Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (7 page)

She walks over to a stool and brings it back. The judge is rocking and starts to make a high pitched wail, muted of course, but it’s unnecessary. In English, I haltingly read the words on the packaging and tear off another piece of thin tape that claims it holds yet doesn’t stick to the skin. Two completely incompatible ideas, and I deliberate on how those types of thoughts can stall a man from action. Muddle and delay a man like that thief who begged,
“I gots to know.”

The diner scene from
Dirty Harry
pops into my thoughts as I bind Bloomberg’s sweaty wrists and remove the cuffs. As if in a loop with no exit, I drop the handcuffs in indecision about the truth.

Testing the judge’s wrists, I notice that his skin is clammy and his complexion is waxen.

Aw, how thoughtless of me not to inquire, and I wonder if Bloomberg’s caught a cold. I press my palm to his forehead. “You’re feeling a little warm.”

Gina climbs down from the stool and replies, “Would you like me to get him some aspirin and a cup of tea?”

“Don’t be rude. Put your mind to work on things that matter. Speaking of, come over here.” Standing next to the judge, Gina and I discuss the type of angled cut to his neck so that the cord burn hides the incision. Tears run down his cheeks making it difficult to concentrate.

“The weight of this porker will more than likely snap the cord,” she concludes, then a sly glint fills her eye. “Do you remember that hog we butchered in Palermo?”

“The one that almost got away?”

“It almost killed us.” She laughs, pounding one of her hands on Bloomberg’s chest as we avidly recall the bungled butchering of a hog that had both of us climbing a tree to escape him.

Holding out the knife to her by the handle, I murmur, “We were biding our time.”

“That greedy pig drank a liter of rum,” she says, narrowing her eye as she peers at Bloomberg. She snarls, “Everyone said it was the best pork they’d ever had. Except for one cocksucker.”

Gina waves the knife rapidly, so fast the blade is a slice of silver, and I’m aware she’s reliving a moment from her past. We all do.

After what she’s suffered, I permit it. The judge jerks to one side not once but several times even after her hands are motionless. I’m mistaken. Her hands are far from still. She’s fisting his crotch, and I order her harshly, “
Abbastanza
!”

“No! He’s a pig,” she sneers, unhanding the judge, yet elbows him in the ribs.

Snot flies from Bloomberg’s nostrils as he contorts his face in pain. Shrill sounds leak from behind the gag.
For the love of the Almighty
. These two misbehave worse than children.

“Apologize, Gina,” I sigh, squeezing the judge’s shoulder to ask for his patience.

“Why?” she spits out.

I take a deep breath, using the cleansing method that Dr. Oz prescribes to inhale nitric oxide, expelling stale air. I count to ten then glance over to my friend. “Bloomberg, give me a moment.” He shakes his head but I insist with a wink. I remove my handkerchief from my pocket, wiping his nose and press it to the wound on his cheek. “You cut him, Gina.”

She rolls her one eye but I remind her of the Golden Rule. “How would you feel if I arbitrarily sliced you?” I ply her, seeking to develop her benevolence.

“He made me—”

“That isn’t true.” I shake my head. “You offered.”

“Not that. Not what he did,” she stubbornly says. “Again, and again. And ag—”

“Silence! This is not the time!” I demand, irked that I’m raising my voice. Smoothing my fingers across my mustache, I take a second to compose myself. This has been ongoing for years. It’s almost as if I’m planting seeds of altruism in barren Earth. “We have all sacrificed. Haven’t we? Or would you like to finish this conversation tonight.
At home
.”

Recognition flashes in her expression. “Okay, okay,” she mutters.

“It is not okay.” Further, I direct her to apologize. “In English.”

She’s forty-three and was so young and wild when I rescued her from a rundown farm.

“Sorry,
signor
.” Gina bows her head, clasping her hands, appearing contrite.

Year after year, little-by-little she has picked up bits of refinement. A mere shadow of the subtleties of delicacy.
Finesse. But it has not been easy.
“Old-world charm,” I muse aloud, “It is what I miss.”

“To some degree, that’s what all men say,” she snorts, recapturing the cord and tossing it up and over the meat hook. She tests it and nods in appreciation, then curses.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t separate the coarse from the savage in this woman. She’s loyal and shares my vision, but ah… The image of my first wife floats into my awareness and I cross myself.
Melania
. She was so young and innocent when I’d plucked her from that notorious abbey. Saved her from a life of bowing, prayer, and penance. She was much too lovely to be hidden away. Her father had howled, until I gave him an offer and he hadn’t refused. No one does.
If Melania were alive, she’d be sixty-two and our son…
I tick decades off my fingers. “Forty-seven.”

“Inches?” Gina asks, holding up the cord.

I remove my cap and remember, I don’t have a spare handkerchief. Fanning my face with my cap, I murmur, “No, years. My son.”

“Again?” She drapes the cord on the judge’s shoulder. “Strange that you think of him now.”

“Not on purpose,” I admit, frowning on how that sounds callous. Am I heartless?

Gina begins to sharpen her knife and after a few seconds, pauses. “What is it about an execution that makes you sentimental?”

“An end.” I suppose, lifting the judge’s chin to inspect his neck. His eyes are wide, bulging as he cries behind the gag. He should’ve considered moving to Florida when I offered him the spot. “Ah, but everyone makes their own choice which road to follow.”

Tutting, she pokes a finger. “Look at the rolls of fat. Hold him.” She’s right.

“Make it fast,” I say.

She lifts the judge’s sagging flesh at the base of his neck, making the skin taut as I instruct, “Deep cut. Then slice.” Cradling Bloomberg’s head in my arms, I meet her good eye, and she nods.

With a grunt, she sinks the tip of the blade deep, carving through the neck of the judge, severing his thoughts. His pain. He stops struggling. The man is finally quiet.

I release my hold on him and observe, “There’s elegance in death. Melania was elegant in life.”

“What timing you have. Help me with the cord,” Gina says sharply, and tosses me an end, sounding miffed at the mention of my wife.

I allow her a few seconds to collect herself. Jealousy is a strong emotion and only once got the better of me. I roll the cord between my fingers, recalling how silky my wife’s hair felt after she washed it. “We didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but she always made up her eyes, her lips, her face when we walked in the evening.” The memory of Melania is so vivid, I pat my cheeks, mimicking the scene from my past, recalling how my wife had applied her cosmetics.
And what it was like to gaze at her
. “She had these blue eyes. Like sapphires and she made her hair up like Jacqueline.” In the end she didn’t struggle. A real lady never overstays her welcome.

Wiping the spray of blood off her cheek, Gina asks, “Jacqueline who?”

Perplexed that she doesn’t automatically understand, I shake my head, “O’Malley. Is there another?”

No reply and I exhale, watching how deftly Gina moves. Her fingers are beautiful, precise, and expertly she plies the cord, winding the ends. Flawless detail. With one final wind of cord around the judge’s neck, she ties it with what sounds like a titter of satisfaction.

She looks over to me and laughs. “My God, you’re a romantic at heart! Admit it.”

Am I?
Dr. Oz advocates getting in touch with one’s feminine side. Ying-Yang. Yoga. Meditation. Subjects I’d like to explore and only with Gina do I admit, “That I am.”

“Come here,” she whispers, holding out her arms.

Impetuously like when we were younger, I give into the moment and clasp her face in between my hands. She might not be Melania, but she does everything I ask and more. Dr. Oz proclaims,
“Make the driving force in your life love.”
I say goodnight to the memories from the past, and kiss Gina’s forehead, leaning over the body of the judge.

I’m assured my old friend would not mind our show of frivolous affection—after all, hadn’t I patiently watched him countless times.

X.S.~
Rough Velvet

SECRETS. SECRETS. Are no fun… Patently untrue propaganda. And in my world, that’s precisely how I get by.

Correction: it’s how I used to get by.

After winning a minor victory in court, my trust account isn’t being held captive by my grandparents. The judge withheld his final ruling—thanks to Brooke. He’s given me a month to get my act in gear. Secure employment and on that front, Jon promises he’s found me a spot and set up an interview. A hush-hush paid internship just up my alley on the Hill. Jon claims that it’s bad luck to discuss said position on the phone and will fill me in when I pick him up on Sunday.

With an interview on Monday, tonight, I’m ready to have some wickedly wild fun. After shucking my braids, Birkenstocks, and organic lifestyle, I’m done with stockpiling secrets. It’s time to unlock a secret or two, starting with myself. Graduating from BC with my future wide open, I wonder about my dad—who he is, besides absent.

To this day, my mom refuses to divulge my father’s identity and no amount of nagging or haranguing has gotten her to cave. After an emergency room visit to the ER twice in the past week for extreme nosebleeds, Mom could’ve come clean.
Could have, but didn’t.
Mums the word—according to my mother it’s for my own good. She doesn’t get it. I don’t care how awful she believes my father to be, that’s between her and him. Same thing as Martin. I don’t hate him for leaving, just for dying—and really I don’t hate an iota associated with my adopted dad—only that he isn’t around to pester or make proud.

Tonight, I’ve agreed to hit a dance club with esquire Brooke extraordinaire, and she’s staring at me as if I’ve committed a mortal sin. “Those glasses. Now,” she whispers, holding out her hand expectantly.

A losing battle and why do I try? “I won’t be able to—”

“Shush!” She jabs the air, gaining the attention of the other girls in our troupe. “O’Malley, you aren’t here to conduct an exposé of the guys in there. And your vision is just fine for our mission tonight.”

It’s true. Sorta. My glasses are a crutch. With a sigh, I hand them over. “I’m holding you personally responsible if I fall.”

“X, that’s the point.” Brooke gives me her lawyer look, fluffing my hair. “You might actually get laid.”

“Just as long as the man is real and not a figment of my imagination.”

“Go with your gut instinct,” she offers.

I fall silent, marveling that’s exactly what I should’ve done with Spencer. Deep down I knew. Good Christ, I knew something wasn’t right. “Counselor, you’re on.”

She laughs. “It’s a deal!”

An hour later, I’m buzzed and feeling no pain. Surveying the sea of beautiful people, so far no one strikes a chord in me. Not that I’m complaining.

“Let’s do another round.” Brooke drums her hands on the table, jarring me back to the here and techno beat now. She sinks onto the chair next to me and points. “How about him?”

I follow her finger and smile. “He’s looking at you and winking. My tummy says pass.”

“How does your ‘tummy’ feel about peppermint schnapps?” Rowena suggests. She’s a mutual friend of Brooke’s and mine. Same as Katrina, the girl bouncing on the chair to my side.

“Mmm, one more drink? Can’t hurt,” I say in response to the proposition of doing another shot of pretty-colored liquor. We’ve done everything from Alabama Slammers, a round of fireballs to flaming B-52’s, and my gut all but whispers, “Fine. One more.”

Brooke orders singles for this round. “Anyone up for a bump?” She pulls out a vial of coke, but I shake my head.
I don’t need another nosebleed
.

We’re seated upstairs, overlooking the dance floor in a club her uncle owns. Wall-to-wall people crowd the place with a line outside, and security up the wazoo. Techno thunders from the speakers, and I can’t resist tapping my foot.

“Isn’t that Miles McCarthy?” Rowena points at a table nearby with an attractive man I recognize.

“Yep. And his better half,” I reply.

Rowena does a double take and giggles. “He actually brought his Oscar as his date.”

I join her laughter. “God, what a catch. Actorvist. Funny, handsome, and single.”

Brooke smirks and leans over. “Thought you couldn’t see dick without your glasses.”

“Only big ones.” I flip her off and we both laugh.

Katrina pulls my hand and semi-shouts, “Phoenix, come dance with me. Didn’t we have a deadly good time last round?”

“Err, deadly. Yep, we did.” Shifting my focus to the dance floor, then I glance back at Kat and sigh. There go her puppy dog eyes. “If you promise not to step on my toes. I’ve got an interview and I can’t hobble into it.”

“Promise, love. No toe stepping.” She has a thing about doing a modern rendition of Irish step-dancing on the dance floor. It’s not that she stinks. Actually, Kat is quite good.

Me and my bruised toes can testify. All my thoughts flatline as I absorb the view of this hunk marshaling his way through the crowd, barreling into my awareness. A slice of his profile: a quiff of dark hair, straight nose, strong jaw. I drink in his athletic tan neck. Buff body, and
whoosh
. The lights flicker and I lose sight of him. Talk about a kick to the gut.
Okay, that’s ridiculous
. A millisecond man-sighting means absolutely zero. Tell that to the third-degree flush overtaking my body. I reach for the glass of ice water, sucking down a gulp.

“To getting pinned against a wall by a big, big dick.” Brooke’s gaze settles on me and my face feels the heat of her stare.

From flushed, my face goes fire-engine red as I switch the glass of ice water for the peppermint schnapps.

As if she knows something, I try to look away, not fast enough. “Phoenix, I’m referring to you specifically.”