The Misters Series (Mister #1-7)

by J. A. Huss

  “Well?” he asks.

  “I don’t want you going out into the ocean again, so no to the seafood. But if you can whip up something better than cheese and crackers, I’m in for that. I’m starving.”

  “OK,” he says, standing up. I let my eyes linger on the muscles in his bare legs for a moment, before tracking up his perfectly toned body and finally meeting his gaze. He’s got a little devious smirk on his face. “I’ll get right on it.”

  And then he grabs his wrinkled clothes from the dry bag, which is still on the floor where I left it when I changed, and disappears downstairs.

  It takes me several minutes to realize what he just did.

  Took control. God, why does he have to be like that? And why does it make me so defensive?

  Don’t go there, Tori. Just don’t go there. Leave it alone. Let him make you a friendly dinner. Tomorrow the storm will be totally gone and we’ll find a way out of here—either with the radio or his friend will show up. And we’ll go back to our separate lives.

  I need to come to terms with the fact that my business is bankrupt. I need to tell my father that I’ve let him down. And I need to call that guy who sent me on this job and let him know I failed.

  I will not be able to deliver what he asked for.

  “Hey,” West says, shaking my shoulder. I sit up a little and look around, confused. “I guess you were tired,” he says.

  I sit all the way up and take him in. He’s wearing his clothes again, which are dirty. The shirt is ripped from the lobsters and it’s stained a nice off-white color now from the sea water. Still, he’s looking quite put back together compared to the wild boy persona he’s been sporting the past couple days. “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “Not much. The storm is dying down. Just some hard rain now, but not much wind. And dinner’s ready.”

  Dinner. I forgot about that.

  “Are you hungry?” West asks, when I stay silent.

  “Yes,” I say, getting up and wriggling my too-short skirt down my legs. I should put my bra and underwear back on. They are probably dry. And it would go a long way towards not having sex with West tonight like I did last night.

  But… if we have to go back to our normal lives tomorrow, what’s one more night down memory lane?

  I leave the bra and underwear hanging on the barstool where West left them and start down the stairs.

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Well.” He laughs behind me. “I had to make do with what we had.”

  When I get to the door of the safe I stop and smile. He has the small dinette table set with paper plates and plastic dinnerware. Paper towels are being used as napkins and there are two emergency candles lit between the place settings. There’s even a red flower sitting in a mug acting as a vase.

  “You really know how to impress a woman,” I say, walking over to the table. “Where did you get that flower?”

  West pulls a chair out and motions for me to sit. He always did have manners. I smile and sit, letting him help me scoot the chair in. “There’s a tree, just outside the front door.”

  I sigh. He’s kind of charming, right? In his own way. “What are we having?” I ask.

  West has an old frying pan lid covering a plate on the table. He lifts the lid and says, “Tonight, Miss Arias, in celebration of our temporary reunion and the good luck of being stuck on a deserted island with you, I present… emergency food ration pack number two-three-seven. Otherwise known as macaroni and cheese.”

  “Oh, dear,” I say. But I’m smiling. It’s sweet. “Did you try it yet?”

  “Uh, no. I might skip dinner and just enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Mister Corporate. You’re eating this shit.”

  He opens his mouth like he has a quick comeback, but then he shakes his head and looks down as he takes his seat.

  “Did you just blush? You were gonna say something dirty, weren’t you?”

  “No,” he says, placing his paper towel napkin in his lap. “But I love that you were thinking I’d say something dirty.”

  “You’re lying,” I muse, taking the little cup of mac and cheese from the plate. I peel back the plastic that covers the top and inhale. “It doesn’t smell too bad.” I pick up my plastic fork and take a bite, immediately spitting it out. “Oh, my God!”

  “It’s terrible, right?”

  “The worst!” I laugh. “Someone would really have to be starving to eat this.”

  “We can eat cheese and crackers if you want. Or have a glass of milk—”

  “No, no, no. I’m gonna enjoy the hell out of this mac and cheese, Weston Conrad. You made it, and you set the table and lit candles. So I’m eating it. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Do I have to eat it?”

  We both start laughing.

  “Come on, Weston. Where’s that boyish spirit you had hunting treasure as a kid?”

  “You’re gonna make me eat this, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not that bad, I swear. Take a bite.”

  He grimaces as he forks some mac and cheese into his mouth, but then smiles as he chews. “Hey, it’s pretty good. I’m not a bad cook after all. But you, Miss Arias, you can cook the hell out of some pasta.”

  “I do make a pretty nice homemade mac and cheese if I do say so myself.”

  “God, yeah. I think I fell in love with you when you made that prime rib at Christmas that first year.”

  “Remember that apartment? It was nice, you know? I sorta loved that you were out of school. I know that’s pretty horrible, considering you had those bullshit charges and that was the only reason we got to shack up together five towns over. But it was nice coming home to you after classes. And waking up with you.”

  Holy shit, what am I doing? I should not be talking about the past like this. Least of all about how great it was to sleep with him every night.

  “Yeah. I had it easy compared to the other guys. I never really thought I’d be found guilty. I mean, you were my secret weapon.”

  I have to smile at that. “I was, wasn’t I?”

  “You made it all better, Tori. For real. I don’t think I’ve ever properly thanked you for sticking by me.”

  I shrug. “You saved me, West. That night I stumbled onto your self-pity party out in front of the administration building changed my life.”

  “Remember when we got that turtle?” He draws in a deep breath as he laughs.

  “Sheldon.” I start giggling. “We were practicing being parents.”

  “I think you took it a little too far when you started sewing clothes for him. Especially since you made him dresses.”

  “Turtles can’t wear trousers.” My smile is so big my cheeks might crack.

  “You were good at it, you know.”

  “My grandma… adopted grandma. She taught me how to knit dolly clothes, even though I was too old to play with dolls when I met her. She said every mother needs to know how to make dolly clothes for their little girls. I bet she’d have loved to see Sheldon in his dresses.”

  “Well, yeah, you were good at making turtle dresses. But what I meant is, you were good at all that stuff, Tori. That home stuff. Mom stuff.”

  “West, please. Why do you always have to bring it up? I don’t know what to say to you about it. I don’t want to stay home and be some good little wife.”

  “You could’ve been my wild wife.” And he says it so seriously, and he looks so sad as the words come out… I want to put my arms around him and apologize. “You could’ve been my crazy, wild wife, Victoria Arias. And I’d have fucking loved it. I would’ve let you throw plates at me. I’m pretty good at ducking.”

  I take a deep breath and look down at my plastic carton of food. “It would’ve gone wrong fast enough.”

  “Why?” he asks. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because that’s what happens when you get married.” I look up at him. “You fall out of love. It might not happen right away but it alway
s happens.”

  “Says who, Victoria? There’s no time limit on love.”

  I swallow hard and shake my head. “It’s inevitable. Nothing lasts forever. You have these perfect weeks of honeymooning and enjoying wild sex, and discovering everything about each other. But we already had that, Weston. And it was never enough for you. Why do you need that piece of paper?”

  “Why don’t you need that piece of paper?”

  “Because it’s meaningless—”

  “It’s not meaningless. It’s got so much fucking meaning, Tori. It means you’re my wife. It means you’re my partner. It means you get everything of mine if I die. It’s a promise to each other, to our future kids, to the world.”

  “It might mean that to you, but to me it means we’re on a time limit. It means the clock is ticking until we fall apart. It means we have an expiration date.”

  He stops to consider my answer. It says a lot about me. Things I should probably not let him in on. “Is that why you always said no to me? Because we were doomed from the start? Because you’re afraid of falling out of love?”

  “Sheldon couldn’t keep us together.”

  West smiles, but it’s sad. “I have more faith in you than you have in me. And I hate that.”

  “Why couldn’t we just stay the way we were? I mean, look at how much we fought, Weston. It was ridiculous.”

  “Our fights were about the future. We never fought about day-to-day things. You never bitched at me about my socks on the floor or leaving dishes in the sink.”

  “You’re a neat freak, I never had to.”

  “I never bitched at you for spending money or cleaning the house.”

  “You’re filthy rich, Weston. And we had a maid clean the house.”

  “See how perfect we were?” He’s got a smile on his face, but there’s a lot of uncertainty in that smile.

  “Do you want to get back together with me?” I ask. “Is this what you’re doing right now? Courting me for a renewed relationship?”

  He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. I just want you to realize that we were good. And the reason we fell apart was because you were afraid.” I’m about to say something, but he continues. “Besides. We can’t go back anyway. I feel like we never even knew each other.”

  I start picking at my food. “Well, that’s true. How could I ever be with a man who refuses to tell me about his past?”

  “Do you want to know my past, Tori?”

  I shrug, but, “Yes, of course,” comes out of my mouth.

  “I want to know yours too. Let’s tell each other our pasts. Tonight. Let’s pretend it’s that first week we met and that rape charge never happened. That you weren’t reeling from a bad breakup and that asshole didn’t rape you the next night. That we didn’t get distracted and just meld together into a team before we were ready. Let’s try that beginning again. I want a do-over.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Weston

  “You know what’s funny?”

  “What?” Tori asks, looking down at her plate.

  “All the other Misters had to keep that night a secret from everyone. Remember that guy, Five? Who told us not to talk to each other?”

  “Sure,” she says, her voice small and sad. “I remember you telling me about him.”

  “Well, none of the other guys ever got to tell their side of the story. Not to the rest of us, or their parents, or even their lawyers. Because Five came in and took over. Sent us on our ways. We talked on the phone, sure. But not about the case. It was always about what we were doing. What we’d do next. How we might help each other. But I always had you. And I didn’t have to tell you what happened because you saw the whole thing. So I guess I made a mistake back then.”

  “How do you figure?” She looks up at me, those brilliant violet eyes wide and watery like she might cry. She loves me. I know she does.

  “I let you down. I didn’t mean to let you down, Tori. It just happened so fast.”

  “I know.” She sighs. “It did happen fast. That’s why I wasn’t sure if we were real.”

  “We’re real, Miss Arias. And maybe I didn’t start this trip with getting to know you better in mind, but it’s not a bad way to end it, right?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She says it in a very firm voice. There is no way she will tell me what’s hidden behind those eyes. No way. Not tonight.

  “OK,” I say, giving in. “But are you willing to listen? Because I think I do want to talk about it. My past, I mean. Not yours.”

  She blinks at me. “How much more is there?”

  I shrug. “A lot more.”

  She considers this for a few moments, but remains silent.

  “Are you interested?”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  I stand up and walk around the small table, extending my hand. “Then come with me.”

  I lead her back upstairs—all the way upstairs—to the bedrooms. And then I take her into the master bedroom where the view out the massive floor-to-ceiling window is palm trees thrashing, rain pouring down so hard that rivers are running down the glass, and the angry ocean that wants to eat this island alive. I’ve got a blanket on the floor in front of the window and I motion for her to take a seat.

  She does, and I do as well.

  “Put your head in my lap, Victoria. And look up at me as I talk.” It’s an order, and she hates orders. But for whatever reason, she complies. I stroke her hair, loving the softness of it. And the smell. Even though it smells like salt, and rain, and wind, and it hasn’t been brushed in two days.

  I love this version of Victoria Arias. The wild one. Not just on the inside, but the outside too. She never lets herself be wild in appearance. She is always tailored, and polished, and put-together.

  “My father was a drunk.” I look into her eyes to see how she takes this, but she just nods her head for me to keep going. “Not the harmless kind, either. The wife-beating kind. The kid-beating kind. The kind who takes his paycheck at the end of the weekend and buys enough beer to put him into a stupor for the weekend. My mom left when I was six.”

  “She left you behind?”

  “She had no choice. She was committed for trying to kill herself.”

  “Oh, my God, West. That’s terrible. Where is she now?”

  “Oh, she succeeded. About six months after they took her away. I think she was always mentally ill, you know? Always on the verge of suicide. They let her out on a weekend furlough because she was getting better. So my dad and I went to the mainland to pick her up. And he told her she wasn’t going back to the hospital. He was taking her home. She told him how happy she was about that. And we all went to lunch before taking the boat back to Nantucket. And before you ask me how we got to live on Nantucket if we were so poor, that house was a shack. It was in my father’s family for six generations. It had an outhouse, for fuck’s sake. So that’s how.”

  “Jesus, West.”

  “So we got to the restaurant and we all ordered our food. And my mom said she had to use the restroom. She never came back. She slit her wrists in the bathroom with a steak knife. And do you know what my father said the next day, when we were finally back home?” I don’t wait for an answer. It’s a rhetorical question. “He said, ‘She could’ve done it before she ordered the food so I didn’t have to pay her bill.’”

  Tori sits up, her eyes wide and her mouth open. “Your dad said that?”

  “Yeah. He couldn’t care less about her. And even I knew, at the age of six, that she killed herself because he was taking her home.”

  “I just can’t picture your dad saying that. He looks so normal in those photographs. So that’s your step-mom with him? How do you even talk to him still?”

  I just keep going. Why not? I’m on a roll now. “The next year I got that job with another boat company. My father had a fishing boat, right? But he never worked regularly. He was too drunk to get out of bed four days of the week. And I started making money to pay our bills. So y
ou see, Tori, you pegged me all wrong. I’m not the guy you think I am.”

  “And then you found that treasure? When was that?”

  “I was fourteen. I was a straight-A student in school because I saw the rich kids on the island. They were only summer people, but I saw them. Met some of them. Learned about them, and their lives, and what kind of futures their parents planned for them. And I wanted to be just like them. So I made it happen. I was fourteen when my dad and I found that treasure. It’s funny how money changes your life. It certainly changed mine. I took that money and got into a private school on the mainland. And the rest just sort of worked itself out.”

  She looks out the window as she thinks about my story.

  I wait. I wait for her to come to a conclusion, or ask another question, or tell me she’s so sorry.

  But she does more than that.

  She starts with the words I so desperately need to hear.

  “Lucio Gori Junior was the first boy I ever had sex with.”

  I think I stop breathing.

  “And it wasn’t consensual. Not in my eyes. I was only eleven.” Tori looks up at me. “He was seventeen.” She looks out the window.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “He called me his girlfriend. He took me on ‘dates.’ And I use the term ‘dates’ in quotation marks because they were trips to the woods, or to the back of his father’s garage, or wherever he could find that got us alone together. He’d say— He’d say, ‘Come on, Vicki.’ God, I hate the name he used to call me. ‘Come on, Vicki. We have a date today.’ And I’d go. Because my mom worked for his dad.” She looks up at me again. “His dad is a dangerous man. You don’t fuck with Lucio Gori Senior.”

  She doesn’t need to spell it out for me. I can read between the lines.

  “But… when I was fourteen Lucio Junior found out I liked another boy. My mom had already told Senior I’d marry his son. I was promised to him. That’s why we lived in one of their houses for free. You wouldn’t think this kind of arranged marriage thing happens in America anymore, but it does. It does when you’re a girl with a mother like I had. So Junior beat the shit out of me. I was so badly hurt they had to take me to a doctor. Not a hospital, but their doctor, you know?”