Life Before Damaged Vol 7 :The Ferro Family (Life Before Damaged #7) (6 page)

I
hate
when people fuss over me, but I hate it even more when it’s public. Forget trying to go back unnoticed to the party. Mom is pouting because I’ve kept my swing dancing a secret from her, and everyone else wants to know what sparked the fight between Pete and the photographers. With the way Pete and I were standing, they couldn’t see it.

I’m not about to publicly admit I just titty-winked the entire world. They’ll find out soon enough anyway. Philip attempts to keep me close to him, draping a protective arm around my shoulders.

I excuse myself from Philip and the other well-meaning guests, pushing my way through the crowd as politely as possible. The last thing I see before finally finding refuge in my usual go-to place -- an empty bathroom stall-- is Pete, wrapped up in multiple female arms.

I sit on the lowered seat cover and let the tears fall for as long as they need to. I cry for Pete, not certain why. I cry for the embarrassment those pictures will bring. I cry for Phillip and our hopeless would-be relationship. I cry for my future empty marriage. I cry because, once again, someone was prettier, better, and smarter than me. It's crushing me. My fake relationship is causing me more grief than a real one.

“I’m so mental,” I say to myself. I wipe my tears and stand up. I need to put myself together before I head back out. I step out of the stall, hoping to have a quiet moment to fix myself up, and discover I’m not alone in the restroom.

Constance is waiting for me.

She stands in front of me like a statue. She doesn’t lean on the counter or slouch like any normal person would. Even in the bathroom, her posture is perfect. She stares straight at me, cold and unfeeling, as usual.

“Miss Granz, I must both congratulate and reprimand you.”

I walk over to the sink and pretend to study my face in the mirror, seemingly unaffected by her presence.

“Oh? Why is that, Mrs. Ferro?”

“Your little act of bravery, breaking up the fight between my son and those photographers, is an outstanding example of what I expect from you in this position. You have courage and strength, and the media will eat it up.”

I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop and....

“However,”

Clunk.

“While you are in here having your little moment, young Mr. Gambino is outside this door pacing, worried about you. My son, on the other hand, is gathering up a collection of women, intending to fill the family limousine for a private party. This is not the image I want to be portrayed. Need I remind you what your responsibilities are, Miss Granz?”

“No, you don’t.” I dab my eyes with a tissue and reapply some liner. “I know perfectly well what my responsibilities are, Mrs. Ferro.” When I’m done, I turn to face her.

“Good. Now, I want you to go back out there and do what you are supposed to do.” She lifts a perfect eyebrow, “Or you’ll wish you had when you had the chance.”

I square my shoulders and straighten my back. “Is that a threat, Mrs. Ferro?”

“Yes, it is.” Her voice is cold and devoid of emotion. “If I were you, I’d take this threat very seriously. You are in no position to slight me. Don’t make me change my good opinion of you. So far you have proven to be trustworthy, but headstrong. Don’t think your little act of rebelliousness went unnoticed. When I send someone with a message, I expect you to respond accordingly. I am not a lenient person.”

Just when I thought there would be no repercussions from ignoring her message to move into the mansion, out it comes. Her threat sits heavily on my shoulders. She will throw me into jail as easily as one would flick a bug off a shoulder.

“Now, Miss Granz, the next time photographers try to take pictures of you, no matter how revealing or compromising they may be, as long as you are with my son, you let them. They have a job to do and so do you. I suggest you get to it immediately. Go, run to my son and cry in his arms instead of cowering alone in here. It's astounding that you may possibly be the only woman in this entire place who isn't hanging all over him.” She eyes me as if I’m broken, incapable of feelings. She adjusts the rings on her finger. They slip on her fingers because of the weight. There’s one large ring embossed with the Ferro crest in shiny gold. She turns it back into place with a snap, as if setting a bone, then smiles at me, coolly.

“Regardless, you are going to change that, starting now. Go out there and fall in love with Peter, and make certain that I believe it.”

Mrs. Ferro turns to leave. She unlocks the door and barely manages to get it open a crack. I stomp my way behind her and shove the door closed, and lock it again.

Mrs. Ferro turns and I'm in her face. Her only reaction, the only way I have of knowing that I've made some impression on her, is that damned lifted eyebrow.

"Don't you dare," I yell. "I may be the only person in this entire place that actually cares about Peter and what happens to him. You were supposed to have journalists here, professional reporters. Not trashy, gossip rag paparazzi. Those people only want one thing. To drag Pete's reputation farther down the sewers. Who let them in and why didn't you throw them out?"

"I know exactly what those photographers want. That's why I invited them. Don't ever question my methods, Miss Granz. Those photographers were paid to do exactly what they did. To create whatever scandal they could and have both of you right in the middle."

I point to the door that leads to the ballroom.

"You did that on purpose? You set him up to have the press all over him? You knew he’d fight if they got in his face! What would they have done if he actually hit one of them?"

Her lips pull into a thin smile as those Ferro eyes bore into me.

"That was a happy accident. Their directions were to harass you and Peter just enough to get him to protect you. Fate worked in our favor with your,” she glances at my dress and then back into my eyes, “faulty attire."

"He's your son! How could you do that to him?"

"I always get what I want. You’re a stage performer, are you not?"

I nod, not seeing where this conversation is going.

"Let me make it crystal clear—I've set the stage, the actors are now in place, and we have the audience's rapt attention. The spotlight is now on you. It's your turn to play your part and turn my son around. You can start by getting rid of your new young suitor, dressing more like a socialite and less like a streetwalker, and getting Peter away from that horde of gold-digging women."

I walk back to the counter and rest both palms down, head hanging down between my shoulders. I look up at my reflection in the mirror. It's just me. I'm no powerhouse, no one influential. I'm just plain old Regina Granz, and Peter has already turned me down too many times to count.

“Why does everyone think that I can change him? You can’t change someone. They are who they are.”

Mrs. Ferro unlocks the door and places her hand on the handle.

“I'm not asking you to change him. I'm ordering you to clean up my family's name by reigning in one of my sons in the public eye. I suggest you do it and I don't care how, so long as you stay away from Philip Gambino.”

I turn and rest my hips against the counter. “Really? Another threat? I’m a lucky girl.”

She lowers her lashes and examines the audaciously large diamond ring on her left hand. She tilts it to the side, watching the light dance off the massive stone.

“No dear, it’s advice. I rarely offer anything of the sort, Miss Granz.” She looks up at her reflection in the mirror, smooths her gown, and adds, “If I were you, I’d take it.”

Mrs. Ferro walks out of the restroom, letting voices and laughter from the reception echo through the open door. I turn and stare at myself in the mirror again. A swollen gash throbs angrily from my right cheek. My skin is already turning an awesome shade of purple and my eyes are puffy.

Frustrated, I slap both hands on the counter by the sink and yell. I can’t change Pete. That’s not in my power.

I thought I did. I really thought I did, but people don’t change.

Seeing him tonight gave me hope that he’d started to come around, but a nice tuxedo, a suave dance, and a warm smile aren't proof of anything. He puts on a good show, but ultimately the decision to make any real changes is his.

I put myself back together, and I walk out of the restroom, determined to do my part. I make my way back into the ballroom to try and find Pete. How the heck can I get him away from his hoochie horde? My eyes scan the room, but he's nowhere to be found and neither is the tramp troupe for that matter.

I'm too late; he's gone. A pair of hands rests on my shoulders and I feel someone pressing up against my back.

"I've been looking for you. Feeling better?"

It's Phil. His voice is most welcome, and I want to lean into him so badly and let myself be comforted by someone kind, but I can feel Mrs. Ferro's eyes on me. Reluctantly, I wriggle away, breaking any contact from him.

"I'm sorry, Philip, I'm tired. I think I'll just head on home."

Phil's hand reaches up to touch me, but I take a step back.

"I can drive you home if you want."

This guy is everything I've ever wanted and the thought of having him drive me home and what that could lead to is tempting, but I can't. I have to push him away. I take another step back.

"No, that’s all right, but thank you. I have a driver waiting for me."

He smiles at me and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Another time then?”

I nod, not wanting to tell him this can never happen. “Another time.”

Another lifetime.

A
week
and a half worth of newspapers and magazines stare mockingly at me from their stack on the coffee table. I think I can die miserably now. My popped boob and I made every paper, magazine and trashy gossip website imaginable. More cameras went off than the ones right around us. The place was flooded with photographers we didn’t even notice.

Most printed publications were blurred out due to censorship laws, but the internet is an unforgiving bitch, and my perky little nip is now more famous than my face. Going to school has been excruciating, knowing that everyone in my class, along with my professors, have probably seen the pictures.

Not a single article depicts Pete and me as a budding young couple like Constance wanted. Instead, they focus on the fight between Pete and the photographers, my booby-oopsie, and the fact that Pete left with some beautiful rich heiress after being disappointed in the perks that Granz Textiles had to offer.

Since the gala, I've become a hermit. I go to class and come back to the apartment. Phil has been texting and calling me incessantly. He even surprised me on campus in between classes with a hot cup of coffee. I had to make sure my driver was nowhere in sight. Otherwise, he probably would have reported it to Mrs. Ferro. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover the car is wired to record sound and video.

And Pete. That’s the worst part. I haven't seen him since the gala. He hasn't reached out, and we haven't had any planned public appearances since. A couple of times I punched his number into my phone, wanting to talk to him, just to hear his voice and make sure he's okay.

I even thought about asking if he wanted another dance lesson at the club, but I chickened out and shut off my phone instead. I couldn't face the possibility of his rejection. I never know which side of Pete Ferro I will get, and the thought of being turned down by the player is not something I need right now.

How absurd is that? I'm scared of being rejected by the man who I'll be married to.

“Hey, Gina! It’s stripper time! Check it out! Dick got a makeover and he's hubba-hubba-hot tonight!” Erin interrupts my pity party by yanking a magazine from my hands and tossing it on the floor behind the couch.

She shuts off the lights before sitting down next to me and plops the bowl of popcorn on my knees. This has become a nice ritual of ours. Popcorn and real reality TV with my best friend.

The lights are on in the stripper’s apartment, and she’s practically crawling up the man she’s with tonight. Not her usual M.O. She usually saunters in, acting aloof and slightly disinterested, until she starts to pole dance.

Not tonight, though. She’s breaking her pattern and wow! She’s really going to town with this guy. His hands are all over her, squeezing her ass through her black leather pants, and then running up her back and tangling in her long brown hair. A moment later, he’s smoothing those locks down over her sequined gold top.

This isn’t frantic or awkward. Dick is all passion and intensity of movement, worshiping every inch of her body, claiming every bit he can manage to touch.

I wonder if they love each other.

The way he’s holding her--like he doesn’t want to let her go, like she might vanish into thin air--makes me envious. The only person to have ever touched me like that was Pete; that is until he turned me down and walked away.

Blinking twice, I clear my thoughts and look back at the show underway. The stripper brings her hands up to Dick's shoulders and removes his jacket. She tosses it to the side.

“This is weird.” Erin says what I’m thinking. “She's breaking all of her rules.”

“I know.” What the hell is she thinking?

The woman removes his shirt as quickly as she can, their lips breaking contact only long enough to pull Dick's shirt over his head. From what I can see around our soon-to-be naked neighbor, Dick has a very nice body with broad shoulders and toned arms. He’s a looker.

Erin is as engrossed in the show as I am. She is rarely this quiet while watching ‘reality TV.’ She’s usually busy doing vulgar running commentary, but not tonight. Tonight, we’re both quiet. Erin stuffs more popcorn into her mouth, unable to look away from the window.

The stripper’s hands travel up and down Dick's torso and abs. When she reaches for his belt, he takes a step back, then another, pulling her with him, never breaking their kiss. When they reach the padded chair the client usually sits in, Dick spins them around and sits her down on the chair instead.

Dick backs up to the pole, and the stripper points to her sound system with a remote. Music must be playing, because shirtless Dick with his broad, toned back starts to sway his hips, running his hands up and down his chest. Erin’s jaw drops and she squees.

“Holy fuck! We’re getting a male stripper tonight! Must be one of those guys from the 'Whacker Shack' three blocks down. Those dudes are jacked! Show me whatcha got, Dickie-Boy!”

Erin whoops and fist pumps, grabbing an entire handful of popcorn and stuffing it into her mouth. My eyes are riveted to the window across the street.

Best. Neighbors. Ever.

The woman is squirming in her chair, grabbing her breasts through her clothes and squeezing them, obviously excited about this unexpected turn of events too.

Watching Dick move and how the stripper reacts to him sends my imagination to wild and dangerous territory. Mental pictures of me sitting in that chair, while an unnamed, blue-eyed sexy man dances for my pleasure, has the spot between my legs aching, my chest hurting and my fists clenching. Lust, heartache, and frustration dance a fierce tango inside my body.

“I shouldn’t be watching this.”

Erin pats my back without looking away from the window.

“Yeah, me neither.” Her eyes are still glued to the glass.

I squirm in my seat and try to look away, but a second later my gaze is locked on the guy again.

Dick grabs hold of the pole with one arm and grinds against it suggestively before he squats slowly—languidly—trailing a hand along the pole, like a soft caress. He moves effortlessly. His hips sway slowly, suggesting what’s to come. The movement makes me think of another pair of hips that move just as seductively. A naughty part of the back of my mind wants him to do a full frontal, to satisfy the perverse fantasy in my head, but that would only add to my state of permanent sexual frustration.

Dick slowly, in a very leisurely style rises from his squat, and runs a hand through his hair, flexing his arm muscles. He takes a step forward, closer to the woman and points to her. He’s saying something to her. She runs one of her hands down her stomach and slides it down into her pants, making me hotter down below and my breathing faster.

Look away, Gina. Look away! Sirens are going off in my head, but my eyes are glued in place, unable to blink.

Her hand moves up and down, her hips rocking slowly at first. The man keeps on moving his hips, watching her, and reaching for his pants. Holy mother of all things porn! He’s going to take it all off.

From our vantage point, he seems to be unfastening his jeans but they stay up. With his back to us, it's hard to tell what he is doing. It seems like he’s just dancing for the woman while watching her touch herself. The woman is rubbing herself off madly as her hips buck into her hand faster and harder while Dick continues his sexy gyrating.

The woman reaches her climax, made apparent by how her free hand grabs the armrest of the chair, and how her face contorts in obvious pleasure. Her head then sags limply on the back of the recliner, she's completely sated and I envy her even more.

Dick walks to her and gently lifts her up to her feet. They turn so that the stripper’s back is now to us. She pushes on Dick's shoulders so that it’s his turn to sit. Erin and I are both craning our necks from side to side as if it’ll help us see around the stripper and get a better glimpse of Dick's face.

Of course, it doesn’t work. It’s not until the stripper walks toward her sound system that we get a full view of the gorgeous man sitting in the chair. His chest is all firm muscle, his dark hair a mess, and there’s three-day old stubble on his face. His piercing blue eyes are looking into our loft, straight at me, straight into me.

It’s Pete.