by Jay McLean
“Who the fuck is this guy?” Sean whispered.
I was barely out of my seat when I heard the first sound of glass smashing, and when I looked out the window, Matt was standing on the hood of the BMW, bat raised above his head. There was no mercy in the way he attacked that car, over and over, glass and metal bending beneath his fury. Sean had his phone out, his thumb hitting the screen.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then he held it to his ear.
9-1-1.
I grabbed his phone and hung up. “Don’t. I’m sorry. This is my fault.”
“But my car,” my date yelled.
“He’ll cover the damages when he calms down.”
I knew I didn’t have long; other patrons were on their phones, some recording Matt’s meltdown, some dialing for help. I got out of there as fast as possible and ran over to the man who, at that moment, I both feared and loved. “Stop!”
And he did.
Just like that.
“That’s what you want?” he yelled, hand frantic as he motioned to the building. “That’s what you fucking want?!”
“What’s wrong with you?” I shouted, urging him off the hood.
“You! You’re what’s fucking wrong with me!”
“Why would you do this?!”
“Because you’re fucking mine, Andie! Mine!” And then...
The strangest thing happened.
Matteo Rossi—the man I’d thought to be unbreakable—broke.
He jumped down off the hood and wrapped me in his arms. Wild shakes and endless sobs, he said, bleeding his broken heart for all to see, “Why won’t you love me?”
I held him back, and I told him what I’d known to be the truth. “I do. I do love you.”
He drove us back to his house where talking wasn’t an option. Clothes off, hands and lips did all our communicating. When we were done, we lay in his bed under a thousand-thread-count of blanketed regret.
For leaving him in the first place?
For taking him back so easily?
I didn’t know.
I still don’t know.
He said, “I got you something, baby.”
And I wiped the tears from my cheeks.
Then he reached into his dresser, pulled out a little square box. The man whose mood switched from high to low like an expensive yo-yo flipped the lid, revealing a giant, round diamond on a gold setting. “It’s not what you think,” he said, “but it’s a start. When you get your acceptance letter to Harvard, I want to buy a house in Boston where we can have a new beginning. I’ll work from there, and you’ll go to classes...”
“Why?” I whispered, too shocked to say much else.
“I just wanted to do something nice for my girl.” He kissed me once. “You’ll see. It’ll be perfect.”
Until it wasn’t.
Chapter Thirty
Matteo Rossi
You tore up my insides, Andie. When I saw you with that other guy, something in me broke. I couldn’t let you walk away. I had too much to fucking lose. You wanted that regular dating experience—I’d find a way to give it to you. So I made plans just for you.
I even went to your grandparents, came up with some fuckin’ story about a business seminar over the weekend. Told them I wanted you there, not just for me, but for your experience. “Real world business,” I think I called it.
You stood in the middle of your sitting room in your school uniform, that short little skirt you’d outgrown a year ago that I loved keepin’ you in when I was taking you from behind.
“We’ll have separate rooms,” I assured your grandfather. Like fuck we would. He agreed, and you smiled over at me. My sweet girl, always so needy for me.
Come Friday, you showed up to my house in all your quiet, graceful beauty. You’d changed over the past year, matured in ways I’d hoped. Tits were bigger, firmer, and your ass was incredible. But you knew that, right? I fuckin’ told you enough. “So what are we really doing?” you asked, making yourself a drink like you often did when you came over. Too much bourbon, not enough Coke, but that’s okay. You liked to relax around me. Let loose.
I told you I was taking you on a date, and your eyes widened. I loved that look you used to give me. Full of appreciation, like the world began and ended with me. I waited until you were done with your drink, then took your hand and led you upstairs. You didn’t even hesitate to follow. Putty in my hands, girl. On my bed, I’d laid out your outfit: a tight, tiny little number that would have guys droolin’ over you. I didn’t care if they did, as long as you were with me, tucked under my arm, so the world knew you were mine. I also bought you shoes, knowing you wouldn’t have anything that went with the dress. See? I was a good fuckin’ boyfriend, Andie, and you wanted to leave me.
You picked up the wig next to the dress and flipped it in your hand. “What’s this for?” you asked, fingers threading the long, black silk.
“Think of it as a costume,” I told you. “Tonight, we pretend.”
“Pretend?”
“That it’s just you and me, baby. No one has to know our business, right? Besides, where we’re goin’, you’re gonna need it.”
I took you to an “underground” casino at an old, unused warehouse. I’d been to them before, but it was different walking in with you. I told you it was for charity. No real money was used to gamble, the chips were just for show. I lied to you, but it was for your own good.
“So why the costume then?”
“Gamblin’ is gamblin’, babe. You still need to be twenty-one.”
You bought my bullshit.
You always did.
You nearly toppled over your six-inch heels when you saw me hand over five grand to some fake charity I’d made up in exchange for some chips. You thought I was donating it, and at that moment, swear you made me feel like I was more than just a worthless hustler. I sat at a blackjack table while you stood beside me, supporting me like the good girl you used to be. You remember this, right? I was probably ten hands into it when you shifted next to me, whispered, “Don’t” in my ear, just loud enough for me to hear. I remember it so clearly. I was on seventeen, about to risk it with the next card, but you stopped me. The dealer moved to the next player, threw down a jack. I would’ve busted, and you fucking knew.
“How?” I mouthed.
Your body pressed against mine, hand on my chest, breasts on my shoulder. You lowered your mouth to my ear again, said the words that would forever change us. “I can count cards.”
I practically jumped out of my seat and dragged your ass back to the car, where I told you to explain. You told me you learned “for fun,” just to see if you could. Your brain, Andie, I don’t even fuckin’ know.
You were the Bonnie to my Clyde that night. Partners in crime. And you had no clue you were making me thousands of dollars. You sipped cocktails while you laughed, celebrated every win, and frowned when we lost just so it wouldn’t be obvious. “The hard part isn’t the counting,” you’d said in the car. “It’s the odds of averages for wins versus losses. You don’t want to make it obvious.”
“And you know the odds?” I asked.
You looked away, nodded all shy-like. But you were grinning. That sweet, embarrassed smile of yours.
I cut you off from drinking when your eyelids started to droop, but it didn’t matter; you were drunk on adrenaline, loving every moment of it. You even kept your wig on in the car on the way to the hotel and again while we checked in at the lobby. We got the penthouse suite, because why the fuck not? And we bathed together, drunk and horny as hell, in a tub filled with champagne. You were high on life and stoned on sexual desire. You couldn’t keep your hands off me, Andie. You were so thankful for the night I’d shown you, but I was more thankful of you. You had no fucking idea how much.
But I loved you.
Really, I did.
You sweet, clueless, pathetic little girl.
Chapter Thirty-One
And
ie
I got a call this morning.
A call I always dread.
Then I called into work, told them I was sick. But the truth? The truth has me sitting on the couch, gripping my phone and staring down at Milky’s number, too nervous to call because I’m expecting a visit from a man I’m forced to have contact with whenever it’s convenient for him. I’ve only seen him twice since I got out, so when he called this morning to say he’d be dropping by the house, my panic set in. So much panic, I ended up breathing into a paper bag just to calm myself.
I hit dial the exact moment the front door opens, and Milky steps in, one of Bradley t-shirts hanging loosely on her shoulders.
I stand to get her attention. “Liston’s coming over.”
“Shit.” She drops her bag by the door and looks around the apartment. “When?”
“Soon.”
“What do we do?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to go through your stuff in case there was anything—”
“I don’t think there’s anything, but I’ll double check.” She makes her way to her room, and I sit back on the couch, stare at the wall, plead with my heart to stop beating so loud. From her room, I hear the sliding of her drawers, in and out, in and out, less than a minute between them.
The Hello Kitty clock on the wall reads 10:53, my phone reads 10:51, and I wonder how punctual Liston will be. “Are condoms bad?” my sister calls out.
“No.”
“Are you allowed to have razors?”
I turn to her. “What kind of razors? Like, disposal ones?”
“Yeah.”
“I think they’re okay. Fuck, Milky, I don’t know,” I cry out, just as there’s a knock on the door.
“Wait. I need to get dressed,” Milky says, rushing back to her room.
“Hurry up!”
It only takes her a few seconds to slip out of Bradley’s shirt and into a dress, but she looks far prettier and more composed than I could ever be. “Okay, let’s do this.”
With sweaty palms and an erratic heartbeat, I plaster on the most sincere smile I can. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, I have nothing to hide. Neither does Milky. And Liston is far from intimidating. I take one more calming breath before opening the door, my eyes widening when it isn’t Liston standing on the other side. “Can I help you?” I ask.
The man, mid-thirties, looks at me first, then at Milky. “Officer Barbone,” he says, pushing the door open and stepping inside. “Liston had a family emergency, asked me to cover this case.” And now I’m scared, my shallow breaths proof, because Liston—my parole officer—is an older man, soft-spoken and understanding, and the one in front of me is everything he isn’t. Rude and rough and all dark hair, dark eyes, and dark demeanor.
Barbone switches his glare from Milky to me and asks, “You’re Andromeda Reynor?”
“Yes, officer.”
He nods once, goes back to leering at Milky. “Why do you look familiar?” he asks her, and dread clings to my lungs, squeezing them tight.
“I’m not sure, sir,” she says, making direct eye contact as she smiles a little too wide. Knees locked. Shoulders back. Lying. She knows exactly how he knows her, and I can make a pretty calculated guess.
“Right, this is a routine check,” the man bellows, gripping the top of a baton as he flicks his wrist, extends it to full length. He runs the tip of it along the kitchen counter, flipping the bills I have set aside. Milky stands next to me, her hand gripping mine. She’s as afraid as I am, if not more, because she knows this man more than I do, has probably seen the worst he has to offer. Barbone goes through the kitchen cabinets, the drawers, one by one, pulling everything out, shoving them back in. Clanking of ceramic echoes off the walls, filling my ears with dread. When he’s done in the kitchen, he moves to the living room, lifting every cushion off the couch and dumping them to the floor. He uses the baton to search every nook, every hidden space. Then he looks down at the basket of laundry on the floor, Milky’s thongs and uniform on top. He lifts the tank from the pile with his baton, the bright pink Chubaret logo on full display. He chuckles to himself before smirking at me, then raising his eyebrows at my sister. Without a word, he moves on from the laundry and toward the coffee table, and Milky and I move closer, holding each other tighter. He picks up my bag, tips the contents out on the trunk, receipts and loose coins and chapstick creating a pile of junk. Again, he uses his baton to shift through my things, asking, “Whose bag is this?”
“Mine,” I manage to say.
His permanent smirk develops into a full grin, shifting his mustache higher. With a thwack, he retracts his baton using the arm of the couch and goes through my belongings with his hands. Then he laughs. A laugh so threatening the hairs on the back of my neck stand. “What’s this?” he asks, holding up a... fuck fuck fuck. “A box cutter? That’s on the prohibited items list, Miss Reynor.”
“I use it for work,” I rush out. “I must’ve—I don’t normally carry one, I swear!” Fear grips my throat shut and I choke on a gasp, heat building behind my eyes.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re in possession of a prohibited item, and you know what that means.” Barbone pulls out a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket, swings them around his finger like some fucking toy.
I release a sob into the tension-filled air.
“Both hands in front of you,” the man says, stalking toward me.
“No!” my sister shouts, standing in front of me, blocking his path. “She must’ve taken it home by accident. Right, Andie?”
I try to nod, but desperation and despair have me frozen to my spot. Trails of defeat line marks down my cheeks, and how could I be so fucking stupid?
You’re the smartest girl, who makes the stupidest choices, Andie. And look where it got you.
Barbone stops in front of my sister, only inches away, his eyes eating up every single part of her. Then he licks his lips and my insides twist, disgust and hatred replacing my fear. “I could turn a blind eye to this...” he whispers in her ear. “Private shows at the club are a pretty fuckin’ penny.”
“No!” I shout, tugging on Milky’s shoulder. “No, Milky. You’re not doing this.”
She doesn’t turn to me. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even budge when I shake her harder, begging her not to do what I know she’s about to.
Because she lives with as much regret as I do.
Because she fucking loves me.
Because she believes in a purpose, and that purpose belongs to me.
I cry so hard, my shoulders shake with the force of every single one. “Please don’t, Milky. Please!”
My beautiful sister and the creepy motherfucker stare each other down, me being the cause of their battle.
Me being their prize.
Finally, my sister speaks, refusing to face me. “Stay out here, Andie.”
“No!”
“For once in your goddamn life, Andie, listen to me! Do what I ask!”
“Milky, no!”
She doesn’t listen. She walks straight to her bedroom, waiting for a member of law enforcement to follow. The door closes between us, and I reach for the wall, use it to keep myself upright. The second music sounds from her room, I break down.
I run out of the house and straight to the boys’ door where I knock hard, bang, kick, cry out for help. Bradley answers quickly, his eyes wide. “Help me,” I plead.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Milky!”
His face pales, his eyes frantic. “What about her? What happened, Andie?”
I point to the house, spit and tears flying from my mouth when I cry, “There’s a man... my P.O, he’s got Mi—”
Bradley rushes from his house, through mine and I run after him, my lungs barely holding on. He pushes open the bedroom door, and I get a glimpse of Milky in nothing but her panties, the guy sitting on her bed, before Bradley has Barbone’s throat in his hand, his body pressed against the wall. Milky screams, an
d I cry, and the guys yell—loud and jarring, full of curses and threats, and I collapse on the floor, crying and crawling, searching for my puffer because I can’t fucking breathe.
“You motherfucker! I’m calling the cops!” Bradley shouts.
“Good luck,” Barbone roars. “I am the fucking the law!”
Drywall cracks, shatters, falls to the floor when Bradley shoves him hard against the wall, a pained cry coming from his victim. Milky screams her boyfriend’s name when the sound of a fist connecting to bone fills the air. One after the other. On and On.
I reach the trunk, still in search of my inhaler. I don’t even wheeze because there’s no air to accompany it. Bodies crash out of the bedroom, Barbone’s collar gripped tight in Bradley’s white-knuckled fists as he leads him to the front door, pushes him out of the house. “You’re lucky you’re fucking breathing.”
A door slams, another opens, then another, and then Noah.
“What the hell’s going on? Who was that guy?” He marches into the room, his eyes taking in the scenery and then Milky’s above me, holding out my inhaler. “Breathe, Andie. You need to breathe, okay?”
I shake my head as Bradley moves back to us. “I’m calling the cops.”
“Don’t,” Milky says, pushing the plastic mouthpiece between my lips. She presses down on the canister, and I inhale as best I can. Noah’s next to me now, on his knees, his fingers brushing the hair away from my eyes, unsticking them from my tears. “What happened?”
I try to speak, but I can’t. I inhale another hit of manufactured life into my lungs, and with my eyelids heavy, head pounding, heart broken, I watch my sister fall into the embrace of the guy who’s just shown how deeply he feels for her, and I find what little strength I have to say her name, get her attention. Another sob escapes.
“It’s okay, Andie,” she says. “It’s over.”
“No.” I shake my head, find both comfort and shame in Noah’s embrace. “It’ll never be over. And you don’t deserve what I’m doing to you.”
