but I am most definitely not your mother. I am not made of ice and if you deliberately provoke me, you should expect retaliation. This," I say, motioning to the broken bike and discarded bat, "is not how I will spend the rest of my life.” I shove his chest, unable to find another outlet for my frustration.

  Pete doesn’t move. Instead, he lets out another huff of air, but this time it sounds more like a laugh than a sigh.

  "You really are a rose, aren't you? Beautiful at first look, but riddled with thorns." His eyes crinkle a bit and his mouth quirks up into a small grin.

  “And you're a fucktard, so I guess we're even-steven.”