“Why do you wear white heels all the time? Is it an Italian fashion statement or something?”
She froze for a moment, before her shoulders dropped and her eyes glazed over.
“Orlando and my mother, Aviela, fought often when I was a child. I was young, but even I knew something was wrong. On the outside they put on a show of this happy, well-off couple, but really, my mom was living in a different wing of the house. She even spent most of her time in Italy. Sometimes, after her fights with my father, I wouldn’t see her for weeks. When they were young and fell for each other hard, my father didn’t want to lose her, so he only told her about what he did for a living after they were married.” She frowned, drinking from the bottle again.
“Shit.” There was no way a relationship in our lives could work if we didn’t make it clear who we were from the get go.
“Yep.” She shook her head. “From what I gathered, my mom was a hippie. She hated violence, and like all hippies, she protested. My grandparents wouldn’t let her get a divorce, and so she wore white gloves. Basically, she was telling Orlando every time he saw her that her hands were clean. She told him if he could go a week without killing, she would take them off and he could touch her. But it never happened. My father turned to whores, pretending they were her, and she fell in love with her bodyguard. However, she was pregnant with me, and my father told me that she miscarried once while they were dating, so she didn’t want to risk anything the second time around. They tried to stick it out for my sake, but Orlando finally gave up trying to win her over and they agreed to let me spend holidays with him. It was like that until the plane crash.”
“And so you wear the white shoes . . .”
“Because my hands aren’t clean, but . . .” She half smiled. “When I see them, I think of her and I don’t feel like I never had a mother. I just see a woman with white gloves.”
“That’s . . .”
“Really weird I know. That’s something no one knew about me but Orlando, but you asked.”
I cupped the side of her face. “It is odd, but it makes sense to me. I didn’t realize it was so deep. I wouldn’t have asked.”
“No, you would have most likely looked into it behind my back.” She shook her head. “I’d rather get all the skeletons out now while we are both civil and sexually satisfied.”
I smirked at that. “I’m not sexually satisfied yet.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Relax, tiger. Tell me about you.”
Grabbing the wine, I took a deep breath before knocking back a drink. She went deep into her past and shared something no one alive knew, with the exception being me. She trusted me. I would have to trust her. I just didn’t know how to start.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to, Mel,” I said softly. “I want to, and I will. I haven’t traveled this deep in me for a long time.”
“Is it about your childhood?” she asked, and I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. “I don’t know anything other than that you were sick once and tormented for it.”
I started slowly. “I was born a twin. Evelyn was on her way to a fundraiser with my brother when one of Vance’s people drove them off the road and into a tree. The driver was able to get Neal out, but Evelyn went into labor and couldn’t move. When the paramedics came and got her she, was already pushing my sister out. But she never cried, or even took a breath, and when they got to the hospital I was stuck. They had to pull, and because of that my shoulder was broken. My heart and lungs weren’t fully developed yet, and I barely even cried. It was more like I was gasping for air. They didn’t think I was going to make it, but I did. However my growth, weight, and speech were stunted, and on top of it I was blessed with clubfeet.”
For some odd reason, even though I didn’t remember it, I always felt a pain in my shoulder when I thought about it.
“Evelyn went into a deep depression, and as much as she loved me, she couldn’t look at me without seeing her dead baby girl in her hands, so she stayed away. In all honesty, my earliest memory of her isn’t until I was maybe twelve. It was my father who spent most of his time with me at the hospital. Over the years, he read articles from the paper and would tell me how important my future was while the doctors did tests and I went through treatment. I remember him losing his shit at doctors once . . . or twice. All that reading and teaching he did stuck with me, though. By the time I could finally leave the hospital and go to school, I was well beyond any twelve-year-old. One moment I was at Saint John’s Hospital, the next I was Northside College Preparatory High School with Neal, who had a reputation as a badass.” I laughed at the memory. Students almost shit themselves when Neal was pissed at them.
“He was captain of the football team, a wrestler, and played hockey and every other sport that let him destroy guys for fun. So naturally, I looked up to him, but in school he stayed away from me. I, shaky legs and all, tried out for the football team only to have balls thrown at my back. The coach took pity on me and made me the water boy. One day, some of Neal’s friends pushed me down a flight of stairs before putting me in a locker with their dirty clothes. Neal didn’t know I was there. He just walked in when his friends were pissing on my clothes and told them to chill out, that I was my father’s favorite and he would have to deal with my mental shit later. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t. I hadn’t taken my medication that morning and ended up having a seizure in the fucking locker.” I almost wanted to laugh because it was so fucked up.
“I was shaking so badly that the locker shook with me in it, and the coach found me. I ended up in the hospital with my mom crying and praying over me. I had been in a coma for a week, and she promised God she would be a better mother if he just made me healthy. They ran tests, gave me drugs. Declan, who had spent most of his time to himself after his parents died, came to me and told me they burned down the house of the fucker who put me in the locker. Neal and I don’t take trips down memory lane. I think I got better in spite of him.”
I had almost forgotten she was sitting across from me when she handed me the bottle of wine again.
It wasn’t better than brandy, but it was good enough.
“Okay, you win most depressing childhood. You should have cut his dick off and shoved it down his throat.” I coughed as I took a drink, before smiling at her.
“I was twelve.”
She shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck. Neal’s dick and the fucker’s dick, or anyone else who was there, would have to live with it, the assholes.”
She didn’t know it, but for someone who didn’t know how to love, she was sure doing a good job.
“Noted.” She was the best thing in my life, and it only took three fucking days. She made me excited for the future.
“Now I don’t feel bad for shooting Neal,” she replied, falling back on the bed, and I allowed my eyes to wander up her legs, then her thighs and her stomach before reaching her breasts.
“Did you ever feel bad?” I asked her, pushing the tray of wine and food off the bed and onto the floor. It shattered, and I knew it would make a huge mess, but I didn’t give a fuck. I just wanted my wife.
She watched me as I rose above her.
“What were the files for?”
I had forgotten all about them. Grabbing her back, I pulled her up against me. “First pleasure, then work.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” she replied, wrapping her legs around my waist.
“We make our own rules from now on, Mrs. Callahan.” I kissed her forehead, cupping her ass and thrusting into her tight pussy. Her lips went straight to my neck.
“Rule number one. After, or during, our meetings and chats we make sure to fuck each other’s brains out.” I slammed into her. “Agreed?”