Life Before Damaged Vol. 8 (The Ferro Family) (4 page)

H
is blue eyes
study my face, and I wish he wasn’t going to turn back into pumpkin Pete at daylight. I like this side of him, the way he’s confident and vulnerable at the same time. He’s honest with me and with himself. It’s rare and I had no idea how deep these waters ran within him. That’s why I blurted out there’s more. I thought I knew the depths of him, but every time I think I’ve found the bottom, he goes deeper.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

He looks up at me, hopeful and hesitant. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m guessing you have books full of poems you wrote. You probably wrote them at all hours, through all things. I doubt the pages are pristine and perfectly white. They probably are smudged, written in emotional turmoil, and maybe some are stained with tears. Maybe." I smile at him carefully, quickly. “Writers tend to hide their hearts, don’t they?”

He nods. “I suppose so.”

The corner of my mouth pulls up.

“It seems dancers do the same thing—hide their hearts.”

“Will you show me one day? One of your poems?” I try to catch his eye. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t have asked, but the other part is jumping up and down like an 8-year-old on a trampoline.

Pete shakes his head and looks down to the floor, breaking all eye contact with me. His fingers toy with the frayed ends of satin at the tips of my shoes. "I never said I write poetry."

"Yes, you did. You said that—”

"No." His rebuttal is short and sharp, so unlike his earlier confessions. I should stop. I'm pushing his buttons, but I'm tired of this chasm between us.

"Why?” I demand, annoyed with him.

“Why what?”

“Why do you pretend to be someone you’re not? Why do you deny that you write? So what if people know?”

“I have my reasons.” His walls jut up, and form turrets this time. I know I've lost the sentimental poet. For a brief moment, I had a friend in this empty, hollow house, but I'm back to being alone.

I rub my arms over my nightshirt, to ward off the sudden chill in the air. “I’m sorry I asked. You shared a personal moment with me, so I thought...”

He grins. “Yeah, personal for you maybe.”

“You know what? Never mind." Hurt, I pick up my shoes and tie them together neatly. Once a fucking Ferro, always a fucking Ferro. Rules don't apply to them, or rather, they live by their own set of rules and, no matter who you are, there's no getting around it. It's only then that I notice Pete is still fully clothed, even though it’s the middle of the night. "Why are you up at this hour, anyway?” I immediately regret asking. I don’t want to know what he’s been up to and, with his arrogant mask on, he’ll be all too willing to describe his adventures in great, explicit detail. I toss my shoes into my dance bag and zip it up.

“Are you kidding?" Pete looks at me skeptically, then, when he sees my confused expression, continues in a gentle tone. "Gina, your room is across the hall from mine; I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you’ve arrived. Do you scream like that every night?”

Oh. My. God. My heart drops into my feet and I can’t move. I can’t breathe. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I understand. It’s okay.” Pete is quiet for a moment and he can tell I’m ready to bolt.

The thing is, I can’t share that. Nightmares are so real and so terrifying. If he laughs and says it’s nothing, I couldn’t hold myself together anymore.

As if on cue, Pete says, “You don’t trust me. I haven’t given you reason to, it’s just that—if I can do something…” He watches me standing there and gets up so he’s in front of me. Pete catches my eye. “I will. You sound terrified and I can’t help but feel it’s my fault.”

Damn it! I want to cry. I want to scream, throw my arms around his neck, and cry—but I do nothing. I just stand there and stare blankly. I refuse to speak because my voice will betray me. It’s so late and I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore tonight. “I need to go to bed.” I offer a weak smile and start to turn away.

Pete reaches for my arm, brushes his fingers against my elbow, but doesn’t hold on. His hand drops back to his side, like he shouldn’t touch me. “You don’t have any weekend classes, do you?”

I look down at his hand and then back into his eyes. “No, I don’t.”

“All right then, I have an idea.” Giving me a cocky grin, he bends down and lifts me up by the waist like I weigh no more than a feather. I yelp and squirm. His hold on my waist tickles. If I laugh, I'll wake up the entire mansion.

He sets me on my feet and looks down at me with a smug look of superior Ferro-ness. “Get to bed, Miss Granz, and try to get some sleep. Come and find me in the morning. I’m taking you out on a date.”

“Me? On a date with
THE
Pete Ferro? That’s kind of lowering my standards. I have a classy, wholesome image to maintain, you know, and associating with you might give people the wrong impression.”

“I may have to duct tape that sassy mouth of yours shut one day. The way I see it, smartass, you’re the one lowering my standards. I'm hot, and you're-” I put a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"If you value anything south of your belt, I suggest you not finish that sentence. I may be small, but I have pointy knees, and I'm not afraid to use them."

Pete removes my finger from his lips, kissing it lightly. "Temper, temper, Miss Granz. You didn't let me finish. I was going to say,
one cool chick
."

We stand toe-to-toe, Pete looking down at me with mischief in his eyes, one eyebrow raised, waiting to see how I'll reply. He's giving me emotional whiplash, but I like his playful side.

“Listen, I appreciate your generosity, but you don’t have to do this. I don’t want your pity, and you have better things--er--hotter chicks to do. I'm actually tired of feeling like a thorn in your sexy side, so unless this is part of your mother’s plan to give us more cuddly couple exposure in the public eye--”

He smirks. “You think I have a sexy side?”

I shake my head, smiling and gently beat him with my ballet slippers. Pete grabs my wrists on the second swing. “She’ll probably have us followed by the media but no, this is not her idea, and I don't pity you. I’m actually kind of scared of you sometimes, especially when you're holding shoes.”

“Really?” We laugh for a moment and I forget everything that’s been bothering me. Pete is smiling fondly, revealing a dimple in his cheek. The dusting of stubble is heavier than usual and I have to resist the urge to touch his face and feel it under my palms.

“Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning for our first date.”

Pete walks into the hallway and turns the corner, heading toward his wing and our rooms. I steal a glance at one of the ornate floor-to-ceiling mirrors. For the first time since I've moved in, there’s a smile on my face.

P
ete must read
Esquire
magazine
, because damn—he looks completely edible in his black tight tee and perfectly worn jeans. That dark hair is casually combed, begging to be touched. The dusting of stubble on his chin is gone which makes me want to touch his face and slide my fingers over his smooth skin. When I get close to him, his scent hits me hard and I feel intoxicated. It’s the perfect casual-not-trying combo to get laid. Maybe Pete writes articles for that magazine.

Add in his choice of transportation and I could seriously swoon. We got here on his motorcycle. I love the rush that comes with the speed and wind in my face. Pete took the corners hard, leaning the bike further than I thought possible. I clung to his firm body, plastering myself against him and went with it. My heart raced the entire time and I couldn’t stop laughing. Pete heard everything through the headset and I don’t care. I’m not ashamed of letting other people see my emotions, not anymore. For the longest time I thought people would use them against me. Now my mantra has changed and can be summarized in two little words:

Fuck it.

Pete grabs my hand and pulls me across the street in the center, rushing across before another wave of vehicles plows us down. Horns blare around us as the city bakes in the afternoon sun. The light reflects off the glass windows and forms patches of shadow and light on the concrete. Steam billows up from a subway vent as he speeds down the sidewalk.

My guard is dropped. He’s done nothing to make it return after last night. It’s weird. This is the Pete that I thought existed, but I never thought I’d see him in daylight. It’s like watching Dracula dancing in the sun in Times Square—it’s weird and totally unimaginable—whether it’s the real vampire or an actor prancing around in a cape. It’s the kind of thing you have to see to totally understand. And here I am, seeing and believing. I was right. The other version of Pete is an echo compared to the man standing next me.

When my feet are planted firmly on the opposite curb, I laugh. “You lunatic.”

Pete gives me that trademark look—that lopsided grin and glittering blue eyes—and teases, “I would have thought you’d like playing Frogger for real.”

I choke on my laugh and it comes out like a snort. “Frogger! How old
are
you?”

Pete gets a bashful look on his face and glances at me out of the corner of his eye. He motions for me to follow him. “Sean was into vintage crap at one point. We had an Atari, Coleco, and the first version of Pong.”

“Oh! Pong!” My voice is light, teasing.

Pete nods and shakes his head. “Can you even imagine Sean playing Pong?”

I think about it for a second and laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s the biggest oxymoron ever. Badass Sean Ferro playing with his balls.”

Pete stops in his tracks and raises a single brow while giving me an incredulous look. “Wow, so you have a thing for my brother’s balls, do you?”

“Not his balls. Those are all dangly and hairy. Talk to me about the rest of him and this conversation will be a little bit different.” I say it seriously because everyone knows his brother is hot—and crazy.

Pete watches my face for a second to see if there’s anything there—anything I’m not telling him. “Sean is…I don’t know. Sometimes I want to punch him in the face and make him wake up. Nightmares don’t vanish on their own. You have to chase them off and make sure they don’t come back.”

He’s referring to his brother’s trial, but there’s something in his eye, like he hopes I’ll tell him why I wake up screaming every night. A chill runs down my spine thinking about the dreams, and the way they turn from soft images to burning horrors. My lips part, but I can’t force the words out. For some reason, saying it out loud makes the nightmares seem more real. I laugh nervously and smile at the backs of my hands.

Pete reaches out and laces our fingers together. He can sense my distress, I know he can, which makes me even more skittish. I wonder what he’d do if I just took off down the street at a full run? That’s the old Gina. I want to be brave and face whatever’s next, but it feels like I ate a bucket of slugs.

Pete slightly drops his head to the side and catches my gaze. “Are you hungry? Because I know a great place—it’s right over here.”

I nod, thankful that he doesn’t press me. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Pete and I walk over to a restaurant. When we step inside, there’s no one here. I pass over the threshold and stop, but Pete walks past me, beyond the podium and calls out, “
Roberto! Sei qui?
”

Holy crap. Pete speaks Italian. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but I am. It rolls off his tongue like it’s his first language. I blink away my shock and smile at him when he looks over his shoulder at me. A moment later a short, dark skinned man emerges from the back. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down shirt. His head is shiny like he was standing over a boiling pot. As soon as he sees Pete, he grins and throws open his arms. The stout guy gives Pete a bear hug and kisses his cheeks. Pete grins and the two converse in Italian for a moment with lots of smiles and back slapping.

Pete flips back to English. “Can you do it?”

Roberto nods. “
Si
,
si
.” He holds up a single finger in the air and darts away.

I cross the floor, moving around the empty tables, and head to the spot where Pete is standing. “Did you just ask him to open early for us?”

Pete looks like he might laugh. “No! Of course not.”

“Then what’d you do?”

“Nothing!” He’s close to laughing now, but I don’t know why.

I poke my finger into his side and wiggle. Pete laughs and grabs my hands and turns me toward him. “I might have asked Rob to open today just for us. The man makes a killer pizza.”

I blink at him. Then I look around. This isn’t a pizza parlor—not the greasy dollar slice kind of place. “You made him open for pizza?”

Pete presses a finger to the tip of my nose. “Yes, and when it’s ready, you’ll see why.”

“Okay,” I answer slowly, drawing out the second syllable.

Roberto appears a moment later with his black jacket complete with red carnation. He walks us to a back room that’s bathed in candle light. The walls are different from the front. Instead of the dark wood, it’s all white marble. The walls reach up about twenty feet high which is unusual for a restaurant here. A pale gold chandelier hangs above a small round table for two with posh white linens and fluffy chairs.

Roberto pulls out my seat. “
Signorina
.”

I glance at Pete and then back at Roberto. They both smile, as if they know something I don’t. I slip into my seat, and see a few more smiles before the man hurries away and I’m left alone with Pete.

He’s sitting across from me, elbow on the table, and watching me with a goofy grin on his face. “You’re going to love this.”

I put my napkin on my lap. “I already do. How did you find this place?”

“Luck.”

We chat for a little while as wine and antipasti are put on the table. I pick at the food, trying things that look familiar but different. After the plate is cleared Roberto appears with a silver serving tray held high above his head. He’s grinning so wide that his ears are sticking out.

Pete’s expression is similar. He looks as if he’s about to jump out of his chair.

“
Per te.
” Roberto says as he places the tray in front of us. He beams as he slowly removes the lid to reveal the most beautiful piece of food I’ve ever seen.

Pete claps, twice loudly. “
Grazi
! It’s beautiful! Gina, have you ever seen a better pie?”

I stare at it. This is man porn. It’s an entire pizza pie that’s fifty shades of gold. The golden crust has been brushed with it, the pepperoni have been draped in it, and the sauce—it’s pale yellow. There are golden tomatoes mixed in with the yummiest looking cheeses ever. “Wow. Is that? Is it gold?”

Roberto is so proud he’s ready to bust. Hands behind his back, he rocks up on his toes and explains. “23 karat gold leaf on the crust, Parisian cheeses, and Italian pepperoni. It’s the Ferro specialty.” He withdraws, still smiling as Pete grabs a slice and hands it to me on a white plate.

I start laughing. He looks up, worried. “What? Is this bad?”

“No, it’s perfect. It’s Peter Ferro, all grown up, but not. It’s perfect, Pete. It really is. And if you tell me that you don’t take any of your lady friends here, I may swoon on the spot.”

He points a finger at me and says, “Don’t mock me until you taste it. I don’t do things half way.”

“No kidding.” Smiling, I lift the slice to my mouth and take a bite. The corners of my mouth drop instantly and I moan when the sauce, gold, bread, and cheese hit my tongue. I close my eyes for a second, and savor the taste.

When I look at Pete, he’s watching me, leaning forward until his shirt lightly brushes against his slice of pizza. “That was worth watching. I should have recorded it.”

I laugh and point at his shirt. “You have pizza on your man boobs.”

“You orgasmed while eating pizza. It was worth it.” He looks down and dabs the cheese and sauce off his shirt.

“I did not.” I look at the slice and want another bite, but that cheese is so perfect and the sauce makes the flavors explode in my mouth. Add in the bling and it’s too amazing for words.

“Go ahead. I won’t judge.” Pete grabs a slice and winks at me as he takes a bite.

“Fuck it.”

“That’s what she said.”

Pete looks up at me from under his lashes with that crooked grin on his lips. I can’t help it, I laugh. Today has been unexpectedly wonderful.