Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2 (12 page)

September 2006

It’s fifteen minutes until our dinner reservations for his
birthday and Diego isn’t home. I’ve messaged him several times with no reply.
When I messaged Ken, he said he hadn’t heard from him since he dropped him off
at the stadium earlier in the afternoon. Watching the minutes tick off on my
phone is worse than getting a bikini wax where they pull off the cloth strips
slowly.

Ken agreed to message me the moment he heard from Diego to
come get him. I know he stays nearby the stadium. “To be safe,” as he put it.
But I still had this sinking feeling in my stomach. Something was off. This is
unlike my Diego. He would never let it get this late and not message or call.

I’m out of my mind curled up on the couch with my knees
tucked to my chin when Diego rushes through the front door. I’m baffled and out
of sorts.
Why didn’t Ken message me?
I just stare at Diego my eyes wild
and wide. I’m sure the mascara and eyeliner streaking down my cheeks makes the
sight of me even more horrifying. He just stands there and stares.

“IZZY,” Diego shouts, “why didn’t you answer your phone?”

And
that
snaps me out of my stupor. Instantly, I’m
brought back to reality and he’s just stirred up a fury of epic proportions.
With a shake of my head to clear the last of the cobwebs and steeling my
nerves, I realize I must have cried myself to sleep. “What time is it?” I ask
calmly through gritted teeth.

Diego looks like he’s fuming waiting for my answer to his
question. The answer he’s not going to get. So, I find my phone on the floor
next to where I lay on the couch. It’s ninety minutes after our reservations.

Straightening myself up, I walk past him headed to our room
upstairs. This night was clearly over before it started. I have so much to say,
but I suddenly lack the heart to say it.

“IZABELLA,” he roars from the foot of the stairs below me. I
refuse to look at him.
How dare he be fucking mad at me?

I’m in our room when he catches up to me and grabs my elbow
from behind. I stop, stock still in the middle of our room. “You have two
choices,” I tell him. “We have this out on your birthday or you take your hand
off my elbow and we wait until tomorrow to do it.”

I pause, but he doesn’t answer.

“Either way,” I continue, “I won’t be staying this fucking
calm.”

“Excuse me,” he says acting like I’m the one being
undeservedly pissed off. “Izzy, why didn’t you answer your phone? When I call
you need to answer!” there’s misplaced anger in his voice and it sets me off.

With a tug of my elbow, I walk to the windows of our room.
Whirling around I walk right back up to him and get in his face. “NO! You don’t
get to be pissed off,” I jab a finger in his chest and he has the audacity to
look shocked. “Where were
you
, Diego? Why didn’t
you
answer
your
phone? Do you remember we had plans to celebrate? Do you know that it’s not
just minutes passed the time you were supposed to be home?” My voice switches
to a roar, “IT’S FUCKING HOURS!!!”

“Izabella,” clearly he’s still mad at me if he’s using my
full name, “I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about. There’s not a
single missed call or message on this fucking phone from you. So, what? You
thought you’d get back at me by not answering your phone?” he hisses and
roughly hands me his phone.

I’m not above checking, but I know he could have just as
easily deleted them. So, I open my phone to the messages I sent him and hold it
up for him to see. And to my shock, I see confusion flood his features. His shoulders
drop.

“I forgot my phone in the conference room used for part of
the photo shoot. I didn’t find it until an assistant brought to me right before
I left.” He’s rambling. “Ken said you couldn’t get them to switch the
reservation for us. That the new reservation was for tomorrow night.”

No fucking way.
For a moment, I believed him. But
lying about talking to Ken when I know full well that Ken hasn’t spoken to him
sets me off. The subsiding rage rushes out with my next rant. “Oh fucking
really. You talked to Ken?” the dare to lie to me obvious.

“Well, no, but one of the receptionists brought me a
message.”

Still not buying this convenient bullshit I press further,
“And Ken didn’t tell you I tried him a million times when he picked you up?”

There’s a flush on his cheeks and he’s noticeably—
embarrassed?
“One of the guys just got a Ferrari. He offered to give me a lift home. When we
left, he tossed me the keys and we went for a drive up the motorway. It took a
little longer than expected.”

I feel my shoulders slump, my mind trails off recalling a
time when things were similar: missed calls, unanswered messages, his absence.

“Izzy,” I hear my name, but I’m lost in that moment.

April 1999

After two months of dating, Diego slips with the “L” word.
We both pretended it didn’t happen and it was about three weeks later, I
admitted to him that I had fallen in love, that the earth moves when I’m with
him and I love the high he brings me. We were on that high together for about
four more months.

Last week, I noticed that something was different. I began
to notice that there was a distance between us. We’d both gotten busy in our
school and extracurricular activities, but it never slowed us down even when
things were at their busiest.

But here we are, not together. Diego insisted that he loved
me, but he was getting “claustrophobic.” I frame the bitter word with air
quotes in my mind and a disgusted look on my face.

It’s my twenty-third birthday and although we were no longer
together, he promised to be there for it. We weren’t calling it quits, more
like a timeout. I’ve tried calling him all night without being excessive. I
feel like I have some leeway here considering the circumstances. I finally give
up and turn off my phone, deciding if he calls back, it serves him right to not
have me answer.
Fuck his apology.

I spend the rest of the night brooding behind my plastered
on fake smile. I’m pretty good at masking when I want to be. The sinister in my
smile is invisible to those that have never seen my wicked side. I’m plotting
out each word of my rant, carefully stringing together my insults in my head while
faking a chuckle at Ashley’s mention of Professor Stephen Les Paul’s “fine
ass.”

When the time came, when it was socially acceptable to bail
on my own party, I said my goodbyes in record-breaking time. Mazz makes a point
of walking me out. “What’s up, Izzy?”

“Got something I gotta say to someone,” saving my spite and
venom for Diego.

“You need me to roll through?”

I chuckle a little. I love it when she goes ghetto on me,
but I just shake my head. “I got this.”

The drive to Diego’s building is just the proper length of
time to fuel the burning fire in my gut. The anger raging within me is
incalzando, the fury getting faster, my inner rant getting louder.

I find that I have to talk myself down some as I reach the
door to his building. I take measured steps, skipping the elevator to take the
time climbing the stairs will provide. Reaching his room, I pick up female
voices coming from behind the door.

The fury races from my hand as I opt to use the key he gave
me even though I know I’m not going to like what I see. The steeled calm I was
able to gain from the climb up the stairs has evaporated along with the words
I’d been plotting all night.

I throw open the door. “WHAT THE FU—” The last word dies on
his tongue. Beneath him, I can see the group he’s entertaining, a blonde and a
brunette and their naked bodies. And by the look of it, I’d say that the phone
call back and owed apology I was expecting never even crossed his mind.

While I stood there dumbfounded, Diego’s attempt to hide the
scene behind him by stepping out and pulling the door closed plucks me from my
stupor. “Hey, Diego,” I say barely above a whisper, “go fuck yourself,” I finish,
turning to leave.

“Izzy,
bella
,” I can hear the plea in his voice, I
feel his hand reach for mine, but he doesn’t latch on.

“Don’t bother,
Santo Feo
,” I hiss his on field
nickname. “Clearly, we have different ideas of ‘working it out’ and unless you
want this floor and the ones above and below to hear our business, you’ll let
me leave,” I warn.

I don’t look back, but I know that his image is everything
to him. From the creak in the door, I know his bed buddies are an audience
behind us and so must he. I leave, retracing my path back down the stairs out
the building and to my car.

“Hey,” I greet Mazzy when she picks up her phone. “You still
at the bar?” I ask.

“Izzy,” her voice is concerned. She must hear the trembling
in mine.

“I’ll explain everything when I see you. You still there?” I
ask again.

I hear the hesitation in her voice, but she confirms they
are. “Have the shots lined up. I’m leaving Betsy in the dorm parking lot. We’re
cabbing it home tonight.”

I hang up before she can press the issue. I need this time
to myself to catalog what happened and berate myself for allowing myself to
believe that not all love is heartbreak.

The shift of gravel in the distance behind me raises the
hairs on my arms, a chill races up my spine.
Diego.
Even angry my body
betrays me when he’s near.

“Izzy,” I hear him speak softly.

I refuse to answer. I will not make this night,
my night
,
worse than it already is. I keep my back pressed up against the side of my car,
not granting him the attention he’s seeking.

A sigh of relief passes my lips as the cab I called pulls
into the aisle of cars I’m waiting in. Needing to make my leave hastier, I push
off the car and walk to meet the cab halfway.

I’m pretty sure he said my name again, but I just get in and
inform the cab driver of my destination. I can’t help the lone tear streaking
down my face as we drive past Diego. Our gazes connect, but the sob that rips
from my chest shifts mine from his.

By the time the cabbie has me at the curb outside the bar,
I’ve touched up my face and readied my expression. Most will not notice the
facade, but Mazzy will.

Thanking the cabbie, I hand him his money with a sizable
tip. Holding up a hundred, I propose a deal, “If you’re back here for my
roommate and me at closing, this,” waving the bill pinched between my pointer
and middle fingers, “is yours plus whatever the cab ride home costs us.”

He eagerly nods and promises to be right outside at closing.

Once inside, I locate Mazzy and our group of friends near
the stage. Our friend Alesha is up on stage belting her rendition of “Me and
Bobby McGee” made popular by thee Janis Joplin. I stop at the bar between them
and me, ordering myself a chilled double shot of Patron Silver. The slivers of
ice chasing the burn the tequila normally brings.

Some random guy at the bar stops me from leaving. I think he
offered to buy me another shot. It’s not his fault I’ve had a shit night and
smooth talkers are the furthest thing from my want list. I look him once over
like he’s a piece of merchandise I’m deciding if I want to buy. When my gaze
comes back up to meet his eyes, I tell him with shake of my head, “Not drunk
enough yet.”

I walk away. His slur in response falls on deaf ears where
I’m concerned. Amused patrons that overheard hide their laughs behind their
cocktail glasses and beer bottles.

The shot I just took warms my belly and in conjunction with
my verbal jab, spreads a smile across my face. I don’t know if it’s more shit
eating or full of pride by the expression on Mazzy’s face.

“What’d you do?” she asks suspiciously.

The waitress is at our table before I can answer Mazzy.
She’s placing two double shots of what appears to be chilled Patron Silver on
our table and hands me a napkin.

I look at the message scribbled on the napkin.

How drunk do you need to be?

I look at the waitress who appears to be waiting for the
question in my eyes. She points toward the end of the bar where a group of man
meat is staring in my direction. The one I presume that bought me the drinks
raises his glass.

Mazzy must’ve read the note on the napkin and duplicated my
process of locating the group and the man behind the shots. “Fuck me,” she
drawls.

The man is a suit, although his tie is loosened and the top
buttons of his shirt are undone. His dirty blond hair is slightly mussed,
probably from running those ridiculously large hands through it. His smile is
boy-next-door with an underlining of wicked. His eyes glint even in the dim
light of the bar with appreciation as we each unabashedly continue our
inspections of the other.

I grab one of the shot glasses, raise it in a return
gesture, and then toss it back.

“What’s that all about, Iz?”

“Shall I start from the beginning?”

She nods.

I tell her about my plans to give Diego a piece of my mind,
admitting I couldn’t just let it go and then the scene I found at Diego’s dorm
room. Her jaw drops with that bit of information, but I continue on. Recalling
the parking lot scene and how I lost my shit in the cab.

“Fuck, Izzy.” She’s stunned speechless.

I just nod my agreement. I finish with the incident at the
bar when I got back here. She chuckles.

“Now that you know, it’s time for me to forget.” I grab last
of the two shots from Mr. Suit and down it without a second thought. When I
look over he’s still staring and his eyebrow is lifted in a question. ‘
Well?
’

There’s a break in the karaoke and I take it as my
opportunity to answer his question. I smirk back at him and walk up to the
karaoke operator. I ask him if he had Christina Aguilera’s Come on Over Baby;
he confirmed with a nod. I instruct him to slow it down a notch.

I grabbed the mic and took the stage. The words scroll on
the screen in front of me and the projection screen behind me, but I don’t need
them. I look at Mr. Tonight and start.

The tequila coursing through me makes it easier to move and
gyrate on the stage in front of my audience. When the chorus comes, I’m ready
to replace the unnecessary ‘love’ in the lyrics. “You better cross the line,
I’m gonna do you right.”

He never breaks our gaze. A smirk pulls up in one corner
with the chorus every time. I’m sure my word swap is the opposite of subtle,
but I’m inebriated beyond caring. I need something good to accompany this numb,
because when I wake up in the morning there will only be pain.

When the song ends, I nod to Mr. Suit gesturing to the side
of the bar where there’s an empty booth. He stands up and his buddies are
slapping him on the back. I resist the eye roll until I’m off stage and tucked
behind a gaggle of sorority girls vying for their chance at the stage and
attention.

Mazzy just gives me a smirk. I know part of her wants to be
my voice of reason, but she must sense that tonight is not the night for
reason. She smacks my ass as I pass her to the booth just beyond where our
table is.

I meet Mr. Suit at the booth and I sit, legs crossed at the
ankles my knees turned in toward him, my skirt pulling up with the motion. The
jump of his eyes to my bared skin gives me the confidence I need.

“I’m Izzy,” holding out my hand for him to shake.

“Izzy, it is a delight,” he practically hums his approval.
“Johnny.” Taking my hand in his right and closing the left over it, he brings
it to his lips.

His mannerisms, the quality of his suit, and the stunning
timepiece on his wrist says he’s older than he looks. I see now that his eyes
are a beautiful swirl of hazel trimmed in green.

After a brief wave of swaying, I inform Johnny of my
intentions. “You’re hot and I’m pissed off. I’m just looking for right now.
Tonight. Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up and realize that no amount of hot,”
gesturing to him, “will make the truth of my life disappear. If you’re game, we
can play pretend until the sun comes up.”

His eyes fill with mirth. “I’m good for more than a night,
Izzy, but I get what you’re saying and I’ll make you a deal.”

I tilt my head. He’s piqued my interest.

“It would be easy and wonderful to get wrapped up in you for
the night, but I have a feeling you’re worth more than one night. So, we’ll go
as far as our public setting allows us,” he pulls out a business card and a pen
from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He scribbles down some numbers on the
back. “When you wake up and the pain is no longer there, you can call me.”

I shake my head like it’s not going to happen.

“I’m not saying it’ll happen tomorrow or the next day or the
day after that, but at some point, it’ll stop and you’ll have my number.” He
turns on the charm in his eyes and I don’t know if it’s him or the alcohol, but
I’m slightly swooning.

Needing to interject some reality back into the situation I
ask him how old he is. He doesn’t hesitate to tell me he’s thirty-six years
young. I choke on his answer, but it doesn’t take away from his incredible good
looks and the way my body is now buzzing from his proximity.

“So what brings you out tonight? Unless you get dressed up
like this,” gesturing to my dress, “to chase away the pain.”

“Actually,” I chuckle, “it’s my birthday!”

I think I see anger flash behind his eyes, but it’s rapidly
replaced with mischief, I may be mistaken.

He takes this moment to answer the calls and gestures from
his buddies still hanging out at the bar. I explain that I’ll be joining my
friends at our tables if he and his would like to join us.

A few minutes pass and the waitress brings over a couple
bottles of Cristal Rose, followed by Johnny and his friends. We’re exchanging
introductions when I realize Mazzy is M-I-A. I’m standing and looking around
the group in confusion.

Johnny wraps his arm around my waist and gestures with the
free one towards the stage. There on the stage is Mazzy. “Ladies and gentlemen,
my name is Mazzy, and I’m going to sing happy birthday to my best friend,
Izzy.”

After her Marilyn Monroe-esque breathy rendition of the
birthday song, Johnny pours our now large group a round of the champagne he had
sent over. We settle into a friendly banter, while some of us take turns
singing on stage. They make last call and a rather loud and collective groan
comes from the group at our tables.

Knowing there’s more than a twenty-minute cab ride home in
my future, I excuse myself to use the restroom. On my exit, I’m surprised by
Johnny. His eyes say he’s ready to pounce, but his composure is nothing but
relaxed.