Life Before Damaged, Volume 4

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Title Page

  SWALLOW OR PUKE

  THE STIFFER THE BETTER

  FIREPLACE MANTLES

  WAKE UP CALL

  LACK OF SEX IS BAD FOR THE COMPLEXION

  SURPRISE ME

  LUNCH IS GETTING COLD

  MISSION: SEDUCTION

  FUCKING FELINES

  FAILURE'S A BITCH

  JENNY

  FINALLY FREE

  COMING SOON:

  COVER REVEAL:

  MORE FERRO FAMILY BOOKS

  MORE ROMANCE BY H.M. WARD

  CAN'T WAIT FOR H.M. WARD'S NEXT STEAMY BOOK?

  COVER REVEAL:

  LIFE BEFORE DAMAGED VOL. 4

  The Ferro Family

  By:

  H.M. Ward

  www.SexyAwesomeBooks.com

  COPYRIGHT

  This 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.

  Copyright © 2015 by H.M. Ward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  H.M. WARD PRESS

  First Edition: January 2015

  ISBN: 9781630350598

  LIFE BEFORE DAMAGED VOL. 4

  SWALLOW OR PUKE

  August 3rd, 6:45pm

  Dinner is an interesting affair. The Ferros’ table is close enough to ours that I can see its occupants clearly yet they’re too far to hear. Lots of women—single or slutty—have leached onto their table. The most brazen manage to secure spots next to Pete, and his younger brother Jon, their dates quietly scowling from other tables. A young woman who doesn't look old enough to drink has taken the seat of honor—or scandal—next to Mr. Ferro.

  The only Ferro man-beast missing is Sean, the eldest and craziest of the lot. He’s probably much too busy appearing in court to attend a fundraiser. I can’t imagine being accused of something like that. That man is stone. Day after day, he sits in court without shedding a tear, his spine stiff as a rod. It’s like he’s made of steel. Not Superman steel, more like cold, unfeeling metal—the kind that is strong, beautiful, and deadly.

  Jonathan seems like an outgoing, happy go lucky version of his older brothers. He smiles excessively, but has an easy way about him. He’s comfy in his own skin. Maybe that’s the trick—appearing super sure of yourself. Maybe he’s really trembling inside. My gaze sweeps over him. Nah, that guy is all confidence. Not a weak thought in his pretty head.

  The level of PDA at their table would make a porn director wet his pants. Frankly, I find it embarrassing. If it had been any other family, my father would have a few choice words with them and tell them to find the door.

  But this is the Ferro family.

  General rules don’t apply. Hell, no rules apply. These people make the rules them break them when it suits them. They do whatever they damn well please, and it pisses me off. I would give anything to have that kind of freedom. Knowing they squander it on philandering is revolting. I’d do something awesome, something so Gina you’d die to see it—like open a dance school for little girls in a Long Island ghetto. Dancing is a doorway to discipline and strength. The thought makes me smile. I’d be helping kids, and making a difference. The Ferros reserve their power for selfishness, evil and sin. If prostitution were legal, they’d operate a brothel on every corner. The girls would wear trashy uniforms with FERRO scrawled across the boobs and butt. I giggle wondering how many girls have that name tattooed on their ass. Half the table, for sure.

  The possibly-not-legal young lady sitting next to Mr. Ferro flirts madly with him, winking like a lightning bug flew into her eye. She even tips her tits toward the stoic Mrs. Ferro, who is sitting on the other side of her hubby. That chick has a death wish.

  I’ve been hanging out with Erin too much. My mother would be appalled by my thoughts and my mental word choice. Of course, even the way I think should be perfect.

  Mom would say, ‘What runs across your mind will eventually cross your lips, so make sure your thoughts are eloquent and meaningful. Less is more.’ Stuff like that. I think she had a crush on a writer when she was a teenager. She seems unreasonably fond of Strunk & White's THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE. No, it’s not cool. It’s a book about writing well and to the point. She made me read it a million times so I can think well and to the point.

  Being around Erin and Pete lately, shifts my thoughts from quick and concise to slow and meandering. Instead of a swift, straight river my brain’s turned into a meandering brook swaying this way and that. Is that so wrong? I like thinking slowly, examining all the angles. It doesn’t mean I’m dense, just careful to see what’s really there. If I go too fast, I miss the little things and I’m tired of living my life succinctly.

  Screw that! I’m a meanderer now. Gina the laid back, badass.

  Okay, that’s a total lie, but I can feel her inside of me dying to come out. She’s been shoved into the recesses of my mind since I was two years old. She’s probably still wearing striped tights, glitter shoes, and an orange and pink tutu. I should wear that to Dad’s next party. He’d die. I smile softly, imagining it.

  I’m pulled from my badass tutu daydream when Mrs. Ferro stands, and discreetly slips a piece of paper into Jonathan’s hand. Her son takes it between his fingers and flips it into his palm. In a blink, it’s gone. No paper. I always heard the Ferros could make anything disappear. Apparently, Jon inherited that skill--thank God they're just using it on notes under the table.

  I feel silly for ogling them, but it’s hard to ignore the flashing skin, tight dresses, and plastic boobs. I stuff another bite into my mouth, chomping the veal like a horse eating a rabbit. Total WTF. I make a face and want to spit it out. I was so busy watching Jon that I have no idea what I just shoved into my mouth. Not wanting to look like an idiot, I keep chewing but it tastes bad, and not like veal. There’s an acidic slime that makes me want to spit it out. Oh shit. If this is rancid, I’m going to puke.

  I have two seconds to decide—swallow it or puke?

  I hate puking. Turning discreetly, I lean forward as if I’m going to grab my purse.

  “What do you need, baby? Oh, I can get that.” Anthony moves and grabs my bag before I can get it. The problem is that I already opened my mouth and the chewed food comes falling out. It lands like a glob on his hand. “Gina!”

  I start coughing to cover the faux pas, a lame attempt that doesn’t fool Dad. He’s going to kill me. A few eyes pass over us, including Pete’s. He smirks.

  Assface.

  Anthony asks, “Are you all right?” He wipes the glob of meat and slime off his hand with his napkin and tucks it under the table. Thank God for long table cloths.

  I nod and sip from my champagne flute. “Yes, thank you. I just swallowed wrong.”

  Pete must be able to hear me, because he says rather loudly, “Amateur issue, right Symone?” The woman purrs, leaning into him, laughing with that sultry voice of hers.

  Double assface.

  I scrunch my mouth into a tiny pout, but it’s my evil I’m-gonna-beat-you-to-death face. Apparently, it's unrecognizable. A few people snigger, including Pete as he shifts to whisper into his date's ear. Her over-inflated lips twist upward.

  To make me love her more, the woman shoves her fat, slug-like tongue in his ear, over and over again, her hand a little too high in his lap to be squeezing his thigh. She’s ear-fucking Pete while groping his crotch. Classy. All the while, his blue eyes bore into me, not looking away.
He’s pinned me in place with those sexy eyes and I can’t breathe.

  I linger, captivated for too long, watching his date have no effect on him whatsoever. I finally snap out of it when she dips her head in front of his lips, cutting our connection. Could I hate him more? Stupid Ferros and their stupid loins. If Pete’s looking to taunt me or shock me, piss me off or make me jealous in any way, he has another thing coming.

  A brilliant brainstorm comes my way. Grab a slicker Ferro, because you’re going to get doused with my sexy awesomeness. Cocking an eyebrow, I allow a coy smile to spread across my mouth. Eat your heart out, Ferro.

  My retaliation plan is smooth and goes off with ease in my mind. In reality, well, not so much. When I reach under the tablecloth, I discreetly place my hand over Anthony’s unexcited bulge. I don’t linger on his thigh—I just go straight to the goodies and grab.

  “Regina!” he squawks an octave or three too high as he slaps his hands down hard on the table. When he does so, his palm hits his fork, sending a generous amount of food catapulting into the air. I get pegged in the face with a mushy pile of green goop. It hangs in place before sliding slowly down my face and plopping onto my white dress--with the exception of that sautéed Portobello mushroom slice that’s still stuck to my forehead. It’s smack in the middle, right between my eyebrows. Fucktacular.

  Closing my eyes, I wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. What’s that called? A sinkhole. Come on, sinkhole! Just crack the soil and suck me to Hell--it’s got to be better than this party.

  Anthony speaks again, less shocked this time. “I’m sorry, babe. My hand slipped for some reason.” He scolds me as he says it, the stern annoyance in his voice pissing me off.

  Everyone around the table starts to scurry. My Mom is in panic mode, fussing over my dress as Anthony hands me my napkin. His has a chunk of food in it from my previous display of grossness.

  I feel Pete’s eyes on me, but don’t dare look back. I’d rather die. His date is smoother than a baby’s butt. Meanwhile, well, I’m me. Regina the cock cleaner. God, this couldn’t get worse. What guy jumps when he gets some attention in his nether regions? Not a single Ferro. I bet one of them is getting a hand job right now and they don’t even groan. My guy screeches and jumps like a freaking ballerina.

  “Regina, honey, maybe you should go inside and change,” Mom says to me as if I’m a child who just soiled her clothes at the playground. The condescension in her voice makes me think she saw my attempt at public affection. Double suck.

  Swallowing my pride, and whatever the hell was left in my mouth, I push away from the table.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” I place my napkin on my plate, push my chair back, ready to get up. All the men stand at once, and I nod at them.

  “Enjoy yourself, sweetheart. I’ll be back in a few moments.” Anthony offers his cheek, which I want to punch, but I give him the expected chaste kiss and rush into the house.

  THE STIFFER THE BETTER

  August 3rd, 7:52pm

  Changed, refreshed and free of food ornaments, I head back outside reaching our table as dessert and coffee are being served. The only guests still sitting there are my mother and Congressman Gambino's wife; all of the men have left.

  “Mom, where are Daddy and Anthony?” I glance around but can’t see them anywhere. I try not to look, but my eyes scan in the direction of the Ferro table. Pete and his floozy are also gone, and my heart sickens a little at the thought of what they are up to.

  “They’ve gone to your father’s study to talk business with potential investors. Why don’t you join us for coffee and dessert?” I manage to tear my eyes away from Pete’s empty seat to look at my Mom. She looks briefly at where I was looking and then back at me, questions in her eyes.

  “Actually, I’ll go join the men. I don’t want to miss any important transactions.” I start to walk away, but my mother takes my wrist and holds me back. The motion startles me to a stop.

  When I glance back at her, she has that face on—the one that means I’m not going to like what she has to say. “You can’t, sweetie. They asked not to be disturbed.” She looks at me apologetically, but it does nothing to calm my bubbling frustration.

  It feels like I was sucker punched. How are they having the meeting without me? I’m part of the company. “Mother, I’m part of that team. In fact, if there’s someone who should be in there, it’s me. I’m the number cruncher and you know Daddy has issues with numbers. That means no one is there who will help him; there is no one else.” She tries to argue further, but I charge off, not letting her stop me. “No one cares about him or this company as much as I do.”

  As I walk away, I overhear my mother telling Mrs. Gambino “She’s so much like her father, determined, stubborn and hot-tempered.” I have to smile because she’s right.

  Once back inside, I head down the east hall, which is at the far end of the house, in a quieter, more secluded section. This is the wing of the house where we have our library, a seating area, and Dad’s office. It’s easy enough to figure out where the men are. All I have to do is follow the pungent smell of cigars and the booming sound of male laughter.

  When I reach the door, I push it open and am assaulted with a cloud of thick cigar smoke that I wave away with my hands. Inhaling a generous amount of the noxious second-hand smoke, my throat burns and constricts, spurring a fit of coughs. Unwelcome memories of a cramped, smoke-filled space assault me and it’s all I can do not to have a panic attack. Sounds of people screaming, the feel of cold water coming down on me, darkness and death gradually creeping up on me, sharp stabs of pain under my nail beds.

  Hands shaking, I grasp for the door frame trying to regain my composure. This is not my first anxiety attack since the fire, but freaking out in front of my father and our investors is not a good idea. With the investigation still on, I’m not out of the woods. My mind tries to connect the dots, focusing on what's real. Men’s laughter, the distinctive acrid smell of cigars and the sight of men leisurely sitting around the room talking away. I'm safe. Dad gets up from his chair from behind his desk.

  “Ah, Regina! What perfect timing!” He gestures towards me with both hands, “Gentlemen, I believe you all know my daughter, Regina?”

  I take a shaky step forward, into the office, looking for an available chair to sit in before my knees give out. The men look my way and nod, puffing on their stogies and nursing their tumblers of whiskey. Anthony is there, along with half a dozen men from our various social and professional circles, including Congressman Gambino. There's not a woman in sight.

  “Gentlemen.” I reply with a bit of a shaky voice. Now that I’m here, the determined steel rod I had up my back is turning to jelly. They’re all so intimidating, staring me down like I’m nothing more than an amusement in an otherwise stressful meeting.

  I’m about to take a seat when Dad says, “Darling, please go tell Gerard I want my bottle of Glen Fiddich 50 from the cellar. Thank you and please close the door behind you when you leave. You know how your mother feels about cigar smoke in the house.” He has a proud smirk on his face. It adds a nice touch to the condescending tone.

  The men, including Anthony, burst out laughing as if they all have little wifey problems of their own and can sympathize. What the hell does Anthony know about wifey problems? After I give him a castrating glare, he stops laughing and sucks on his cigar. I have two options here. I can shut my mouth and do as my dad bids then spend the next couple of years grumbling silently to myself or I can stand up for myself now.

  I decide to go for it. “Dad, may I speak to you outside for a moment?”

  Dad and I step out into the hallway and he closes the door behind him. Before he has time to question me, I blurt it out, “I’m a part of this business, too, and I need to be included in the meetings. These men will never take me seriously when I take over if you keep treating me like your little girl all the time.” Wow. A huge weight lifts from my shoulders. That felt so good. Ha! I should do
this more often. I’m in the middle of a mental happy dance when Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and looks down at me with a bit of a frown, shaking his head. Not. A good. Sign.

  “Regina, your time will come. When it does you won’t be dealing with this group of old geezers, but their sons and daughters, who are out there mingling, as you should be doing too.” He points in the general direction of where the party is being held. He pats my shoulder - seriously, what is it with people always patting me? – and says with a slow voice, as if to make sure I understand him, “now, give the butler the message about the bottle of scotch and go mingle outside. Enjoy the festivities.” He drops his hand and turns towards the door to his office. I feel like I'm being sent to the kiddie table, not allowed to listen in on the grownups' conversation.

  “No, Dad. I’m going to that meeting and you’re going to let these men know that I am their equal and that I am to be taken seriously.” He stops in his tracks, facing the door. When he turns around, the look he gives me is enough to make my backside hurt. It’s the same look he used to give me as a kid when he caught me and Erin doing something wrong, just before he gave me a good spanking. I can still feel the sting… physical and emotional.

  “Or what, Regina? What exactly are you going to do if I say no?” When he turns around, he folds his arms across his chest. It’s a “don’t try to disobey me little girl” pose, but he has a point. It’s not like I’m about to throw a hissy fit in front of these men and he is the one in control of the company. He's won. Faced with my silence, he unfolds his arms, straightens his suit jacket and says, “That’s what I thought. Now, go and let me run my business. If I need you for anything, I’ll call for you.” He disappears into his office, closing the door behind him without another word.

  Now that I’m alone in the hallway, I satisfy my inner defiant kid and stick my tongue out at the door.