Life Before Damaged, Volume 7 Page 4

  “Uh, no, I-I didn’t have to. The quiz went well.” It takes a while, but when I realize what he just asked, my stomach drops into my stilettos. Oh, shit!

  My head whips to look at Phil and his smile widens. He does recognize me. At the party, I'd complained about my upcoming quiz and he’d suggested I show some cleavage to get a better grade. Being the well-mannered lady I am, I give him an exaggerated wave, nudge him with my elbow and say with way too much volume and enthusiasm, “Talk about a coinkydink, huh?”

  COINKYDINK? Oh, God! I'm such a dork! My fake smile is going to make my face crack, and I probably look like a clown. Or an ass. Or an ass wearing a clown costume. Philip laughs and places his empty glass on a nearby table.

  “Well I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with this turn of events.”

  I open my mouth to talk. He looks optimistic, like this is a good thing. Under normal circumstances, I’d be ecstatic. Who wouldn't be? Our parents are friends. We both run in the same social circles. I like him. He likes me. Under normal circumstances we would be a great match, but I need to let him know this thing between us can’t happen.

  The flirting was fun, but I can’t let myself get into a public relationship of any kind with Philip Gambino. If we are seen in public together, it’s bound to get splattered all over the tabloids. Connie will have my head mounted on one of those suits of armor that I’ve seen in the halls of the Ferro mansion. This goes against her plan.

  Phil cuts me off before I get to say anything by putting a finger over my lips.

  “Don’t feel guilty. I understand why you didn’t tell me who you really are. I did the same thing, remember? I made Erin promise never to tell anyone about my family and by the look on your face, I'm guessing she's still holding true to that promise. Believe me, I totally get it.”

  And the crazy thing is, he really does get it. He probably hides who he is from everyone so that they'll like him for who he is--not for his connections or his money.

  He places a hand on my lower back, directly on my skin. The touch is warm and soft, and I would love to enjoy it, but apprehension is consuming me. My eyes scan the room, trying to find Mrs. Ferro, hoping she isn't plotting my demise over this, but she's busy going over documents with my father. In the whole room, only Pete is following my every move, sipping his drink and observing from a distance.

  Phil guides us toward the tables. My legs are so shaky that I follow willingly. I need to sit down in the worst possible way, and I have to set things straight with Phil.

  “Philip, about the party, you have to understand that this,” I gesture between the two of us. He cuts me off again, taking my hand in his.

  “I do understand, don’t worry. You’ve just been through a horrible breakup with your ex-fiancé. Everybody’s heard about it. My mother hasn't stopped talking about it since I got back from Europe. You were out looking for a fun rebound. It happens. If that's what you need, that's what I'll be. No pressure. It's okay to just have fun and forget about everyone else. We'll see where things go from there, okay?”

  He’s so sweet and gentlemanly, but this can’t go anywhere and I can't tell him why. It’s not fair.

  We arrive at a table, and he pulls out a chair for me. As I sit down, a loud screech of feedback comes over the sound system. All eyes turn toward the front of the room where my parents and Pete’s parents stand together behind the lectern. Mrs. Ferro stands directly behind the microphone and starts to make her announcement. Her voice has that false warmth that is classic Constance.

  “I thank you all for coming here this evening in honor of Ferro Corp’s expansion. We are proud to announce the Granz Textiles merger into Ferro Corp as one of our new sister companies. Together, our two companies will bring life to exciting new products that will make a difference worldwide, from the fashion industry to the medical field.”

  She goes on to discuss the future of Granz Textiles, now that it is in the hands of Ferro Corp, and all the wondrous things they will accomplish. A business executive takes over the presentation, explaining the many colorful graphs and charts flashing across the screen next to the lectern.

  My Dad is visibly holding back his anger, and my mother holds his hand, keeping him somewhat restrained. Phil discreetly holds my hand under the table the entire time. I'm a jumbled mess of nerves, wondering if anyone has x-ray vision and sees the small physical connection going on under the linens.

  As the executive finishes his presentation, Mrs. Ferro takes the microphone once more to finish her well-scripted speech.

  “As a symbol of the merger between the Ferro and Granz families, I would like to ask my son, Peter, and Miss Regina Granz to join us at the front.”

  What the…?

  Most eyes are on Pete, for which I am eternally grateful, but people who actually know who I am, turn around and gesture for me to stand and go to the front of the room. God, I hate this.

  Phil lets go of my hand and pulls out my chair, giving me a little shove and saying in my ear, “Go on, Gina. Just try not to sing. I don't think my ears can take an encore.” He smirks and I elbow him in the side. Why does he have to be so perfect?

  I stand and take a couple shaky steps toward the front of the room, but when I see Pete already standing there, waiting for me, my nerves dissolve, and my stride becomes more confident.

  We’re a team now, friends. As much as my mother was there, standing proudly by my father’s side while he was publicly humiliated by having his company engulfed by a mega-corporation, Pete and I need to do this together. He's there waiting for me.

  I can’t let him or my family down.

  When I reach the front of the room, I stand in front of Pete, my back to him, and he places his hands on my hips. He lowers his mouth to my ear and whispers, “I've been watching you all evening. You’re trembling like a leaf, and you look green. Are you feeling ill?”

  I turn my head to the side and reply, “C’mon, Mr. Poet, say it like you mean it. Will I soon be blowing chunks? The answer is yes.”

  Pete silently chuckles. His chest is pressed against my back, and I can feel his laugh vibrate.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, Jenny,” and his fingers squeeze my hips.

  That makes me laugh. I place a hand on one of his and press gently before letting go. His grip on me is reassuring and gives me the strength to stand up tall.

  “Now," Mrs. Ferro says, continuing her speech, "let us clear the floor while Peter and Regina share the first waltz of the evening.”

  WHAT THE WALTZ?

  August 31st , 6:31 pm

  WHAT?!

  Our parents move away from the lectern, my mother stroking my father's back reassuringly. Pete walks over to the DJ, leaving me stranded alone at the front of the room looking like an idiot, tapping my fingers on my thighs. He and the DJ exchange a couple of words, gesturing with their hands and nodding.

  Pete removes his jacket, vest, tie and cufflinks, setting them on the DJ’s table. When he comes back, he unbuttons the top button of his shirt and rolls his cuffs midway up his forearms, the whole time looking straight at me with those blue bedroom eyes.

  When he’s ready, he walks over and offers his hand. I slip my hand in his while he rests his other hand on my waist. He tips his head down to look into my eyes.

  “Ready to have your ass kicked, Granz?” The corner of his mouth lifts to one side. His goading breaks my unease.

  “Kick my ass? At a waltz? I’m a ballerina, dude! We waltz in our sleep! We’ll see whose ass gets whipped.” Pete grins at my words and I realize what I said. “Shut up and dance, Ferro.”

  Pete bursts out laughing and the music starts. Glenn Miller’s trombone rings out a few notes of warning and Pete’s mischievous smile says the rest. Oh, crapsticks! He intends on swing dancing instead of waltzing, and I’m not wearing the right clothing!

  “Uh, Pete?" I tug on his shoulder. "Easy on the lifts, okay? I can't flash my undies to anyone here tonight.”

  “As you wish, Miss
Granz.” His words are coupled with a wink, and my hopes go the way of the Titanic. Crap. He’s totally planning on showing everyone the color of my panties.

  Before I can back out, he spins me out, away from him and quickly snaps me back. The movement propels me so that I crash into his chest, and I’m eye-level with his exposed neck. God, he smells good. What is that? Leather? The guy smells like a saddle and spices. The little dip at the base of his throat is just begging to be licked.

  We freeze for a couple of beats, smiling at each other, and when the intro fades into the melody, he starts leading me into the dance that I taught him. Our steps are perfectly synchronized and lively. He leads me across the dance floor, making me move in any way he wants. His grip is firm and authoritative. He isn’t a weak dance partner, and it’s not because I’m being a good girl and following perfectly.

  When I try to take control, his grip on me tightens and he guides me more forcefully, pushing me under his arm, spinning me out, and snapping me back. We’re breathing hard and the rush is amazing. I forget the people watching. It’s just us and the magical pulse of the trumpet. The singer’s voice is lush and spot on. It’s like we’re lost in time, pulled apart from the things that threaten to destroy us. It’s just me and Pete, our feet moving perfectly together.

  “And you thought dancing was for pussies.” I echo back the words he said so long ago.

  He pushes me out, leads me under his arm, and then brings both arms down encircling me. We’re nose-to-nose, both of us breathing hard. “You changed my mind.”

  Before I can answer, he spins me out again.

  Pete’s being a good boy, avoiding any lifts, but he has that devilish look about him. Pete's holding back, and it's killing him. It's also killing me because sooner or later, he's going to surprise me with a flip and my ass, clad in cheeky Brazilian-cut undies, will grace the cover of gossip magazines everywhere.

  A few more bars of music go by, and we're face-to-face, both smiling and breathing hard.

  I jerk his wrist and say, "It's my turn to lead, Ferro. Try and keep up."

  Pete nods, agreeing to let me take the lead for a while. I try a more complex step and Pete fumbles, his toes stepping on mine. We both stop dancing and laugh, never letting go of each other's hands.

  Between breathy giggles, I say, “I’m totally kicking your ass.”

  Pete grins, his eyes never leaving mine. Longer strands of hair flop down on his forehead, almost reaching his eyes, and he flips his hair back with a chuckle.

  “Yes, you are. You’ll have to teach me some more of those moves someday.”

  “How about now? Let's try it slowly." I slow down our tempo by half. Pete looks down at my feet and studies my moves, then concentrates on his own. We repeat the move over and over again until he gets it. "Ready for double time?"

  Pete answers by taking over the lead, doing the same step but at the proper speed. It amazes me how good he is at this and how well our styles match. I feel like I'm Ginger Rogers and he's my Fred Astaire; we were meant to dance together.

  The song approaches the end, and he hasn't flipped me over or done any lifts. I'm expecting it at any moment. There is no way he's going to pass up such an opportunity.

  It's coming, I can feel it. It's the final notes of the song. He spins me in close. My back is pressed against his front. I close my eyes. He guides my arm above my head to turn me around toward him and I drop, arching backward in his arms.

  The last note has played. I'm in a dip, his back to the rest of the room. He’s hovering close to my face, both of us breathing hard. His body is only inches away from mine. We’re in our own private bubble. My hands are clasped around his neck whereas his are on my back, keeping me close.

  People start to clap, applauding us. Pete’s gaze travels down and up my body, and he grins.

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to flash anyone tonight?”

  I remove one hand from his neck to discreetly check my skirt, making sure it hasn't ridden up too far, but I’m safe. The skirt is flowing down nicely, hiding all the bits I want to keep covered.

  “Your eyes deceive you, Mr. Ferro. I’m not flashing anyone.” I tease, smiling.

  “Really? From here, I have a delectable view. It's a real shame we're just friends.” He moistens his lips, and his gaze darkens as it drops back down. It’s only when I notice he’s staring at my chest that it registers. I feel drafty in places I shouldn’t be.

  Everything happens so fast, but it feels like slow motion. As soon as I realize my left boob has popped free of my dress – damn fashion tape – my body stiffens and my face flames up.

  This isn’t happening! I want to curl up into a ball and cry. No, I want to move to another state, get a boob job, change my face and THEN curl up into a ball and cry.

  Singing off-key karaoke in front of a bunch of partygoers in a rundown apartment is one thing. Showing my breasts off in the middle of a formal business affair, surrounded by the most influential people in New York City is another.

  My eyes start to prickle and my view of Pete blurs under a watery film of unshed tears. I repeatedly blink, trying desperately not to cry in public.

  Pete’s cockiness changes to reassurance. “Don’t worry, no one can see you but me. You’re fine.” His voice is soft and kind.

  He pulls me close to him, hiding me from everyone so I can adjust my dress, but before I succeed, we hear rapid clicking. A wave of unrelenting flashes of light blinds us both.

  TESTOSTERONE

  August 31st , 6:38 pm

  What was a happy moment of dancing turns into a nightmare. Within the next few minutes, the pictures will be uploaded to the Internet and the entire world will see me exposed while cradled in Pete Ferro’s arms. Oh, God.

  I cover my eyes, and Pete straightens us both into a standing position, keeping me close to him the entire time. He discreetly fixes my top, but the tips of his fingers gently brush up against my nipple. I suck in a jagged breath as my stomach stirs at the unexpected touch.

  Pete's muscles cord tightly as the clicking and flashes of light continue. When I look up, his jaw is clenched, and the little vein on the side of his temple looks like a fire hose. He’s staring down the group of photographers next to us. Pete looks down at me, making certain that I’m decent again, then releases me. Before I know it, he’s charging toward the small group of photographers. He doesn’t ask; he just starts yanking the cameras away from them.

  Guests are gasping. Some of the Ferro men from the other end of the reception hall are laughing. One of them walks over. He doesn’t have the trademark Ferro blue eyes, but he looks like them—angular features with dark hair and the Ferro stance that says he knows his place in the world, and it’s right on top.

  “Pete,” he says walking toward his cousin.

  Peter turns and growls. “Not now Bryan. Go back to your mother.” As Pete speaks, he grabs another camera from unsuspecting hands.

  “Hey! I was invited here to photograph the party. If you don’t like it, then take it up with your mother.” The photographer is bold as he says it, but then Pete turns on him, livid. The guy shrinks back and disappears into his wrinkled Sears suit.

  Peter grabs his collar and pulls him so they’re nose to nose. The muscles in Pete’s neck are corded tight.

  “That’s right. You’re here to photograph the party, not embarrass my friend, but that’s exactly what you’re doing. Leave now, or I’ll make you leave. Your equipment will be returned if you comply. If you don’t walk away, I won’t be so kind.” Pete is slowly lifting the guy off the ground as he speaks, then drops him.

  The photographers that have been stripped of their cameras stand there stunned. A few walk away without a word, unwilling to lose thousands of dollars of equipment, while others stand their ground. It’s those people that worry me.

  Pete grabs another camera, ripping it from the man’s hands. The next fellow isn’t so lucky. When he fails to hand it over, Pete describes exactly what he p
lans to do to him, and it’s not pretty. He reaches for the camera and jerks it away.

  I can’t let him do this. I’m nobody. My puny boob and I will be yesterday’s news in no time; there’s really nothing to see anyway. Pete, on the other hand, is a whole other ballgame. Pictures and videos of this fight will be plastered everywhere, and I know what his hands can do. I don’t want him to be the cause of another tragedy, especially not on my account.

  “Try and take it, Ferro.”

  Pete’s fingers ball into fists. The guy refuses to hand over his camera. Pete refuses to make it look like a struggle. The fastest way to take something you want is a fist to the face. The veins in his neck are ready to pop. He’s going in for a swing. If I don’t act now, the photographer's face will be pudding. I run.

  Pete pulls his arm back, ready to punch, and I squeeze myself between him and the photographer. The man is a little taller than me and taken by surprise. Everything happens in rapid succession, too fast to tell what would happen next.

  “Don’t!” My voice leaves me in a rush as something hard crashes into my cheek. For a second I think it’s Pete’s fist, but it’s cold and hard. I blink once and touch my hand to my cheek. Holy shit. It was the camera.

  The photographer turns pale and steps away from me. He took a swing at Pete and hit me instead. I ran right into his fist with his camera still attached. The guy keeps stepping back, hands up, trying to apologize.

  “I didn’t mean to hit her. She ran right into me. I swear to God!”

  Pete is seeing red. His gaze narrows as his jaw locks. He’s done talking. Pete rips the camera off the guy’s hand and throws it. The equipment goes flying through the air and then crashes to the floor. The glass in the lens shatters on contact.

  Everyone is watching. Cameras are clicking. Cell phones are recording. And the scariest monster of all is making a beeline directly for her son. Constance Ferro has a look on her face that could castrate an army.