Life Before Damaged, Volume 5

by H. M. Ward

  “No, we didn’t, and it’s not because you weren’t insistent, believe me. But no, we didn’t.”

  I’m relieved yet disappointed at the same time. I feel so sick. I can barely ask, but I manage. “Why not? I mean, you could have. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Don’t you usually...”

  Pete gets up, tossing the sheet off of him. I’m trying very hard not to be distracted by the fact that he’s standing there, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and leaving way too little to the imagination. But that’s not in the cards for us. Not anymore.

  “Say it, Gina. Don’t I usually fuck every woman I come across? Yes, that’s exactly who I am and that’s exactly what I do,” he says angrily. He sounds like I offended him, but how? Maybe the truth hurts? Or maybe he’s not really that person deep down inside and I’ve falsely accused him? Looks can be deceiving, look at me.

  His voice drops, almost like an apology, “But not last night.”

  He starts rummaging through drawers, taking out pieces of clothing and putting them on. “It’s time I brought you home. I’ll give you some privacy so that you can get ready. I’ll be down the hall in my study. First door on the right.”

  “Wait, Peter. I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that everything is still such a blur. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit of a train wreck right now and I’m trying to put all the missing pieces of last night together. I can’t pretend that you constantly turning me down doesn’t hurt, because it does, especially after what happened with my ex.”

  Pete leans on his dresser and looks down to the ground, hands stuffed in his pockets. Somehow, calling Anthony “my ex” makes it so real, so final. I was in a bad place last night and somehow, this morning things aren’t so bad and it’s mostly due to the man standing in front of me.

  Despite the hurt he caused me, I need to let him know. “Listen, I was drunk last night and leaving with that guy. Who knows what could have happened to me but then you stepped in. I guess what I’m trying to say is, thank you. You saved me from making a whole lot of huge mistakes last night.”

  He flinches, as if I just slapped him but then his face relaxes into a sad smile. He walks back to the bed and leans down to place a hand on my cheek. Instinctually, I lean into his touch and he strokes my smooth skin with his thumb. Behind the cocky, arrogant, angry man, I see that there’s someone caring and good trying to break free. He turned me down last night, but, in a way, he took care of me too. This is the third time he’s stepped in when I was sort of shooting myself in the foot—okay, the head. Things would suck this morning if I was found at a frat house. If only Pete wasn’t so messed up, I could see myself easily falling for this guy.

  My mother’s warning rings in my mind, Don’t fall in love with a Ferro. That should be the mantra for every girl at her coming out ball.

  Pete takes his hand away and his smile turns playful again. “You’re welcome. Now, unless you’re planning on riding on my bike wearing only panties and a tee shirt, which is perfectly fine with me by the way, I suggest you get yourself ready. Remember, first door on the right when you’re done.”

  “Eeeeep!” I make a high pitched sound and slap my hands over my mouth. He’s taking me home on his motorcycle? A little rush of excitement ignites inside of me and I do a small bounce on the bed. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Clothing seems so drab and optional. Maybe we should christen that bike, me being a nympho and all.” I give him a teasing smile and bite my lower lip, going for seductive again. Why can’t I help myself from acting this way around him? Toxic flirting, all the fun and all the heartache wrapped into one. Maybe he’s right and I am addicted.

  Pete leans in, pushes my hair back to one side and whispers in my ear, causing goosebumps to erupt everywhere. Combined with the fact that I’m top shelf commando under the t-shirt and it is quite obvious what effect he has on me.

  “What if I told you that it’s already been christened?” He stands up straight, gives me a wink and walks out of the room.

  I eye him, trying to side step him so my brights are out of sight. “Then there’s not enough Lysol in the world—”

  Pete takes my arm as I pass, and spins me around. His gaze dips before coming back to my eyes. “To what? Extinguish those twin towers of wantonness?”

  My jaw drops. “Gentlemen do not comment on when the ladies are cold!” I jerk my arm away, still shocked, jaw scraping the ground. I snap it shut and use my forearm to cover my headlights. “Twin towers of wantonness.”

  “Fine, hypnotic high beams in a too small t-shirt and with the curve of your ass just barely peeking out—which is sexy as hell, by the way—pretend you’re not into me. Say it all you like, but I know the truth.” His smile twists until one side is a little higher than the other. God he looks arrogant and totally lickable. Why does he have to fold his arms like that? Pete stands there, smirking at me.

  “And what’s that?” I mock, getting in his face a little bit. Dark stubble lines his jaw and spreads down his neck, but my gaze doesn’t stray from his.

  That’s when he moves. The muscles in those strong arms barely brush against my t shirt when he moves to put his hands in his pockets. He does it slowly, watching my eyes the whole time. His bare forearm brushes over my brights. The touch is so light, barely there, and totally intentional.

  The reaction is instant. I go ramrod straight and suck in air like I was sucker-punched.

  Pete’s smirk falls back into place. “That there’s no amount of Lysol that will make your brights turn off, not when I’m around.”

  THE PEACOCK & THE MANDESK

  August 10th, 10:45am

  Last night I was too interested in other things to notice much about my surroundings. This morning is different. I look around the room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything and to take in the details before I go. His bedroom is downright luxurious and very masculine looking with deep rich colors.

  It has a bit of an old world feel to it with intricate moldings at the ceiling with carved buttresses. There’s a massive natural stone fireplace along the side wall with a plush rug in the center of the room dividing the space into a bed area and a sitting area. There’s a king-sized bed with four massive wood posts, an in-suite bathroom that is practically bigger than the bedroom. But the thing that draws my attention the most is the antique high back lounge chair at one end of the room. It faces a huge floor-to-ceiling picture window that overlooks the Bay.

  Next to the chair is a hardwood side table, where a couple of books are scattered. I walk over and scan the books, thinking I’ll find current fiction, so I’m a little surprised to see the names such as William Butler Yeats, Walt Whitman, Oscar Wilde and John Donne, all poets, all classics. I remember seeing books of poetry in his study on that first night, but those are usually for show, to impress guests. Guests don’t come in here. These are his. I run my finger along the cover, staring at the book, trying to connect it to the man and see how it fits in. He’s looking for more. That’s the only thing it tells me, and lingering will make me look too fan girl, so I drop my hand and walk away.

  I’ve pretty much gathered up all of my things, except for last night’s sexy outfit. I toss the lingerie, as well as the shoes, in the garbage bin because I never want to see them again. Last night was a mistake and I don’t want any reminders. It’s bad enough that the corset rubbed so hard in places that my skin is still tender. Swing dancing in a corset was stupid. Last night wasn’t too intelligent either.

  I look around for my stuff before I head out to find Pete in his study, but I don’t see my purse. His quarters are massive. I get turned around walking down a hallway. This is nothing like our home, even though my family has money, it’s not like this. I’ve never seen so many rooms dedicated to a son, and I know that Sean’s rooms have to be even bigger and better since he’s the first born.

  “Pete?” I call his name and look down the hall and then back again. I’m looking more like my old self, wearing my plain jeans, simple white blouse and ba
llerina flats. I’ve tied my long hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck because if we’re going to be riding on his motorcycle, I don’t want to deal with a huge tangled mess when I get home.

  “In here.” His voice comes from the other end of the hall. I pad down the carpeted hall and quietly open the door.

  He’s sitting at his desk, reading and jotting down notes on a piece of paper, occasionally biting down on the tip of his pen. He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I steal a couple of minutes to study him. He looks so relaxed sitting there. Not a trace of anger or smugness. As usual, his hair is a rumpled, floppy mess and he hasn’t shaved yet, but the expression on his face is completely laid back and untroubled. As annoyingly attractive as he can be when he’s being arrogant, not to mention how my insides stir when he gets angry, this version of him, the one I’ve woken up to, is heartening.

  I stand in the doorway for a second. “Ah, the many sides of Peter Ferro. It’s a shame he doesn’t let this one show.”

  Pete looks up. Caution lines his face. He pushes up and walks toward me. “When a lion pretends he’s a peacock, he doesn’t last long.”

  I nod slowly, catching his meaning. “You sound a little fortune-cookie-ish there, Pete. You still have the issue that a peacock is not a lion, and at some point that bird is going to want to strut around with his badass plumage all over the henhouse, so you tell me—how long have you been writing poems?”

  He stammers and takes half a step away from me. “I do not—” Pete reaches back, looking for his desk.

  “It’s right there, just another step back. I take his arm and lead him back the step. “It’s okay. You can touch it. Your manly desk will help flood more testosterone into those veins. There you go.” I pat his arms, teasing.”

  He grins down at me. “You can be such a—”

  I get in his face, “A what?”

  “An unimaginably, vivacious, and stunning know-it-all. Ballerina.” Pete leans in, his nose nearly touching mine, and smirks.

  “Why did you? Last night, I mean. It would have been on the up and up. Everyone saw me leave with you. There are a dozen messages, okay more, from Erin asking how it was to get nailed to the wall by Pete Ferro and for some reason, I get brushed aside.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “I’d made up my mind before we left, and not for nothing, but are you saying you’ve never nailed a drunk girl before?”

  Pete watches me and I sense he’s squirming beneath those beautiful blue eyes. “No.”

  “Why?” I’m not sure why this matters, but I have to know. Pete doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s shutting down and I doubt I’ll get an answer, but I press him.

  “Why what?”

  “Why me? Or why not me? It seems like I’m not good enough or something, meanwhile every plastic chick within five miles of here has had you, but when it comes to sex and me—why?” Pete turns while I’m talking.

  “Let’s go for a ride.”

  “I have to know.”

  “Forget about it. Some things aren’t worth knowing, and this one doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s for me to decide.”

  “Not if it’s my secret, which it is.”

  I jump in front of him and smile huge. “You have a secret? About me? Any chance you wrote about it? In a poem?” Pete’s lips twitch as he watches me. He’s paused, not sure which way to go—to react charming or angry. Both defenses will throw me off balance and I’m expecting them. When neither comes and he just watches me, my stomach dips. “Pete? Did you write a poem?”

  THE DOCTOR OF LOVE WILL SEE YOU NOW

  August 10th, 11:06am

  He rubs his hands over his arms and doesn’t look away. His eyes are pinned on me, and his arms are folded in front, softly, like he’s trying to hide a secret that wants to come out. His lips part as if he’s going to tell me, but his phone buzzes. It breaks his trance. Pete looks down at it and then back up at me. “We better go.”

  I wonder who texted him, but he’s already hidden the phone in his pocket. “Okay, let me grab my things.”

  When I return with my coat, Pete is at his desk. He lifts the book he was reading, and marks his page. When he turns back, he stretches, which reveals a tiny bit of skin at the waist as the hem of his shirt rises. A small pang of regret hits me when I think of how last night and this morning went. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or upset. Either way, sleeping in his arms felt different, safe. I haven’t felt like that in a long time, like someone was watching out for me and would protect me. I want to take care of myself, but it’s nice to have that feeling—even if it’s not real.

  Without a word, Peter stands and walks over to the couch, to retrieve the leather jacket that’s laying on the backrest. I step towards the man desk and look at the notes he was jotting down. There are multiple technical notes about things like rhyme scheme, syllable count, writing structure and numerical patterns, but among those notes a quote stands out, written at the center of the page.

  “Thus you may understand that love alone is the true seed of every merit in you, and of all acts for which you must atone.”

  -Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio

  “Brushing up on your pickup lines this morning, I see.” I tease, picking up the book and flipping through the pages.

  Pete walks over to the desk, leather jacket in his hands and takes the book away from me.

  “Very funny smart ass. If you must know, I was doing a doctorate in English literature. Reading books and analyzing them was part of the job.”

  I nudge him with an elbow. “I see. Put it like that and it sounds nearly respectable for a Ferro to become an artist.”

  “Very funny.”

  “No, seriously. I mean it. It must have taken Mother Ferro Dearest quite by surprise, but an artistic middle child is normal, expected even. So, how did you break it to her?”

  “Break what?” Pete is watching me.

  My lips slip into a smile. “That you were working on becoming a doctor of looooove?”

  “Nice.” He smirks and looks over at me.

  “Trying to perfect the art of Don Juanisim?” I waggle my eyebrows at him.

  “As if I needed to.”

  I laugh loudly, once. “Well, aren’t we cocky?”

  “Perhaps, but you’re the one who keeps talking cock, not me. You mentioned it twice already—peacock and cocky. I think you have a fixation, Miss Granz.”

  “I think you have a bird phobia, Mr. Ferro.”

  He laughs and smooths his hair out of his eyes. “As if someone this manly could be afraid of something so small?”

  “You get your evil powers from your man-desk, right? Are there testosterone packs in the drawers?”

  “Smartass.”

  “I know you like my ass, but we don’t need to talk about it. Come on, fess up. Why did you ditch the degree? Mama Ferro take away your allowance?” I grin up at him.

  “Not quite. I quit before my dissertation. None of the profs here were offering projects I liked. To do a dissertation in poetry meant moving and that was not going to happen. Now if you are done with your insipid remarks, I’d like to get going.”

  “Hold on a moment.” I touch the tip of my finger, like I just figured out something huge. “Just so I understand your way of thinking and why you do what you do—dancing is for pussies but poetry isn’t?”

  Pete smiles thoughtfully. “Laugh all you want, at least I was doing something I loved. Which is more than I can say about you. Don’t make me believe for one second that you chose to study economics and business for your love of numbers. For some reason, I doubt that’s what you really wanted to do.”

  Suddenly this conversation isn’t funny. “How do you know about that?”

  “I know many things.”

  “Wow,” I blurt out without thinking. “You sound like your mother.”

  At that, his head snaps up and he walks straight to me. It’s his intimidation stance but it has long lost its effect on me. “My mother? When di
d you talk to my mother? I told you to stay away from her. Damnit, Gina!”

  I place a hand on his chest, hoping to get him to calm down. With a calm voice, I say, “Hey, it’s okay, relax. It’s not like I had a say in the matter, she tricked me into it. Besides, it was nothing. She was just offering me a job. Apparently, I’m good at numbers, even though it’s slowly boring me into a slow and agonizing death. But I turned her offer down, so stop freaking out.” This seems to pacify him, somewhat. He looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. He’s probably counting to ten, maybe twenty.

  He calms his voice, intentionally speaking carefully. “Just try to avoid her from now on. With everything happening right now, I don’t want you in her line of sight.”

  I search his eyes, but they don’t give anything away. “What do you mean with everything happening? Pete? What is going on?”

  He doesn’t answer but hands me the jacket. “Here, put this on and let’s go. You can leave your bag here. I’ll have someone bring it to your house later.”

  BADASSERINA GINA

  August 10th, 11:38am

  Pete hands me one of the helmets. “Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle before?”

  I shake my head. I put the helmet on and when he sees that I fumble with the chin strap, he silently offers to help. He pushes a button on the side of his helmet and on the side of mine and I hear a little blip in my ears. I blink in surprise.

  Pete’s voice comes through a set of speakers from inside the helmet, “Let me get on first and when I tell you to, you’re going to put one foot here,” he points to some kind of foot pedal thingy at the bottom, “hold onto my shoulders, and swing your other leg over to the other side. Got it?”