Life Before Damaged, Volume 1 Page 6

  “To woo a woman through her nose.”

  He grins. “Maybe.” Something’s changed in those moments. The lightness of the moment took away everything else and it felt like he was a real person, not the fist-flinging Ferro depicted on the television. “Like I said, have a seat, and don’t worry, Gina, I won’t bite.” He says it with a friendly and reassuring tone, easing my nerves somewhat, but adds, “Not unless you ask me to.”

  He waggles his eyebrows as he disappears through the same door we came in.

  The smell of new leather and old books fills the air. Wooden shelves line the walls, and there's a massive mahogany desk at the far end of the room. I pad over to the couch and take a seat, making sure the robe is tightly tucked around my legs. Tapping the tips of my sore fingers nervously on my knees, I look around and spot a pile of books on the side table next to me. Curiosity gets the better of me. I pick up the pile and stare at the authors, slightly amazed.

  They're all famous poets.

  The pages all have scribbled bits of paper sticking out of them, as if the reader was taking massive amounts of notes while reading. This can’t be his. Pete likes poetry?

  Just as he comes back into the room, I put the books down and readjust my robe, making sure no bits are showing. He is followed by a tall man, who must be his cousin Logan. The family resemblance is noticeable. He's carrying a large duffle bag, which he sets down beside me. Holding out a hand, he introduces himself as Dr. Ferro.

  Logan carries himself with all the professionalism you would expect from a doctor. He is gentle, yet efficient, tending to the burns and splinters on my hands, then the scrapes on my legs, never pushing for more information than I am willing to give. He takes the time to listen to my breathing and check my vital signs. When he places a small clamp with a red light on the tip of my finger he explains that it's to check the oxygen levels in my blood. I stifle a giggle. I'd love to wave it in his face and say "E.T. phone home!" but I resist the urge. I don't want him admitting me to the hospital for brain damage or oxygen deprivation.

  Pete sits at his desk, pretending to read, but I can tell he's watching us intently, rubbing his bottom lip with his index finger. I feel his eyes on me and can't help but wonder what’s going on in his head. This man is a mystery. He’s been genuinely gentle and caring. The look of concern is unmistakable in his eyes, yet he’s also being a douche, constantly throwing seductive comments at me. It’s done lightly—teasingly, like he knows he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting between my legs.

  Before he leaves, Logan tells me how to take care of my wounds and what symptoms to look for in case smoke inhalation causes any trouble. He even goes so far as to suggest that Pete keep an eye on me for the next couple of hours, to make sure my condition doesn't deteriorate. With a slap on the back and a handshake, Pete thanks his cousin and shows him out the door. We are alone once more.

  Wordlessly, Pete takes a seat at his desk and resumes his reading, as if I'm not here. This man is bipolar or tripolar or how many other poles a personality can have. Wanting to break the uncomfortable silence, I walk over to his desk and lean against it. He raises his eyes towards me, above the pages of the book, but still doesn't say anything.

  I'm still very much on edge from everything that's happened tonight. I don't have patience for his moody silent treatment. "So, what now?"

  Pete closes his book, puts it down on his desk and, leaning back in his chair, puts both hands behind his head. "Now, we wait for your clothes to be ready and I drive you wherever you want to go. Unless you'd rather leave in that?"

  Subtlety is not his thing, and he overtly checks out my attire. I bring my hands to the front of the robe, frowning, as I clutch the bottom and top firmly closed. "That's what I figured. Until your clothes are ready, feel free to rest on the couch or grab a book.” He sits up straight in his chair, arms folded across his chest, giving me a look that makes me nervous. “Unless you had anything else in mind to help pass the time?"

  Cocking my head to the side, I smirk and answer, “As tempting as that sounds, I do have standards, oh and that thing, what's it called again?” I tap my finger on my bottom lip, as if I’m trying to remember something. “Oh yeah, morals. I have a boyfriend, remember? I’m not having sex with you." I shrug a shoulder at him, trying to look as smug as I can.

  He gets up from his chair and saunters over to my side of the desk, putting me more on edge. Maybe taunting him wasn’t such a good idea after all. With the desk acting as a physical barrier between us, it was so much easier to put up a strong front and he knows this. Well, if he thinks he can break me with his sexy self-assured walk, his perfectly toned muscles and his beautifully tempting smile, he has another thing coming.

  Pete rubs the stubble on his jaw with the back of one hand. “Yes, well, according to your friend on the phone, it seems that your boyfriend may be lacking in some areas.” His lips curve into a presumptuous expression that I want to smack off of his face. Okay, so first thing tomorrow morning, I’m killing Erin for that starfishing comment she made on the phone!

  “Maybe I can assist you with that problem? It’s amazing what a good fucking can do to a person. But you probably wouldn’t know that, would you?” He asks, taking a step closer. Pete knows he’s sexy, and his words hit my buttons dead center. It’s strange how his words both offend and excite me. No one has ever talked to me like that before.

  I start to laugh, because I’m a nervous wreck and he’s obviously joking, trying to get me to react, but when I see that the smirk on his face is gone, I stop and my face drops. “Wait, you’re serious. You’re actually asking me to cheat on him? With you?”

  “Why not?” Peter shrugs as if it doesn’t matter.

  “Uh, because... boyfriend! That’s why not!” He shakes his head like he just doesn’t get it. “Hello? Pete Ferro meet reality. Reality, meet Pete Ferro. People don’t do that when they’re in a relationship with somebody else. At least not normal people. You should only have that kind of intimacy with the person you love. Otherwise, what’s the point? Isn’t sex supposed to be the ultimate expression of someone’s love for another person?”

  Pete takes a couple more steps towards me and leans back against the desk next to me. “Ah... love. I see where you may be confused. I wasn’t offering to make love to you. I offered to fuck you, thoroughly and hard. Sex isn’t love. Don’t ever make the mistake of confusing the two. Sex is a powerful, physical thing. Once you start mixing in stupid notions of love, it kills the passion.”

  Heart racing, my jaw drops. I snap out of it. “Jaded much?”

  “No, realistic much.

  “Tell me no more of minds embracing minds,

  And hearts exchang’d for hearts;

  That spirits meet, as winds do winds,

  And mix their subt’lest parts;

  That two unbodied essences may kiss,

  And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss.

  I was that silly thing that once was wrought

  To practice this thin love;

  Come, I will undeceive thee, they that tread

  Those vain aerial ways

  Are like young heirs and alchemists misled

  To waste their wealth and days,

  For searching thus to be forever rich,

  They only find a med’cine for the itch.”

  The poem is raw and crude and the way Pete recites it is powerful.

  “You left out a few parts, Pete.”

  “Alas, they prove my point, Gina Granz. Love is an illusion for feeble minds who give way to the whims of the wind.” Smirking, he takes the book from me and puts it on his desk. I can feel the passion in his eyes and in his voice as he speaks.

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” I’m curious now. How can anyone get through life with such a jaded perception of reality? “Love is real. It binds all things, holding us together and giving us life.”

  “No, a sperm and an egg gave you life. Love had nothing to do with it.
” Pete works his jaw, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should say something.

  “Go on, then. Enlighten me.” I tip my head to the side, surprised by the sharp mind working in that pretty head.

  As he steps closer, those impossibly blue eyes bore into me. “What it all comes down to is primal, physical need. We are hot-blooded creatures meant to feel passion, hunger, pain, hate, euphoria, fear and lust. Right now, you are using love as a way to justify what your body craves, to ease your conscience, instead of seeing it for what it really is.”

  I smile a little, amused at myself for feeling torn between shock that he’s intelligent and shock at his view of things. “And what is it?”

  Pete is in my face, lips close enough to kiss. His breath washes over me when he speaks, and my silly smile falls from my face and shatters. “It’s plain, physical need. We all need to eat to survive, Gina. Do we settle on basic bread and water our whole lives, or do we indulge in other foods that taste more pleasant to the palate? Your views on sex and love are hypocritical and wasteful. In fact, your storybook notion of love is killing your passion until one day, all you’ll feel for each other is numbness and resentment. And where will that leave you? It leaves you with a husband who satisfies his hunger for lust outside of your sacred love.

  “Why would anyone want to put themselves through any of that? Case in point, what your friend said about your beloved boyfriend. I’m willing to bet you’ve never screamed his name out loud while he made you come over and over again. You probably feel like every moment has to be tender, and saying dirty things out loud, asking him to do unspeakable things to your body will sully your precious relationship.

  “You are repressed. You’re holding yourself back. I can see it in your eyes. The passion is there, but you feel you can’t be that person with him. That is what love does to passion and lust. It obliterates everything.”

  I can’t answer and don’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting that, to some extent, he’s right. Anthony and I have never had a very passionate love life, but it’s caring. The thought of asking him to do things to me is a bit daunting, but that doesn’t mean that it’ll never happen. I’m sure Anthony and I can get there, one day, if that’s what we both want.

  When I don’t answer, Pete says, “That’s what I thought.” He pauses and turns to face me, all intensity gone, and his grin back full wattage. He claps his hands together loudly once, and then rubs them together in anticipation. “So! Now that we have all that confusion sorted out, let me ask you again. Wanna fuck?”

  FUCKAHOLICS ANONYMOUS

  3:45 am

  I choke on my spit, but my throat is too dry and still very sore, sending me into a fit of excruciatingly painful coughs.

  Who asks that?

  I bend over at the waist, wrapping one arm around myself, trying to keep my ribs from cracking, my other arm over my face.

  Wordlessly, Pete steps around me and leaves the room. When he returns, I’m still coughing madly, trying desperately to catch my breath, but I can’t. If I don’t stop coughing soon, I’ll surely faint from lack of oxygen. Pete grabs me by the waist, lifting me up and sits me down on the top of the desk. After handing me a glass of water, he puts a comforting hand on my back and looks at me with a worried expression on his face, eyebrows pinched, lips pressed together into a thin line.

  He stays next to me like that, rubbing my back and saying soothing things, until the coughing finally dies down. I take a sip of water and thank him. I’m sitting on his desk, legs dangling off the edge and he’s standing close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off of his body. I’m still trying to catch my breath as he dips down to look at me.

  “Hey, I didn’t think I’d set you off like that. Do you want me to call Logan back?” His voice is once more full of concern.

  “You didn’t. It’s not you.” I snap at him, and he smiles faintly.

  He lifts his palms toward me. “Sorry, I was teasing. I didn’t mean for you to choke up a lung. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Our eyes lock and my stomach fills with something light. It’s as if the air around us is charged and tugging us together. The thought scares the crap out of me. I can’t like him. He’s an asshole. But he’s not. That’s the problem. There are two Pete Ferros, the charming man in front of me now and the crude fuckaholic.

  Pressing my lips together, I look away, breaking the moment. “No, it’s okay. I should be fine now. Thanks.”

  Pete offers a shy smile. His words from earlier keep nagging at me. What if I do have it all wrong? What if sex isn’t an expression of love, but just a primal bodily need meant to be satisfied, like hunger? Dammit. Now he’s got me questioning myself.

  “Lust and love can coexist.” My voice is firm, certain.

  “When you have proof, feel free to show me.” The topic is closed now, like one of his old books.

  The atmosphere in the room has gotten so tense with anticipation, you’d need an axe to cut through it.

  I squirm on the desk and clear my throat while pointing at the desktop. "Just a quick question. I’m a little worried about my health after sitting on this desk. When you've had guests of the female variety over, do you disinfect this desk when you're done, uh, entertaining them on it?" I scrunch my nose to accentuate my disgust and mock-shudder. “Because I don’t see any Lysol around. Gotta know if I need a cootie shot.”

  Pete’s mouth quirks up into a half grin, and he shakes his head. When he opens his mouth to say something, I cut him off. "No way. Wait! Let me guess!"

  I put a finger up so that he doesn't interrupt me, and cross my legs while tossing my hair dramatically behind my shoulders.

  Putting on a straight face, I’m going for alpha-male serious as I stare up at him from under my lashes. Pete looks amused as I try to do my best impersonation of a dark and brooding man, my voice husky and low, "This study is my sacred place, my sanctuary. I never bring women in this room, you are the first. All those other women? They are insignificant. They have only seen my bedroom. That is where I fuck them thoroughly and hard. You, are special." I can't make it to the end without laughing. I break character as I reach the part about the bedroom.

  Smiling, Pete applauds my performance, so I take a small bow atop the desk, grinning.

  "Impressive but wrong. If you must know, I never bring any women home at all. Laugh all you want, but you’re the first."

  "Oh man, so is there nothing sacred, then? Have I made you break your Golden Rule? How does it go? Is it something like, Thou shalt not bring forth wenches and strumpets in thy sanctuary? Well, lucky for you, I'm neither a wench nor a strumpet. But still,” I place my hand in front of his face as if I’m holding a microphone and I’m a reporter interviewing him “Mr. Ferro, inquiring minds want to know, are there any rules that you haven’t broken yet, be it moral, social, personal or legal?"

  He chuckles and pushes my fake microphone hand away. Flicking back his head he sends wet strands of brown hair flying back. “Actually, if you must know, there is one last personal rule. And I'll never break that one." He rocks back and forth on his heels, with an air of arrogance that is just begging to be egged on.

  "Really? And what would that rule be, Mr. Ferro, and does it involve another man and your ass?" I put my microphone hand back in front of his face.

  Pete makes a tsk, tsk sound and waves a finger. "That's my little secret. What about you, Miss Granz? What's your golden rule?"

  He wraps his fingers around my hand and brings it towards my face as if he’s interviewing me instead. He’s looking at me as if I'm dessert. I try to act as if I’m unaffected, but the truth is, when he looks at me that way, he makes me feel desirable, which is something I'm not used to.

  Loved? Yes.

  Appreciated? Most definitely.

  Desired? Never.

  I need to be more careful around him. I need to put some space between us. I don’t trust myself anymore, not with this man who has beauty and brains. It’s a deadl
y combination.

  I try to get off of the desk, but he takes a step closer making it impossible for me to stand without pressing up against his body, which is something I am not going to do. He is so close I can feel his chest brush against my robe when he breathes.

  When he looks down at me, strands of wet hair flop back down onto his forehead. Little drops of water form on the ends and drip down onto my robe-covered knees. His smile fades and his gaze darkens, "It would bring me great pleasure to break some of your precious little rules."

  My confident smile falters. “Well, good luck with that. I’m not a rule breaker. Clean slate. Miss Straight-and-Narrow, right here. The perfect daughter, girlfriend, student, employee, you name it."

  I make it sound as if I like it, as if I’m proud, and tick them off on my fingers one-by-one. I sound confident, but deep down, mountains of regret and lost opportunities press on top of me, pushing me deeper into the ground. Most of the time I feel like a puppet and everyone is pulling on a different string—everyone except for me. It’s like I don't have a say in who I should be or what I should do. I'm so tired of trying to be perfect for everyone.

  I look down, my hair falling in curtains around my face. I'm flicking at the corner of one of my bandages with a finger.

  Pete uses one hand to push back my hair and the other to gently lift my chin. “Ah, but you’re not Little Miss Perfect. You did break the rules. You were at an illegal party tonight, when you could have chosen to be anywhere else. See? Rules are meant to be broken, Gina. Even the ones we hold onto the most. Learn to let go. Your life is too short to spend it holding back all the time.”

  Pete’s gaze intensifies before he closes his eyes and quotes softly,

  “When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,