Life Before Damaged, Volume 6 Read online

  Dinner smells waft through the small space. The apartment smells like pizza. I love pizza. I’m a pizza piggy. Oink! Oink! It's only my fifth day here and we're already on our second binge of extra-large cheese pies. I'm so used to eating haute cuisine made by our chef that it never occurred to me to try a dollar slice. Daddy would be appalled to know I’m stuffing my face with food from the dingy dive down the street.

  The best part is it’s cheap! I could eat there for a week and still have money left for a cab. Not that Erin will let me take a cab. Since she's worried I'll be stuffed in the trunk before meeting my unpleasant demise and getting dumped out at Planting Fields, I’m sticking to the train.

  My mind is wandering. I've been studying for so long that I fried my brain. I think I smell bacon. Lifting my nose, I sniff the air. Pizza.

  I slouch back into the pillows and look down at my book. I slam it shut and massage my temples, trying to squeeze out my oncoming headache. Too much info, too little time.

  Erin bounces into the room a second later and places a bowl of warm, buttered popcorn on my knees. Lifting up my feet, she sits down at the far end of the couch and props my bunny-slippered feet on her lap.

  “Lights out, babe! It’s show time!”

  She turns off the side table lamp. Television at Erin’s is a unique experience. She doesn’t actually own a TV, which takes some adjustment when you're used to hundreds of channels and instant videos.

  Instead of TV, Erin turns off the lights and looks out her huge-ass bank of windows to watch the people in the apartments across the street. At first it felt wrong, looking into other people’s private lives. But, as Erin was quick to point out, they choose not to use their curtains and blinds to cancel our show.

  Plus, Erin has very entertaining neighbors.

  On our dramatic soap opera channel, a newlywed couple directly across the street never fails to entertain us with their heated arguments and even more heated reconciliations.

  Next to them, on the erotic romance channel, is the steamy ménage à trois between two girls and one guy. Nuff said.

  One floor up, the absurd porn channel hosts a BDSM couple... an elderly BDSM couple. I can only hope I’ll still be THAT much into sex at their age.

  Over on the chick flick channel, two hot male underwear models are constantly cuddling, eliciting the occasional “awh!” and steady emotional sniffling. They are super-cute and sappy.

  Finally, on the education channel, there’s the stripper. She’s the show we’re watching tonight. The scene opens with her entering her apartment, followed by a man.

  “What should we name this one?”

  I glance at Erin. Her eyebrows lift and her lips twitch into a grin.

  “Dick.”

  We giggle and turn back to the windows. Stripper chick tosses her keys on the little table by the door and motions for Dick to sit in front of the pole. Yes, she has a pole in her living room. After grabbing a drink for both herself and Dick, she dims the lights, walks over to her sound system and smoothly adjusts the controls. We watch, barely breathing as she removes the clip holding her hair, letting it fall in loose dark waves down her back...

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  PISSY-PETE

  August 22nd, 7:48pm

  Loud pounding on our door makes me yelp and jump, sending our bowl of popcorn flying through the air and showering the room with buttered kernels. The banging continues, and my heart feels like it’s gonna jump out of my chest and run down the street.

  Erin presses a finger to her lips, indicating I should hush.

  She gets up and walks quietly to the door on her tiptoes. The pounding sounds freak me out. We’re going to get raped, robbed, and murdered.

  Erin grabs the old wooden baseball bat that she keeps by her front door and slowly stretches to look through the peephole. Her shoulders tense; she’s fully prepared to bash our visitor's head in. Her fingers clutch and release the bat’s grip repeatedly until her eye reaches the level to see out.

  My eyes dart around the room, mentally calculating how long it would take me to run from the couch to the fire escape in case her bat-attack fails.

  Finally at the peephole, Erin's shoulders relax, and she puts the bat down.

  “Bow-chica-wow-wow!”

  She turns back to me, waggles her eyebrows and returns to the peephole.

  “Hey, Gina! Would it be totally awkward if I touched myself while looking at your future fiancé through the peephole? Cause he's here, he's pissed & he's HOT!”

  “He can also hear you through the door, you flake!”

  I’m on my knees, picking popcorn off the floor, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. Knowing some random-crazy-ass killer isn't invading our home is reassuring; knowing Pissy-Pete is invading our home is unsettling.

  I haven’t seen or heard from him in days, which was just fine with me. For a short, blissful time, I could pretend I had a normal life. Bolting out of my parents’ house the moment we were betrothed didn't earn him many brownie points.

  Pete keeps on banging and Erin's eye is still stuck to the peephole.

  “Do I let him in?”

  I let out a long dramatic sigh and slump down, sitting on my heels and tossing a handful of now-gross popcorn back into the bowl.

  “Yeah, might as well get it over with.”

  I hear the sound of the chain clinking, the deadbolt turning, the lock clicking, and then the squeak of the door opening. Erin greets Pete in true Erin style.

  “Hey, handsome, I didn’t know you made house calls. Let me go freshen up, and we can get started. My room is up those stairs. You're into ass play, right? I've been dying to try out this new bat. Do you want to go first or should I?”

  Oh, freakin’ hell. I slam my face on the couch and cover my head with one of the throw cushions. This is not happening.

  “Where is she?”

  Pete's voice sounds more like a growl. He can’t see me because I’m sitting on the floor, on the other side of the couch, hiding like a wuss.

  “You’re no fun, Ferro. Hey, yo! Gina! Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Erin calls to me while ogling Pete.

  I stand, reluctantly, holding the bowl of popcorn. I take in the sight of him. Dressed in his usual ragged jeans, tight-fitting t-shirt, messy helmet hair and dark stubble, he seems to get more and more attractive each time I see him. He's picture perfect, all disheveled and manly, the perfect combo of angelic and devilish all at once.

  Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m secretly attracted to dickheads and the dickier he gets, the more handsome he seems.

  Pete’s got his not-a-happy-camper look on his face. His left cheekbone looks swollen and red, a thin red line running across it, like a cut. Probably the result of one his recent fights. When our eyes meet, his face relaxes into something resembling relief. He walks towards me with long, determined strides.

  “Honey! He’s hoooooome!" Erin's voice is teasing. "Oh, look! It’s the old ball and chain.”

  When Erin makes references to Pete as ‘the old ball and chain,’ Pete’s death glare returns and cuts from her to me.

  “You told her about the engagement? That was confidential information. Do you have a death wish or are you just too naïve to know danger when it's staring at you in the face?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath, unable to deal with this right now. I drop the bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table and some kernels manage to escape back to the floor.

  This is ridiculous. There's no way I'm going to let myself be bullied on my own turf by my... whatever-it-is-we're-supposed-to-be. I fold my arms across my chest and tilt my head to the side, tapping my foot on the floor. So maybe I don’t look quite as menacing as I’d like to with my bunny slippers bobbing up and down, but I try my darnedest anyway.

  “Back off, Pete. Erin was at the rave. She already knows my involvement in this and can't blab because she's also partly responsible. This whole deal affects her, too. Besides, in case you ha
ven’t noticed, there aren’t too many people left on Team Gina these days. So, yes, I told her. Now, why are you here and how did you know where to find me?”

  "My mother..."

  Pete starts to answer, but his gaze slips past me. He looks from the window to the bowl of popcorn, then to me and back again to the window. He’s putting the puzzle pieces together. Oh, crap. The stripper show is still underway.

  He takes a step closer to me, making my pulse shoot up. I can smell his trademark Eau-de-Ferro scent and my defenses dart up. He looks down at me, an expression of mock disapproval on his face. He tsks his tongue a couple of times, raising an eyebrow.

  “Are you watching people having sex in their homes, Jenny? I knew you were a little nympho, but a voyeur, too? I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. That is how we met, after all, with you watching me.”

  His smoldering smile deepens and he trails a finger along my jaw, making me shiver. Vivid images flash before my eyes, the sight of him with that woman at the rave. I've consciously recalled those images so many times on lonely nights they are practically burned into my brain. Thinking about how his hips kept pressing into that woman, over and over again, the look on her face with every thrust... I can’t help but blush and look down.

  I let out a squeak and cover my mouth. Frack!

  I’m wearing onesie pajamas and bunny slippers, with my hair looking like a nerdy pincushion in front of Pete Ferro! I hate that I want to look good in front of him. I hate that I still care about what he thinks of me.

  I shouldn’t.

  I hate him.

  Erin cuts in, pushing past Pete and me.

  “Her name isn’t Jenny, you hunky, gold-plated, limited-edition, luxury-douche! It’s Gina. Geeeee-Naaaaaah! Fuck! You two are supposed to be getting married? Learn her name, asswipe.”

  Thank God. Erin to the rescue.

  “And no, it’s not voyeurism," Erin rants on, "it’s reality TV. Who needs to dish out money for cable when you have neighbors like mine?”

  Erin grabs a handful of popcorn, tosses it into her mouth and then gags. With a look of horror on her face, she pulls a long hair from her mouth.

  “Aw, gross! A perfectly good bowl of popcorn gone to waste. Ferro, you owe me a dollar fifty.” She grabs her keys and pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and heads toward the door. “I’m going out for a smoke. It’ll give you kids some alone time. I want this place smelling like sex when I get back.”

  She looks Pete up and down and bites her bottom lip. It’s only when she gets clobbered by a bunny slipper in the face that she laughs and leaves us in awkward silence.

  KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE

  August 22nd, 8:03pm

  I take a seat on the couch; Pete sets his motorcycle helmet near the door and follows, sitting down beside me.

  “Tell me what you’re doing here," Pete says gruffly. "Now.”

  Control. This is all about decisive moves. Like chess. Damn, I wish I hadn't lost my queen in the first five plays. The urge to chant, ‘Long live the king!’ comes over me, and a giggle escapes.

  God, he must think I’m mental.

  Pete’s watching the stripper dancing, but he manages to tear his eyes away. A concerned look flashes across his face. He’s no longer angry. His voice is soft, almost friendly.

  “My mother tried to get in touch with you but was told you were no longer working for Granz Textiles. Then she found out that you were no longer living at home. She sent me to find you. She thought you’d decided to leave town and back out of our agreement. She even accused you of trying to go off the grid.”

  His eyebrows come together in the center, and he looks down at his hands.

  “I was worried something happened to you. I tried looking for you at the swing club, but you weren’t there. Since my driver brought you here on the night of the fire, it was the next place I looked. Mind telling me what happened?”

  “You were worried about me?”

  Pete searches my eyes for answers that I have yet to give and nods. He acts the part of the concerned friend and it’s bittersweet. This friendly version of him tugs at my heart. I want to hate him so badly. I hate everything he stands for, everything he is, but when he acts this way, my defenses crumble and I can't help but want to reach out to him. Maybe this is what he needs me to be for him, not the bitching fiancé, not the passionate lover, but instead the good friend. I doubt he’s had many genuine friends and, with his older brother gone, there's probably a huge gap in his life.

  Maybe my mother is right. We should be allies instead of adversaries.

  I give him a small, sad smile.

  “Thank you for worrying. Not many people have been overly concerned about my well being of late. I appreciate it."

  Pete nods and looks down at my fingers nervously toying with a ballpoint pen, clicking the top nubby thing repeatedly. He removes the pen from my hands and leans in to tuck it back into my hair with the others. His breath on my face is warm and the feel of his soft touch on my hands lingers longer than it should. I rub my hands to try and wipe the feeling off.

  I'm pretty sure that I can do the friendship thing if he keeps a safe distance, but can he? I have to at least give it a try.

  Pete's gone back to watching the stripper across the street, his attention only half on me.

  "Hey, Pete?"

  "Yeah?"

  "This constant bickering between the two of us is going to get old real fast. I don't want us to spend the rest of our lives angry at each other all the time. I know I'm not exactly your ideal wife, but do you think we can maybe call a truce? We could start over, but this time as... friends?”

  Pete's eyes never leave the stripper’s window, but his gaze is lost in thought. He scratches the back of his neck and fixes his attention back to me, a cautious, uncertain look on his face. I can't look into his azure eyes too long without being mesmerized, so I decide to concentrate on his chest, which isn't any better.

  “Friends, huh?”

  I chance a look back up and nod.

  "That's all I'm asking. No more yelling and no more resenting each other. Unless it's called for, of course. Then I can totally rip into you."

  A small smile lines his lips and there's a softness in his eyes.

  “Of course, Gina. That would be nice actually. I don't want us to fight either. You're kind of deceiving, you know, like a rose; beautiful and fragile, but damn if you aren't as prickly as a thorn, too."

  "Ass!"

  I swat at his legs and we both laugh.

  "So, friend, are you gonna tell me what happened and why you're living here now?” Pete lifts a hand toward me and puts it back down, like he wanted to touch me, but thought better of it.

  I tell Pete how things went down with my father after his abrupt departure. I shrug and talk like it’s no biggie. It sounds so weird talking so casually about this to him. Can you really be friends with someone once he's seen you half-naked and sucked on your nipples? As the memory resurfaces, I look at his lips and feel suddenly self-conscious at my lack of a bra under my pajamas.

  While I'm distracted by naughty nipple-suckling thoughts, Pete’s pissed-off-o-meter goes up a notch. His demeanor switches from relaxed to tense and twitchy territory. He looks like he could snap at any second. I rest my hand on his hand, hoping to reassure him.

  “Please don't get all worked up. I appreciate your concern, but it won’t change anything. What’s done is done, and I’m fine, really. I’ll be okay.”

  I place a comforting hand on his cheek. It’s become a reflex. Pete leans slightly into the touch.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?"

  I nod. The truth is I've never been better, all things considered.

  Pete extends his arms and pulls me close to his side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. It’s not a romantic embrace or even a passionate one. It’s a friendly hug, both welcoming and weird at the same time. I curl up next to him on the couch, feeling oddly at home in his arms. We sit silently, watching
the stripper continue her dance from across the street.

  LIFE LESSONS

  August 22nd, 8:31pm

  “So, tell me about this TV show.” Pete says.

  I let out a nervous laugh.

  “Well, this is our educational channel. It’s awesome. This chick works at the strip club down on the corner and brings home clients once in a while for a special, all-inclusive lap dance. For the show's purposes, we assign them clever names like Dick or John.”

  Pete’s gaze is transfixed on the stripper’s home. The stripper is now down to her teeny tiny G-string panties and is slowly crawling over to the man, like a wild animal approaching her prey. From here, we have a very clear view of her ass. Dick sits in the recliner, waiting.

  “See? Shit gets real on this show. This is the part where she undresses the man, straddles him and boings him like a pogo stick.”

  I start to play nervously with my pajama collar. When did it get so hot in here?

  As predicted, the stripper slowly unbuttons Dick's shirt and peels it off him, one sleeve at a time. Her naked breasts are right in front of his face. He’s not allowed to touch her, not yet. His hands have to stay on the armrests of the recliner. I remember the heat of Pete's breath on my breasts and can only imagine what it must feel like for the stripper right now. The memory revives the feeling within me, making my chest ache.

  Dick’s shirt hits the floor and the stripper kneels in front of him. She unfastens his pants, lowering them with his boxers, down to his ankles. Watching them perform such intimate acts with Pete so close to me awakens a sense of desire I should be squelching given our new friendship status.

  Friends, I can probably manage. Enemies is doable, but no longer my choice of preference. Occasional lovers? I can't do that. That option is no longer possible, not with him, not with anyone. If I let him touch me that way, the aftermath would ruin me.