Life Before Damaged, Vol. 9: The Ferro Family

T
his book is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

C
opyright © 2015 by H.M
. Ward

All rights reserved.

N
o part
of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

L
AREE BAILEY PRESS

First Edition: September 2015

I
'm
in love with Peter Ferro.

Damn it! How the hell did I let this happen? I hug my knees to my chest and hold on tightly, trying to squeeze the feeling from my body. It doesn't work. How could my heart betray me like this? I can't be in love with one of the manwhore brothers. It’s true, Pete has moments where he shines, where he's tender, passionate, and caring. I've fallen in love with that version of Peter. I want to cling to those moments, but they’re like an exploding star. Those moments are fleeting, and I'm stuck competing with the other women who are eternally in his orbit.

Footsteps draw nearer. I press my ear to the door, simultaneously afraid he's found me and hopeful he finally came looking for me.

“Gina, dammit! Where are you? We need to talk, and I'm not yelling something like this from the hallway.” That voice brings forth emotions within me that I can't identify. He's not angry, not quite arrogant. I've never heard him like this. Every instinct I have urges me to rush to him, but I can't. I can’t move. I’m crippled, leaning against the thick wooden door. I wonder how many women have cried against it, pouring their hearts out, knowing no one would ever hear their distress or truly care.

His voice is calmer this time, more like he’s chanting to himself as he pads past my door. “Damn it.”

He stops, just outside the door. I place a hand on the hard wooden surface. For a moment, I pretend I'm touching Pete the way I was in the ballroom. I move my hand quickly from the door, rubbing my palms against my thighs vigorously, wanting to wipe away any trace of him. He was with another woman. My little squabble with Anthony disrupted his moment of bliss with Miss Perfect. I wish I could disappear.

Pete's footfalls echo down the hall, becoming fainter with each step and silence settles over me. I start to shiver. I back away from the door until I bump into something hard behind me. My heart stops for a beat.

In my attempt to evade Pete, I didn't take note of which halls I ran down. I could be anywhere. I spin on the balls on my feet and take in my surroundings. Relief followed by another pang of heartache hits me in consecutive waves. I haven't strayed into forbidden territory, but what I see here is painful. There’s a massive mahogany desk, a soft leather couch, and stacks of musty old books strewn across every surface.

I'm in Pete's study.

My fingers caress the smooth wood, remembering our first encounter. I rest my palms on the desk and let out a silent sob. This room is where it all began, where he offered to--in his words--fuck me thoroughly and hard. I walk around the desk, looking at the books he's reading. A battered copy of Yeats' poetry has a single bookmark peeking out from its yellowed pages. I open the book and tears sting my eyes. It's the poem he recited to me that first night,
When You Are Old
.

The memory of him speaking echoes through the empty room:

Oh, God! I can't do this. This can't be my life. I can't stand by like this while he falls for his mistresses. I can’t be the woman begging for leftover scraps of his emotions. I have to find a way to push him out of my heart. There's a good, caring man waiting for me tonight. I need to see him. If Pete can fall in love with a mistress, maybe I can learn to love Philip.

Screw it. No regrets. I need to get out of here, now. The chauffeurs may not be permitted to drive me anywhere, but Constance never mentioned anything about my leaving the grounds on my own.

With a determined stride, I make my way across the room and open the door a crack. When the coast is clear, I head for the garages.

A
wh
. Crap!

I stare blankly at the wall-mounted box in front of me. Keys! There’s a set for every car in the collection, and since it's a sizeable collection there are a million keys. Each set hangs from a little hook, above which hangs a golden plaque engraved with the make and model of a car. This should be easy, but it’s not. How the hell am I supposed to tell one from another? It’s not like it’s the Kia lineup of six cars. Those are easily identifiable because they don’t make twenty versions of sedans. But this? The Ferros must love their cars, because I appear to be standing in the Bugatti section of an indoor car lot. Sports cars, all black, all sick-looking, all incredibly similar. Same problem with the Ferraris, the Aston Martins, and the Paganis.

Frick. I don’t have time to pick a key and try it in every lock until it works. Scanning the box, I spot a set with one of those remote thingies that unlock doors from a distance. The little plaque above reads: Porsche. I grab the remote and click the unlock symbol. Lights blink on a sleek charcoal grey car, and I run toward it. I can't believe I'm stealing a car. This is so wrong, and so dangerous, and so freaking awesome! Adrenaline pumps through my veins, bringing me back to life. I’ve missed the rush.

I yank open the door and slide onto the buttery leather seat. I glance down at the gear shifter, relieved. It’s an automatic. I never learned to drive a stick. Dad always insisted a princess deserved to be chauffeured around. God, that sounds pretentious. I look around the steering wheel but can’t find the slot to insert the key. My eyes scan the dashboard. Nothing.

“Uh, car? Start engine? Vroomy-vroomy?” I feel like an idiot talking to a car--especially when nothing happens. There goes that idea. A voice- operated car would have been cool.

I study the key-remote-thingy closer. FML! There’s no actual key to it. It looks more like a small vibrator than a key. I prod and poke everywhere, trying to figure out how to get this damn car started. Keys! It’s not an entirely outdated concept, people!

I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. That’s when I see it. There’s a little slot to the left of the steering wheel, right on the dashboard. I try to fit the whole remote in the slot. It works! The engine purrs smoothly to life, and I suddenly get why guys are so into cars. The sound is erotic.

I shift into drive, press my foot down gently on the gas pedal, and the car takes off like a bullet. My head slams back into the headrest. I stomp both feet on the brake and lock my hands in a death grip on the steering wheel. The car comes to an abrupt stop, tires squealing, barely missing the little red convertible in front of me.

“Ho-ly, that was close!"

With trembling hands and wobbly, barely-responsive legs, I back up slowly, readjust the car's path and maneuver it past the archway into the garages, and outside. I expect him to hear me and come running after the car, but there’s no sign of Pete. He probably went back to boinking the chick in the sheets. Tears sting my eyes and I take a shaky breath as I race down the Long Island Expressway. I don’t care how fast I’m going or if I get pulled over. Screw Constance. Before I know it, I’m at Erin’s apartment.

After jumping out of the car, I take the stairs two at a time and pound my fist on Erin's door. I hear the familiar sounds of chains and locks from the other side, metal sliding against metal. She opens the door and grins before attacking me with a ginormous hug that would put bears to shame. The word inappropriate comes to mind. She’s wearing a towel around her waist. Thank God she's wearing something on top. I pry her freakishly strong arms from around me. She takes a step back and looks me up and down, unable to believe I'm here. I barely believe it myself.

“Holy eff, Gina! What are you doing here?”

“I needed to escape for a bit. Mind if I hang here?”

Erin places both hands on either side of my face and studies me. I need her to be crass right now. I don't want to think about why I'm really here. “I don’t mind at all," she says biting her lip, and then looks over her shoulder. "I was kind of in the middle of something buuuut...”

Her friendly smile morphs into an expression I know all too well. It’s THE LOOK, the one that has gotten us into trouble so many times as kids, the one I've been hoping to see. “Why don’t you join me? I’m gonna make you try something completely out of your comfort zone, princess.”

“Uh...”

"
S
o thanks for stopping by
, and we'll call you again soon. Talented hands like that are hard to find." Erin gives Whatever-His-Name-Is some money, then closes the door behind him. She walks back over to where I'm standing, placing herself behind me and pushing my hair over to one side, clearing my left shoulder.

“I can’t believe we did this, Gee. I’ve been waiting for so long, I just never thought I'd do it with you. Wasn't it amazing? You know, I’m kinda proud of you. Virgins are usually more discreet their first time. This is just--wow! I mean, look at you! You look so beautiful,” Erin gushes. She’s forcing me to see my reflection in her mirror. WTF did I do?

I turn around halfway and swat Erin on the arm. “Shut up. We'll call it extreme cherry popping and leave it at that. I’m never doing this again. Holy shiznit!” I speak Yiddish now. All the kids are doing it. I turn my back to her and look at myself in the mirror with disbelief.

“Of course you're doing this again. It's addictive. Especially considering how bitchin' you look. Hot damn, baby-cakes!” Erin says proudly, using her foot to kick away her sweat pants and my top from around our feet on the floor.

I let out a nervous laugh, “Baby-cakes? You need to stop hanging around Ricky.”

Erin's face drops when I mention Ricky. There's something there she's not telling me. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and she puts on a plastic smile. I open my mouth to ask, but she cuts me off. "Hold still. This may sting like a bitch, but it’s part of the fun!”

I nod and stare at myself in the mirror. No more regrets, Gina. The thrill of what I’ve just done is slowly catching up. I don't care how much trouble I'm going to get into over this. This is for me. This is me, now more than ever.

Standing in nothing but my bra and jeans, I turn around to take a look at my back in the mirror, and it’s just as amazing as the front. Big red roses, linked together by thorn-covered stems, decorate my left shoulder. They spill onto the upper part of my arm and cascade down onto my shoulder blade. Underneath the roses, a black lace-like pattern adds femininity and delicateness to the design. It's perfect.

I needed a clear reminder of who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. With everything that's happened, I don't want to lose myself in the chaos. Pete's right--I am like a rose, both delicate and strong all at once. Handle me roughly and my petals may wilt, but not before you feel the sting of my thorns.

I wince when Erin touches me. Applying the ointment stings like a wicked sunburn and I inhale sharply, biting down on my bottom lip to keep from yelping out in pain.

“So you don’t think Mama Ferro is going to murder you for this?" Erin's tone is mischievous. "What about that good girl image clause? Wasn't that to make them look more amiable in the public eye?” With the ointment, my tattoo glistens under the loft's overhead lighting.

“Screw my image.” My chest squeezes painfully around my lungs. My eyes burn with the all too familiar feeling of tears begging to escape.

I'm so sick of crying over Peter Ferro. I don't want to love him, but I do. Meanwhile, he loves someone else--whatever his newfound notion of love is.

I bend down to pick up my top, but can’t put it back on. It has sleeves. "Erin? Can I borrow one of your halter-tops? This thing's gonna hurt." I glance at my friend in the mirror. She gives me a skeptical look before nodding and running up to her room to retrieve a sexy, bust-enhancing, halter-top.

I put it on and study my reflection. I'm going to look so hot for Philip! The thought rips me up inside. He should be the one I'm in love with, not Pete. Philip cares for me.

Erin steps in between the mirror and me. “Gina? What's that look? Why are you here, anyway? I know you're not allowed to come here, yet here you are. Obviously, something's wrong, I can feel it, and don’t just make something up. Spill girl. What happened?”

I look off to the side, unable to meet her gaze. "Nothing's changed." Everything’s changed. "Pete & I will still get engaged when that ball drops on New Year’s Eve." The thought should have me squeeing like a schoolgirl at a boy-band concert, but it doesn't.

"So, what happened?"

I tell Erin and my voice breaks as I speak, coming out in a sobby slew of sounds. I'm incoherent, but that's okay. She understands me like no one else.

Erin asks, "She's not just anybody, is she?" I shake my head, unable to answer. "Oh, Gina. I'm so sorry. Listen, I have an important meeting with the owner of an art gallery in an hour, and I really can't miss it. His schedule is weird, and this was the only time he could fit me in. But spend the night here and when I get back, we'll eat popcorn and pizza and watch TV.” Erin gives me a look of pity, and I hate it. I need to be stronger. I take a deep breath and smile. This could be a big day for her.

"You go to your meeting and kick ass. I think I may hang out at the club tonight. Philip invited me, and I’m dying to get out and socialize with normal people again.”

Erin's eyebrows scrunch with disapproval. “Really? Philip was pissed after you dumped his ass for the sexperienced sexpert.”

“I know but he apologized for his reaction, and I think he may want us to get back together. Why should I turn my back on someone who really cares about me? Especially when I like him too?”

Erin pushes my hair aside, over to my right shoulder and studies my tattoo before looking up into my eyes. “Tell you what. If you need a fuck buddy to help you get over Ferro, we’ll go man hunting tomorrow night. I may know of a few available pork swords that would love to take you for a ride down the steamin' semen roadway. Just not Philip's, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I appreciate the concern, Erin, but you don’t need to worry about me. Philip can’t break my heart, we’re not like that.”

“Oh, princess, it’s not your heart I’m worried about."