Ward H Life before Damaged 6

LIFE BEFORE DAMAGED, VOLUME 6 THE FERRO FAMILY

H. M. WARD LAREE BAILEY PRESS

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author ’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2015 by H.M. Ward All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form. LAREE BAILEY PRESS First Edition: May 2015 ISBN: 978-1-63035-071-0

LIFE BEFORE DAMAGED

VOLUME 6

THE AFTERMATH

AUGUST 17TH, 2:41PM

"WHAT?" “NO!” I hear Pete and myself yelling in unison. While Pete steps menacingly toward Constance, I drop my mother's hand and shoot from my chair like a jack-in-the-box. "There is no way in Hell I'm engaged to, to... to HIM!" I jab my thumb in Pete's direction. He turns his back to us, running his hands through his hair in frustration. My shock turns to anger; it hits my body fast and hard, making me shake with rage. It feels like flames are shooting from my eyes and smoke is venting through my ears. “Why me? Why is this my consequence? I’m a good girl who made one stupid choice. One! And now I’m engaged to the biggest man-whore in existence!” “Hey,” Pete snaps and I realize I spoke out loud. My eyes dart up and I stare at Pete. Just moments ago, I realized I cared for him. Just moments ago, I'd defended him. Just moments ago, I’d been certain he wasn’t the reckless asshat he pretends to be, the guy who does

nothing but fight and fuck. I’d sworn to myself I’d never let him play me again, but he did. That night in his room, the next day riding his motorcycle, all his tenderness, his soft affection—it was all lies. He convinced me he was a good man. He convinced me to care for him. He deceived me. “Suck it, Ferro.” We stay like that, gazes locked in a non-verbal yelling match. I swear to God, I can hear him screaming inside his head, yelling at me to shut it and stop being a spoiled brat. I think some nasty thoughts back at him, and he flinches in response. “If looks could kill--” “You’d be dead,” I interrupt. My jaw locks as my heart slams against my ribs. I'm suddenly terrified and my body is betraying me; the shaking and sweating are giving me away. This can’t be real. I can’t marry him. Mrs. Ferro strolls slowly away from Pete and sits back down in her chair, regally, as if it were a throne. "Miss Granz, if you feel the need to change the terminology, let us call it what it truly is for the time being: a betrothal. You are committed to becoming engaged to my son." “That’s not better! Reframing crap doesn’t make it art!” I glare at her, not backing down under her probing

gaze. I confess: I agreed to host that idiotic, neoncolored, glow-in-dark, fluff-fest, setting my fate in motion. Since then, I've helplessly watched the remaining pieces of my old life crash into each other, one-by-one ensuring my destruction. I did this to myself. I need to stop this catastrophic chain before it destroys me. I can’t stay tethered to a man who lies to my face. It kills me when I think it—I wanted to believe him; I wanted Pete’s affection to be real. Desperately, I try to find a flaw in her plan, some loophole, some way for me to keep my freedom and for my family to keep the company. I can’t marry Pete. I’ll end up being his mother, cold and calculating, seemingly without any feeling in my heart. I don’t want to be that. If we get married, Pete will spend his time openly screwing other women and I'll be expected to look the other way. I’m not that woman. My father sits a little bit straighter in his chair and startles us with the sound of his voice. “Your terms are agreeable. Where do I sign?” He slaps both hands on his desk and refuses to look at me. I toss aside every ounce of dignity and beg. "Daddy! No! Please! Don’t do this!” I rush to his desk and try to catch his gaze, but he acts as if I’m not there. My heart beats once before it

cracks. He’s going to do it; he’s going to sell me off to the Ferros to save his company.

ILLUMINATION

AUGUST 17TH, 2:53PM

A bored voice comes from behind us. “Don’t worry, Miss Granz. Your father has no legal power to make this decision.” When I turn to look at her, Mrs. Ferro's demeanor remains unchanged. Her expression is stone cold, emotionless. I round on her instead. “Why do this to your own son? He’ll be miserable with me!” Pete tries to shush me, but I won’t shut up. He’s still livid, but something is off. The thing is, I’m too pissed off to figure out what it is. “How can you knowingly subject your child to a lifetime of unhappiness?” Constance’s expression sharpens. “I am not the one who set the fire. I am not the one who broke into the property. I am not the party responsible for a death, and I will not be the one who takes the blame. You, on the other hand, should shoulder this burden until you die, because—and make no mistake about it—this was your fault. Without the warehouse, there could have been no party, no fire, and no death. The police want a scapegoat, Miss Granz, and—”

“Enough,” Pete says, cutting her off. It’s one word, but it weighs so much. The room is filled with silence as my mother ’s eyes dart between every person present. She’s fallen mute, powerless. Constance raises an eyebrow at him, then carefully glances back to me. She raises her hands so they are right below her chin and presses the pads of her fingers together. She thinks there's something between Pete and me. “You’re wrong, so stop thinking it,” I blurt out. I’m seething, ready to punch her if she says it out loud. For some reason, I think she can see through me. I feel like she knows how much Pete hurt me and I can’t stand it. Constance's hands float serenely down to the arms of her throne and her plastic smile returns. She’s freaking creepy. If she were born a hundred years ago, the villagers would have tossed her into the river to see if the witch floats. She wouldn't have, though. Pure evil sinks, or so I hear. “My dear girl," Constance resumes in her former tone, "you haven’t the slightest understanding of my thoughts. I will, however, illuminate this situation for you in the hope of clearing the animosity you feel to make way for your educated decision. The company is, of course, already under my control, and both you and Peter are of legal age. Your father has no legal say in this matter. This decision is for you and Peter to make. If you both agree to my proposal, all your worries are

eliminated. No criminal file, no jail time, and Granz Textiles remains safe under Ferro ownership. Peter will become the owner of the company on your wedding day, and when your first child is of age, the company will pass to him or her. Our future Granz-Ferro grandchild will have quite the legacy once DNA paternity testing confirms the child is, indeed, Peter ’s, of course. But that’s a small formality.” She waves her hand, brushing off that last part as if it were a normal part of marriage. “Honestly, Miss Granz, I can’t fathom why someone like you is not jumping at this offer. Women are literally begging for a chance to wed a Ferro. In agreeing to my proposal, you’ll be marrying a multibillionaire and ensuring the future of your family's company. There’s nothing to dislike.” “Of course. Silly me.” My tone is even and sharp, punctuating my evident sarcasm. “Temper your tongue, Miss Granz. A woman in your position has little choice. Everyone here knows it. Your biggest ally remains silent. That alone should tell you something.” My biggest ally? I briefly consider my mother being Mrs. Ferro's first choice for that role, then doubt myself. My gaze cuts sideways in Pete’s direction. He’s silently raging. Those beautiful eyes shine a brilliant blue. His knuckles are pure white from holding his

hands in tight fists for so long. The muscles at the top of his jaw are twitching as if he’s about to snap someone in half. But those lips have hardly spoken, and that mouth isn’t countering a thing. Pete sits silently, a bomb waiting to blow. “It’s your choice, Miss Granz.” Constance puts me on the spot. All eyes turn expectantly toward me. What do I do? Whatever decision I make will have monumental consequences for everyone in this room. My stomach heaves, queasy with the responsibility. As if she can hear my thoughts, my mother stands up and walks toward me. She takes my hand and gives it a little comforting rub with her thumb. I smell the faint scent of her perfume and instantly recall other moments in my life when she held my hand and helped guide me through my decision. “Regina, we all make mistakes," she looks to my Dad. He must feel the weight of her stare because he just turns his head more in the opposite direction. Far be it for him to ever admit any mistakes of his own, much less in front of this company. "We all have things to atone for, but this is your choice, your chance to do what you feel is right. No matter how much I wish I could help you, the choice remains yours. Lord knows I'm not qualified to offer advice on these matters. However, I love you and will stand by you, whatever your decision.” I give her a weak smile and gently squeeze her hand. Dad snorts, obviously in discord with Mom’s point

of view and my heart cracks again. My father's dismissal hurts beyond words, but having my mother standing by my side makes me feel stronger. To the casual observer, Mom seems weak, overly dutiful and compliant to others, always bending to my father ’s will, but I know her better than that. Inside, she’s a rock. I hope I possess at least a tiny portion of her strength to stand firm when things go to crap. This mess began with one selfish decision. It's clear to me that now is the time to behave selflessly. I just want to help those I’ve hurt. Obliterating everything my parents worked for helps no one. Letting go of Mom’s hand I give her a small nod and I walk over to Pete, trying to swallow the sour taste of bile in my throat. I look into his scorn-filled eyes and take one of his hands in mine, rubbing my thumb over fresh scars on his knuckles. His scorn quickly morphs into something unidentifiable. I wish I could read his eyes, but I can’t. The look he gives me is pleading, like I should turn my back and walk away. The thing is, I can’t. I’ve done horrible things and it’s time to pay for my mistakes. It’ll be a lifetime of heartache. He’ll have his gaggle of mistresses, just as his father does. There will be no love, no respect, no alliance of two people facing the world together. Every notion of marriage I ever had does not apply to us. There’s a deafening rush in my ears as my pulse

races faster. “Don’t do this, Gina,” Pete whispers in a breath so softly that only I can hear. I don’t look at him. I can’t. I’ve decided. Still holding Pete’s stiff hand, I take a deep breath and turn back to Mrs. Ferro. “I accept.”

I HEART PONIES

AUGUST 17TH, 3:02PM

P ete stands abruptly and pulls me toward the door. “Please excuse us for a moment.” Though he uses polite words, they don't sound pleasant. In fact, he’s practically growling. His hand is suddenly grasping mine so tightly it cuts off my circulation. He yanks me through the doorway and slams the door shut behind us, making me yelp. The paintings hung on the wall shake with the force of the slamming door. Dropping my hand, he paces up and down the hall twice, running his fingers through his hair and clenching his jaw over and over again. It’s as if he is trying to say something but instead bites the words back. Before stomping toward me in those big bad biker boots, he swallows hard and plasters an annoyed smile on his face. Pete looks down at me, his eyes in narrow slits. As I massage the blood back into my hand, a sense of déjà vu passes through me. I've been in this exact same hallway, looking into those exact same pissed off eyes. He leans in and lowers his voice, making sure that

they won’t hear us, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Gina?” I will myself to be taller as I rise up on my toes and stare into his blazing blue eyes. “Exchanging one hellish engagement for another," I whisper-yell at him. "Trying to save my ass. Trying to do what's right. What does it look like I’m doing?” Defensively, I fold my arms across my chest, holding myself tightly. If I don’t, my hand is going to fly. Not the story I want to tell my kids later on... 'On the day your Dad agreed to marry me, I slapped the everloving crap out of him.' Kids. My stomach flips. They’ll expect us to have children. I've always wanted children, but not like this, not in this family. I blink back tears, hiding my heart from the man in front of me. Pete’s eyes travel up and down my body like he’s assessing a beat-up crap car that’s not worth a cent. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just like my mother said. Maybe you’re trying to score big by trading in your impoverished doctor for a multi-billionaire.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “A long line of women want that title right now, and I intend to sample each and every one of them before making my decision.” His hot breath washes over me as he speaks, but his words feel like ice cutting through my skin. That was brutally straightforward. At least honesty won’t be an

issue. Despite all the horrible truths I now know about him, I still feel an ache in my chest with each new rejection. I’m already torn in half and his words fall like salt on a wound. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ferro!" I shove a finger into his chest. "I couldn't care less about your family, name, or fortune! Anthony was a better man than you’ll ever be and that bastard stabbed me in the back." Peter flinches when I mention Anthony, but I don't let myself get distracted. I shove his chest, hard, trying to push him away with both actions and words. "Do you seriously think that I like the idea of being someone’s wife only on paper? Do you think I'll enjoy how people will snigger behind my back, whispering, 'Poor, dumb Regina. Does she know I fucked her husband last night?' I’m only doing this to protect my family from further embarrassment and to stay out of jail. It has nothing to do with you. And yes, I said fuck. See? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I stand on my tiptoes and snap the words off one by one until I’m breathing hard and beyond furious. I didn’t want this. None of it. Pete’s still staring me down, but he’s not smirking, the way I thought he would--in fact, he almost looks hurt. I drop my trembling voice to a whisper and move in closer to him. I put a hand on his shoulder and whisper to make sure no one else can hear. “Pete, if we don’t both agree to do this, we both go

to jail. Maybe you’re fine with being someone’s bitch, but I sure as hell am not, and…” He waits for me to say it, but I can’t. My bottom lip curls as I try to blink back the tears. “And, what?” I glance up at him. “And, I don’t want to pee in front of everyone. I can’t even pee in public restrooms, let alone in front of felons.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I deserve it. I know I do. The whole thing was my fault. Your mom is right. Maybe I should just go to the cops and tell them it was me. My Dad hates me anyway, and it’ll clear you. Then we can both go our separate ways, and—” “Don’t you dare.” His voice is calm and even. “Things don’t work like that and you know it. Besides, you’re right. You’re not cut out for prison.” He looks down at my shoulder and lifts a lock of hair. He watches it slip between his fingers then turns away. Pete walks silently in circles with his brow wrinkled tight, ticking off his fingers like he’s onto something and then shaking his head as if tossing a failed idea away. Then, with a burst of pent up rage, he pounds his fist into the wall next to me. A nearby painting falls to the ground with a crash. My heart slams into my chest, but I don’t jump. He presses his back against the wall and slumps down to the ground, his head in his hands, elbows

resting on his knees. It’s the perfect pose of the defeated man. I watch him, the moments ticking by as his shoulders slowly rise and fall, and his breathing calms. Keeping his gaze downward, he speaks sadly. “This isn’t right, either.” “We don’t have much of a choice.” “I can’t give you happy ever after, Gina. I’m not that kind of a guy.” That’s the last thing I expected him to say. He’s taking this seriously? I exhale deeply and lower myself to the ground beside him, my knees bumping his. “I get that, I do, but I won't sacrifice my family to the consequences of my stupid mistakes. I’m not that kind of a person.” Pete turns his head to look at me, incredulously, pointing at the door of Dad’s study. “Why are you so hell-bent on saving that man’s reputation? He was ready to disown you.” I shake my head. He just doesn’t get it. I don't know that I'd feel the same way or make the same choice had I grown up in a family like his. He may not be able to understand, but I have to try to explain. “He’s my dad, Pete. He and I may not be in a good place right now, but there was a time not too long ago when he would have done anything for me. I can't forget the things he's said or done recently, but I can most definitely forgive, given enough time.

"Right now, he’s pissed and rightfully so. I deceived him. I lied to his face and used his private property for something illegal. He's furious and I deserve every bit of his anger. While he may have gone a tad menopausal in there, he’s still my father. I can’t turn my back on that. Besides, he's not the only person my decision affects. My mother doesn’t deserve this shame, either. I’d do anything for her. Even if it means--” "Even if it means marrying me and spending the rest of your life miserable?” “What can I say?" I shrug. "No woman aspires to land a cheating husband who spends his time beating people to a bloody pulp. Well, at least not the sane ones.” I smile at him and bump our shoulders together. Pete lets out a rush of breath and tilts his head toward the ceiling. He looks so tired, drained of his usual spark. “Hey. Marrying you isn't all that bad. It's way better than serving a jail sentence with a toothless tattooed dominatrix as my cellmate. You're way cuter to look at, too; she’s butt-ugly.” He smiles a little, but it fades too fast, so I keep going. “We’re talking massive chin hair. She can't pluck 'em either 'cuz tweezers aren’t allowed in our cell. And I'm pretty sure the 'I Heart Ponies' tattoo across her chest doesn't refer to her love of equestrian sports.” I shudder exaggeratedly. Pete lets out a laugh and shakes his head.

“I heart ponies? Your argument for marriage is that I’m better looking than your imaginary cellmate? Um, thanks... I guess.” He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Most women want to marry me for my money, or my looks, or my, well, um." Pete scratches his head and looks down, sheepish. "Well, let's just say that the arguments in my favor are many, but that one never came up once.” Pete shakes his head again, unable to believe what I just said. “Toothless?” I nod, smiling. “Uh-huh and she wears a strap-on, too. Huge one. So, yeah, I’m not going anywhere near her prison cell.” I wiggle my butt on the floor to make my point. Toothless’ strap-on isn't going anywhere near me. Seeing him smile a lopsided smile, albeit a strained one, helps loosen the vice around my chest. Maybe this whole situation will be tolerable after all. We just have to manage to act civil around each other instead of wanting to rip each other ’s heads off all the time. Seeing the turmoil in his eyes makes my heart mourn the idea of the man I thought he was. I refuse to become a cold-hearted bitch, but I can’t be the naïve love-struck little girl waiting for Prince Charming to come save me, either. That’s not my fate. Before I get too wrapped up in my foolish feelings, I slap my hands on my thighs. “Well, this is just dandy, but I'm ready to know what kind of life I’m going to be living for the next forever.”

I push myself up and stand. Glancing over my shoulder, I look down at Pete, who's still sitting on the ground. “I’ll give you a moment to make your decision.” I walk past him, heading for the office. Pete puts a hand on one of my ankles, stopping me, still looking at the floor. “You’re really willing to sacrifice your happiness and your future for the sake of your family?” I nod and reply, “In a heartbeat.” Pete looks up, his eyes questioning. “Why?” “Because that’s what you do when you love someone that much. You stand by them and try to protect them—come hell or high water—or both. Why else?” I open the door to the office and sit next to my mother, taking her hand in mine. My fate is now in Pete’s hands.

AND THEY LIVED MISERABLY EVER AFTER

AUGUST 17TH, 3:45PM

A fter what feels like hours, Pete finally comes back into the room, takes the seat next to his mother and whispers something in her ear. They begin a quietly heated conversation and, try as I may, I can’t hear a single thing. Can this be more dramatic? My heart is thumping like a flat tire. I swear to God, my ribs are going to explode. I kind of hope a bone shard hits Connie in the face. Why is Pete fighting with her? What’s he saying? It’s clear that he’s trying to sway her, but sway her to what? There’s no way that woman will leave this room without us agreeing to this wedding, so what could Pete stand to gain from protesting like this? Pete doesn’t look at me. Instead, he presses his lips together and shakes his head. His arms fold over his chest as his eyes narrow to slits. He’s said something and is waiting for his mother to reply. Finally, Mrs. Ferro straightens in her chair and turns to address us, legs crossed and fingers laced together, wrapping around her knee.

“Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Either way, I’m glad we've settled this peacefully. I do abhor unnecessary conflict.” No one believes that. Mrs. Ferro loves fighting. Actually, she loves verbally castrating her opponent. “I have agreement papers you'll need to sign today and a timeline both of you will respect from now until your wedding. After the wedding, we will follow an already drafted prenuptial agreement.” I want to slump in my chair with relief, but I don’t move. I keep my hands in my lap and a polite smile on my face. I’m not going to jail and we keep Granz Textiles in the family tree. Mrs. Ferro pulls additional documents from her briefcase and drones on about the trivial details of our agreement. I’m only barely aware of what she says, struggling to come to grips with the abrupt turn my life has taken. I keep looking around for hidden cameras, wondering if I’m on some prank reality TV show or soap opera. Observing the lack of half-naked people making out in a hot tub, I decide this can't be reality TV. Among her jabber, Constance specifies that her nephew Logan will replace Anthony as the head medical advisor for the medical grade fabrics project. My father objects loudly, but Mrs. Ferro smoothly handles his protests, which doesn’t sit well with him at all. Not only has he lost his company, his golden boy, and control of

his pet project, but I've also turned him into a puppet for Constance Ferro. Craptastic. Pete quietly stares out the window, completely detached. I guess we’re both in shock. My stomach flips unpleasantly every time Constance refers to our firstborn child and the details of his or her inheritance of Granz Textiles. I don’t want to have a child with Pete. No baby of mine will ever be a Ferro. While I desperately want to keep the company my ancestors founded within the Granz lineage, having a baby with Pete means having sex with him. I’m not sure I can do that. His touch toys with my emotions and in light of what came out today, I don't want his hands--or any of his other parts, for that matter--anywhere near me. Pete may not associate sex with emotion, but I do. I can't touch Pete and keep my heart intact. If I let him get close to me, I'll fall for the illusion, then I’ll break when he goes back to his mistresses. To succeed in our paper relationship, I’ll need to close my heart off completely. If Constance Ferro can do it, so can I. I am certain she has no feelings for her husband. How else could she watch him shamelessly conquer woman after woman? My mother gently nudges my elbow, freeing me from my thoughts. Constance hands us our contracts, and I thumb through my copy while she explains the

documents. “This is the schedule for Regina and Peter ’s relationship. They will be the most discussed couple in the media, all eyes will be on them at all times. We need to create a mystery around the two new lovebirds, a story everyone will be vying to hear.” “How?” My father blurts out skeptically. "Simple. People want to believe in fairytales, so we'll give them one. Peter and Regina will convince the general populace that they are madly in love with each other. Every viewer, reader, and society blogger will want to be all over it. All their dates will be public, and their smiling faces will be everywhere. The media is already well aware of Peter ’s charm. If we focus it on your daughter, it will look like the little cinder girl was plucked from the ashes.” “Gag me,” I say rolling my eyes. Pete leans in and whispers in my ear, “Later, dear.” I elbow him and notice the corner of his mouth turn up; he almost laughs but tries to hide it. “Ass.” “It is fine, isn’t it?” He speaks too loudly that time. Constance looks at him like he’s grown another limb. "Well, at least it won’t take much to make it believable.” She studies me from under those wellmanicured brows, before addressing everyone again. “We'll transform the previously planned engagement party for the little doctor into your social introduction as

a budding new couple. The official purpose of the event will be to make a public announcement of the merging of Granz Textiles into Ferro Corp. Regina, you will be devastated your boyfriend broke off your engagement and Peter, you’ll step in to console her.” “Will he be consoling anything else at the same time?” “Anything?" Pete's jaw drops. "Thing? Are you inferring that I do livestock?” I’m about to give a wiseass response when I’m cut off. “Enough, you two! This is not a game," Constance snaps. "If you want this merger to save your families you will take it seriously, and you—“ she glares at Pete, “have to keep it in your pants. No stray females of any kind.” I try not to laugh, instead smiling and nodding. When Constance looks away, I speak softly without moving my lips. “Your mom thinks you have a problem.” “I do. She’s standing right next to me.” “Just for the record, I hate you.” My eyes shift to the side and I see Pete standing there, rigidly accepting his mother ’s direction. “The feeling is mutual,” he replies a moment later. Suddenly the humor is sucked from the room. Pete and I stand in front of our parents like small children being scolded for doing something stupid. I pretend to study my nails while considering running away to

Mexico. I can’t speak Spanish very well, and odds are Connie owns some drug lords. They’d probably ship me back to my parents in three separate boxes and make them pay an import tax. Constance goes on and on, describing our lives, and what’s to come. She doesn’t stop. Every detail is deviously planned. Pete and I will have four months of courtship, during which we will show everyone how Pete saved me from a broken heart and how I saved him from his reckless ways. We’ll be acting out our fake feelings in front of cameras, making them believe we are madly in love. Our charade will lead into a very romantic and very public New Year ’s Eve engagement and culminate in a grand, early summer wedding, an event that will command the cover of every wedding magazine. All this in the pursuit of salvaging the Ferro family image from its current state of disgrace. I stare at the papers in my hands as if they’re acid, burning the skin off of my fingers. I’m holding a relationship evolution timetable, love on a spreadsheet. I think to myself: And they both lived miserably ever after.

GET OUT!

AUGUST 17TH, 4:30PM

T he instant the last documents are signed, Pete takes off without saying a word. He doesn't look my way, not even once. For a moment, I thought that he liked me. It sounds so middle school, but sometimes I catch Pete looking at me as if he wanted something more. Then he goes and acts like a caveman. When his temper is out of check, it’s scary. Why would I even want someone like him? I don’t. Which brings me to my next problem: How the hell are we supposed to pull this off? It’s obvious we can’t stand each other. Pete’s horrible mother is still talking to my mother. She lingers long after Pete exits. There’s no compassion in her voice, and it’s clear her motives are to save face and keep the Ferro name from being dragged through the mud again. It’s as if she disowned her eldest son completely. No wonder the guys in this family are so screwed up—this woman is their mother! I watch from an armchair in the corner of the room, my head resting on my hand. I've maintained this pose

long enough to have pins and needles shooting up my arm, but I’m not moving. I keep my gaze locked on Constance Ferro, directing a million laser beams at her with my eyes. I wish I had a voodoo doll. I wonder if they sell those on Amazon. Surely, I'm not the first to have the thought. I smirk, imagining an object so riddled with sharp pointies, there's not space to stick another pin. Maybe that’s why the woman acts like she’s got a stick up her ass all the time. Constance Ferro collects her papers calmly, acting as if this were any other day. She neatly tucks them away, smiles at my father and then turns to me. “I’ll be in touch with you this week, Miss Granz.” She reaches out for my hand and I stand to take it. We’re nose to nose for half a beat. My gaze narrows and I spit out the words, squeezing her hand harder as I do so. “The warehouse might be on me, but your son’s behavior is your fault. He’s in freefall and there’s nothing you can do to keep him from hitting the bottom. He’s in burn mode, too far gone to save.” Constance's lips twist into a creepy smile. She returns my handshake and yanks my arm so her lips are a breath away from my ear. “That’s where our opinions differ; I do see someone who can stop Peter before he hits bottom.” She drops my hand and steps back, before letting her gaze rake over my body once. When her eyes settle back on

my face, she adds, “Although I can’t fathom why.” My jaw drops. Her assessment of me feels like I’ve been bitch-slapped by a bear. My instinct is to fight back, but I don’t. “You’re wrong. It’s not like that.” She grins at me and shakes her head. “His blood will be on your hands, Constance, not mine. No one can stop him. Pete is going to self-destruct.” She pats my cheek like I’m a foolish child. “We’ll see, dear.” Connie looks at my father and nods once. I think my dad is going to give her the bird, but he grunt-nods in return. The woman walks out of the room and cold silence takes her place. I want to scream. The people who raised me, who love me most, did nothing to fight for me. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away. It’s my fault they turned on me, but I was confident there was nothing I could do that would decimate their love. Apparently, that’s not so. Destroying the family business was the last straw. They aren’t even upset that their precious princess caused someone’s death. They aren’t who I thought they were. I stare at my parents, alone for the first time since the truth has come out. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I start talking, I just start. “Daddy, I—” “DON’T!” He yells, raising a hand in front of him,

silencing me. In all the time I’ve known him, Daddy has never been so mad. His face is red and the vein on the side of his head is throbbing. He jabs a finger toward the door. “Don’t you dare talk to me. We have nothing more to say to one another. You’ve destroyed everything this family has built in one reckless act. How thoughtless are you, Regina? How selfish and cruel? Is this what you wanted? You destroyed this family.” It’s like he pulled a pin from a grenade. My mother interrupts him, an unprecedented action. “Reginald—” He stands and shoots a horrible look at my mother. She shivers and then looks to me, horror in her eyes. Daddy turns his back on me. “Go. Leave. Walk your sorry ass upstairs and pack your bags. I may not be able to disown you, but there is no way you are living under my roof. Get out and don’t come back. Do not come to work. I’m finished with you.” Dad turns around and storms off toward his office, the loud sounds of his anger echoing behind him. I feel like I’ve been gutted by the man I trust most. I knew he’d be mad, but I thought he’d forgive me eventually. What happened to all that unconditional love he promised? It’s gone, obliterated in a matter of seconds. My eyes prickle, and I swallow the lump suddenly lodged in my throat.

No doubt he’ll drown his anger in a bottle of scotch. I want to talk to him and make him feel better, but there’s no reasoning with him when he’s this angry. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this irate before. The thought of being tossed out on my ass feels like a bullet to the stomach. The thought of packing up and never coming back has me ready to hurl. At the same time, I know that I need to leave—for my sanity and Dad’s. If I stay here, the atmosphere will become more toxic. My parents don’t discuss things like this. They let sleeping dogs lie until the thing turns into a ravenous beast, and by then it’ll be too late. I can’t stay here and watch the people I love turn against me even more than they’ve already done. While my father has been totally clear on the subject of his idiot daughter, my mother ’s silence has me worried. I don’t want to be the wedge between her and Dad. If I go now, I might have a chance to mend things with Mom later. Thank God for hope. Mom breaks her silence and calls out to Daddy as he stomps down the hallway. “Reginald, please, she’s our daughter!” She starts to go after him, but I stop her, putting a hand on her arm and pulling her back. “Please.” The single word stills her and she looks at me with glassy eyes. “Mom, I don’t want to make this harder than it

already is—you don't have to choose sides. This is between me and Dad.” My mother ’s tear-filled eyes regard me with anguish. “I can talk to him Gina, darling. Give me a chance to calm him down. Then you can stay here while we figure this out.” I take her hand in mine. “There’s nothing to figure out. What’s done is done. I caused this mess, I’m the one who tipped the whole mess into motion, and I should be the one to take the blame. The thing is...” I pull away and let out a rush of air before shoving my hair out of my face. I sit down hard and stare at my hands as I speak. “I’d take all the blame, but I can’t. It would leave you with nothing. At least this way your livelihood remains intact and—” Mom rushes toward me and falls to her knees. She rests her hands on top of mine and then tips her head to the side to catch my eye. When I look up, she’s smiling. It’s that maternal smile, the one that is invincible, even in the darkest times. “Dear girl, don’t you know that you’re the greatest treasure I could have possibly hoped for? This means nothing to me.” She waves her hand around the room, motioning to the exquisite things and lavish décor. “I’d sell every last thing I owned if it could save you from this. I should have realized we were smothering you. It’s just that, I knew you were growing up and I didn’t want

to see you leave. The results were the exact opposite of what I wanted. I’m so sorry.” I squeeze Mom’s hand before standing up. I pull her to her feet and wrap my arms around her. “It means a lot to me to hear you say that. And please know, by no means was this your fault. I did it and I’ll have to live with the consequences.” I release her and step away, before wiping the tears out of my eyes. “Now, will you help me pack?” My mother nods and follows me out of the room and up the stairs. I’ve morphed somehow and I suddenly understand the strength in her silence. Outer calm reflects nothing about a person's inner state. In these moments, every inch of my insides is in turmoil, twisting and screaming in agony. I betrayed my family. I took everything from them. And yet, my mom is still at my side.

THE GOOGLE

AUGUST 17TH, 5:05PM

“Where will you go, Regina?” My mother is calmly folding my slacks and placing them into a suitcase. I pulled out every bag I own and most of them are already stuffed to the max. I know I can’t come back here, so I try to take as much as possible. Odds are I’ll have to sell some of this stuff to bridge the gap between now and marrying Pete. The mental image of me standing at the altar in a wedding dress, waiting for Pete to stop sucking face with his latest conquest and get his ass down the aisle pops into my head. I close my eyes and take a breath. It doesn’t matter what he does. Marriage can be for different reasons. Not everyone gets hitched for love, especially not people like the Ferros. For our kind, marriage is more of a merger. Anthony had been my family's choice--a merger of knowledge and money. I was destined to be an unlucky bride on both paths. More knives tear through my stomach, gutting me further. Shove the emotions aside, Gina. You have to keep it together until you beg Erin for a bed. Clearing the

tightness in my throat, I plaster on a plastic smile. “I'll move in with Erin for now. She’s been asking me to live with her for years. I’ll be fine, Mom. Don’t worry about me.” She gives me a smile only moms give. It’s one of those "you'll always be my baby" smiles. “Yes, well, one day you’ll have children of your own and you’ll see that worrying about them will be your full-time job long after they’ve left the cradle. Just because you’re grown doesn’t mean I won’t worry.” “Mom, it’s okay, really. It's time I moved out anyway. Besides, if you keep worrying you’ll have to get Botox and sit next to Mrs. Ferro the whole time. From the looks of her expressionless face, she’s been flash frozen to be forever thirty-five.” I toss a few more pairs of panties into a suitcase and shut the lid. “Be careful, Regina. A jaded woman can’t think clearly and with Constance as your mother-in-law, you’ll want a clear mind.” I have a cami in my hand, but toss it onto the bed instead of the suitcase. “I thought I’d be on my own for a little while before getting married. Instead, my every minute is planned until the wedding, which is in,” I glance at my watch, “exactly nine months, four days and two hours. Save the date. Or better yet, I’ll add it to your Google calendar.” Mom’s lips twitch and then her gaze instantly

returns to the bag on the bed. “Yes, the Google. Excellent idea. I use it all the time.” I stop and stare at her. “'The Google?’ Mother? Darling?” I walk over to her and bump her shoulder with mine. “You can use Google, right?” She folds a shirt and tries not to smile. “Of course I can. You showed me. I get onto AOL and then—” I blink at her. “What? Why are you on AOL?” “Because it’s the Internet. Then I go to the Google and the calendar is right there.” “Right, and your phone messages, your reminders…” “Yes, of course.” We both stand there for a moment and then start laughing. “You’re still using paper, aren’t you?” Mother giggles and then spins around and sits on my bed. “I tried, Regina, but it’s too complicated. Besides, I don’t use a cell phone that often.” “Mom! You’re supposed to keep your phone on you. That’s the whole point.” She waves a hand at me. “A pencil and paper does just fine.”

“In that case, here.” I grab a sticky note out of my desk and write down the date. I walk back to mom and stick it on her forehead. “Don’t be late!” Mom laughs and takes the note. She flips it over and sees what I wrote. REGINA & PETER SITTING IN A TREE K.I.S.S.I.N.G. IN 9 MONTHS, 4 DAYS, and 2 HOURS MY MOM LOOKS at me and then lets out a loud honk of a laugh. She slaps her hands over her mouth. I’m amazed I made her laugh that loudly. “OMG! That’s where I get it from! The goose laugh! It’s you!” She shakes her head, but she’s laughing too hard. A second later, she honks out another laugh, and we deteriorate to giggles. When emotions run high, they can turn on a dime. One second you can be in tears and the next second is filled with sounds of joy.

INVEST IN GOOD EAR PLUGS

AUGUST 17TH, 5:17PM

We sit on the bed laughing until our sides hurt. When Mom stops, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to miss having you around.” Sighing heavily, I sit up and toss the schedule into one of my bags and stare blankly at it. “Me too.” “Are you sure you’re okay with this decision?” “Yes. I'm just sad that I won't get the chance to marry a man that I love. I mean, Pete Ferro? Of all people?” My mother looks at me questioningly. She appears as though she wants to say something, but she doesn’t quite know how to ask. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “What is it?” “Earlier today, when I came to your room, you were convinced Peter Ferro was a good man. You were adamant everybody else’s opinion of him was wrong and that you saw a kinder side to him. Why the change of heart?” My eyes pop out of my head. “You heard him, Mom! The things he wanted to do

to me, the reason he saved me from that building. His intentions were never good. He sent a man to his grave with his fists and then put everyone’s life in danger by letting the fire burn! He was going to walk away and never look back.” Mom continues folding clothes, putting them in the suitcases, before finally saying sweetly. “Perhaps you’re right.” The corner of my mouth quirks up into a halfsmirk. She’s using reverse psychology on me. Her words agree with me, but her tone says 'you are so wrong.' Ok. I'll bite. “Buuuuut?” My voice goes up an octave by the time I'm done. She places another pair of slacks into my bag before lifting her gaze to mine. Her cordial façade, the one she puts into place while playing perfect wife and mother, is gone. Instead, I see the woman with years of experience, struggles and wisdom staring at me. “Trust your gut feeling, Regina. That's all you can do. And always remember that not all walls are made of bricks and mortar, nor are they indestructible.” I stare at her, my jaw gaping. “Mom, you’re being cryptic. I need motherly advice, not riddles or lessons in masonry. Unless you think I should be hitting him over the head with bricks or lock him up in a dungeon, this isn't helping.”

She sits on the bed and pats the spot next to her. When I sit down beside her, she wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I lean into her, placing my head on her shoulder. Her hands brush through my hair. It's just as soothing now as it was when I was a little girl. “You’re a very perceptive and smart woman. I wouldn't be too quick to dismiss your original instinct. Sometimes people act a certain way as a means of protection. Now, whether he's trying to protect himself or trying to protect the ones around him, who knows? But, I do believe that if there's someone who can take on the likes of Peter Ferro, it’s you. I see it in the way you look at each other. I think Constance Ferro chose wisely when she set her sights on you. You can be a good influence on him. You are kind, gentle and stubborn enough to contest any man. He won't break you, sweetie. I think the two of you will be just fine.” Mom gets up, kisses the top of my head, and resumes transferring clothing from drawers to suitcases. I wish I shared her conviction and confidence in me. All I can see is years of misery ahead. “What happened to don’t ever fall in love with a Ferro or you’ll get hit by lightning?” “Oh, I’m not saying it’s prudent to let yourself fall in love with him. For better or for worse, however, he will be your husband. Might as well make the most of it, and work together as a team instead of butting heads all the time. Be partners instead of opponents. Don’t ever let

him hurt you, but don’t be too quick to give up on him either. I saw him in that room. He’s a broken man in need of a good woman. Men don’t know this, but we women are so much stronger than they can ever hope to be.” Mom picks up my point shoes from my ballet drawer and reverently nestles them in a suitcase, wrapping the pink satin ribbons around the beat up soles. When she looks up, she has a bit of a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “And if he proves to be the despicable man you think he is, invest in good ear plugs so that you don't have to listen to his nonsense. Just think how much fun baby making is going to be though, looking up at his handsome face.” Mom lets out a girlish giggle. I can’t. I just can't! “But Mom! I hate him!" She grins at me and says, "Uh, huh. I know you do."

SOCIETY HOBO

AUGUST 17TH, 8:12PM

I knock purposefully on Erin's door, my suitcases piled high behind me. I'm an unlikely cross between a socialite and a hobo. Leaving home under these circumstances sucks, but I’m not thinking about that right now. I need to keep moving forward or I’ll dissolve into a puddle of tears and snot. Cry later, Gina, I tell myself, impatiently knocking again. What the hell is Erin doing? I know she’s home. On the cab ride over, I read her flirty posts with some guy on Facebook; unwisely, her location was still turned on. With my luck, he’s here and I just interrupted a shag session. Noises come from inside—heavy footsteps, along with something hitting the floor, followed by a faint but eloquent "Awh fuckin' A!" Finally, I hear the distinctive sound of metal on metal as she unbolts the door. "Yeah? What d'you want? This had better be good!" Erin opens the door, appearing as an artistic mess with a pissed-off expression on her face. Her hair attempts its escape from the high ponytail at the top of her head, stray strands poking out everywhere. She’s

wearing ratty sweatpants and a sports bra, completely comfortable in her purple paint smudged skin. I offer a sheepish smile. “So I guess you’re not riding BigJimmy69?” There’s a look of surprise on Erin’s face when she notices it's me. I didn’t call or text her before showing up. She glances at my suitcases and pushes stray strands of hair out of her eyes, smearing paint all over the top of her head. She blinks as if unable to understand what she's seeing. “What’s all this? Are we going on a vaycay?” I hate asking for help, but I need her right now. The idea of hanging with her 24/7 sounds fun--and I could use something good in my life. “Are you going to let your new roomie in or should I set up camp in this grungy hallway?” I lean on one stack of suitcases, my arms folded across my chest. Yeah, bad plan. The suitcases slide, topple over, and I go crashing down onto the floor with them. “Very graceful, meathead.” She offers me a hand. “Wait a second, what? You moved out?” Finally registering the implication of my words, Erin wigs out completely. She does this spastic thing with her hands where she waves them way too fast while jumping up and down, squeeing. “You did it! You moved out!? Holy shit, what did my main man Reggie say about that? And what about Dr.

Limp Dick? I thought you’d be moving in with him since you’re all engaged and shit?” “I have so much to tell you and none of it's good. Let's just say that the pile of crap got moved from a litter box to a bidet. I’ll explain everything once we bring these in, I promise. Give me a hand?” Erin helps bring in my suitcases and deposits them in “my” corner of her loft. I am now the proud resident of a mattress on the floor hidden by room dividers set at ninety-degree angles. Erin's bed is up a set of stairs on a mezzanine overlooking the loft. There isn't much privacy, but I've learned over the years that a good set of headphones and a decent playlist is enough to block out any awkward sounds coming from above. Honestly, I love this place. To me, this loft represents freedom. It’s an escape from my confinement and suffocation at home. The chipping red brick walls, paint-stained cement floor, and shabby chic couches make the space feel cozy. The unfinished ceiling with its overhead plumbing, drafty north-facing floor-to-ceiling windows, and view of nothing but the building across the street remind me I'm starting over somewhere more realistic than a mansion. THIS is real life. Moving away from home was long overdue. Now that I’m here, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders and, for the first time in a long time, I start to relax. When all my belongings are in, Erin closes the

door to her apartment, secures the chain and deadbolt, then rustles around in the kitchen for a few minutes. Soon we sit down on one of her couches, warm cups of coffee in hand. “So, spill, chica! I’m dying to hear this.” Erin tucks her feet under her legs and sips her coffee, eyes wide and focused on me, anxious to hear my story. This right here, this is what I need--someone who’ll listen. I love my mother and can tell her almost anything, but she’s torn between my father and me. She can't be objective and I won't force her to choose between us. “I didn’t move out." My fingers play nervously with the handle of the cup. "I was kicked out.” “You? Kicked out? Ever sick! What could YOU have possibly done? Catch Reginald smoking catnip with Tony in a hot tub? Please tell me neither was sporting that tail.” I snort at the disturbing image. The last time I talked to Erin was after my forced engagement to Anthony-after I caught him and Kitty practicing mouth-to-dick resuscitation. By the time I finish filling her in on the happenings of the past few days, she’s gaping. “So let me get this straight: you’re going to marry Pete Fuck-Me-Up-Against-A-Wall Ferro?” “Yep! You’re looking at the future Mrs. Fuck-MeUp-Against-A-Wall, in the flesh! Except I'm not on his fuck-against-a-wall list. Only mistresses make the cut.”

She manages to pick her jaw up off the floor and waves her hand dismissively. “Psh! He’ll be all over you, and you know it. He always is. Enough with your low, 'I'm not sexy enough to live' self-esteem. We'll deal with that later, missy. For now, let's just bask in the thought of all the hot steamy sex you'll be having for the rest of your life. You had a slow start in life, Gina, but, by God, you'll be lucky if you can walk straight in a little while. I can't believe my cooch actually envies yours now. I have cooch envy!" I make a face. "Um, Erin? My, uh, cooch won't be going anywhere near him. He's a selfish whore and kind of killed a guy. Did you miss that part?" "Whore? Maybe, but so am I. That doesn't stop you from loving me, does it? And I prefer the term 'libertine.' As for killer? I don't know, Gina. He's quick with a punch, but I don't think he'd deliberately do anything to take someone's life. “That night was epically chaotic," Erin continues. "So much could have happened that we don't know about. I know that guy who died. Now HE was a major asshole. That dude was into some serious shit... But enough of that. I'm just so happy you're finally here!" Erin places our cups on the coffee table and tackles me in a huge bear hug. I have to laugh at her over-thetop enthusiasm. No matter what hell awaits me down the road, these are going to be the best couple of weeks of

my life, assuming I survive the subway.

VARIETY SHOW

AUGUST 22ND, 7:33PM

N ot even a week has gone by since my move and I already love my new life. It's been a whirlwind of new classes, college homecoming activities--which I'm actually attending this year--studies, chores and hanging out with Erin. I barely have time for anything else. It’s Thursday night, and I’m studying for tomorrow's pop-quizzes on Erin's couch, dressed comfortably in my pajamas and floppy-eared bunny slippers. My hair is held up in a bun by a variety of pens, pencils, and highlighters. Dinner smells waft through the small space. The apartment smells like pizza. I love pizza. I’m a pizza piggy. Oink! Oink! It's only my fifth day here and we're already on our second binge of extra-large cheese pies. I'm so used to eating haute cuisine made by our chef that it never occurred to me to try a dollar slice. Daddy would be appalled to know I’m stuffing my face with food from the dingy dive down the street. The best part is it’s cheap! I could eat there for a week and still have money left for a cab. Not that Erin will let me take a cab. Since she's worried I'll be stuffed

in the trunk before meeting my unpleasant demise and getting dumped out at Planting Fields, I’m sticking to the train. My mind is wandering. I've been studying for so long that I fried my brain. I think I smell bacon. Lifting my nose, I sniff the air. Pizza. I slouch back into the pillows and look down at my book. I slam it shut and massage my temples, trying to squeeze out my oncoming headache. Too much info, too little time. Erin bounces into the room a second later and places a bowl of warm, buttered popcorn on my knees. Lifting up my feet, she sits down at the far end of the couch and props my bunny-slippered feet on her lap. “Lights out, babe! It’s show time!” She turns off the side table lamp. Television at Erin’s is a unique experience. She doesn’t actually own a TV, which takes some adjustment when you're used to hundreds of channels and instant videos. Instead of TV, Erin turns off the lights and looks out her huge-ass bank of windows to watch the people in the apartments across the street. At first it felt wrong, looking into other people’s private lives. But, as Erin was quick to point out, they choose not to use their curtains and blinds to cancel our show. Plus, Erin has very entertaining neighbors. On our dramatic soap opera channel, a newlywed couple directly across the street never fails to entertain

us with their heated arguments and even more heated reconciliations. Next to them, on the erotic romance channel, is the steamy ménage à trois between two girls and one guy. Nuff said. One floor up, the absurd porn channel hosts a BDSM couple... an elderly BDSM couple. I can only hope I’ll still be THAT much into sex at their age. Over on the chick flick channel, two hot male underwear models are constantly cuddling, eliciting the occasional “awh!” and steady emotional sniffling. They are super-cute and sappy. Finally, on the education channel, there’s the stripper. She’s the show we’re watching tonight. The scene opens with her entering her apartment, followed by a man. “What should we name this one?” I glance at Erin. Her eyebrows lift and her lips twitch into a grin. “Dick.” We giggle and turn back to the windows. Stripper chick tosses her keys on the little table by the door and motions for Dick to sit in front of the pole. Yes, she has a pole in her living room. After grabbing a drink for both herself and Dick, she dims the lights, walks over to her sound system and smoothly adjusts the controls. We watch, barely breathing as she removes the clip holding her hair, letting it fall in loose dark waves down her

back... BANG! BANG! BANG!

PISSY-PETE

AUGUST 22ND, 7:48PM

L oud pounding on our door makes me yelp and jump, sending our bowl of popcorn flying through the air and showering the room with buttered kernels. The banging continues, and my heart feels like it’s gonna jump out of my chest and run down the street. Erin presses a finger to her lips, indicating I should hush. She gets up and walks quietly to the door on her tiptoes. The pounding sounds freak me out. We’re going to get raped, robbed, and murdered. Erin grabs the old wooden baseball bat that she keeps by her front door and slowly stretches to look through the peephole. Her shoulders tense; she’s fully prepared to bash our visitor's head in. Her fingers clutch and release the bat’s grip repeatedly until her eye reaches the level to see out. My eyes dart around the room, mentally calculating how long it would take me to run from the couch to the fire escape in case her bat-attack fails. Finally at the peephole, Erin's shoulders relax, and she puts the bat down.

“Bow-chica-wow-wow!” She turns back to me, waggles her eyebrows and returns to the peephole. “Hey, Gina! Would it be totally awkward if I touched myself while looking at your future fiancé through the peephole? Cause he's here, he's pissed & he's HOT!” “He can also hear you through the door, you flake!” I’m on my knees, picking popcorn off the floor, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. Knowing some random-crazy-ass killer isn't invading our home is reassuring; knowing Pissy-Pete is invading our home is unsettling. I haven’t seen or heard from him in days, which was just fine with me. For a short, blissful time, I could pretend I had a normal life. Bolting out of my parents’ house the moment we were betrothed didn't earn him many brownie points. Pete keeps on banging and Erin's eye is still stuck to the peephole. “Do I let him in?” I let out a long dramatic sigh and slump down, sitting on my heels and tossing a handful of now-gross popcorn back into the bowl. “Yeah, might as well get it over with.” I hear the sound of the chain clinking, the deadbolt turning, the lock clicking, and then the squeak of the door opening. Erin greets Pete in true Erin style.

“Hey, handsome, I didn’t know you made house calls. Let me go freshen up, and we can get started. My room is up those stairs. You're into ass play, right? I've been dying to try out this new bat. Do you want to go first or should I?” Oh, freakin’ hell. I slam my face on the couch and cover my head with one of the throw cushions. This is not happening. “Where is she?” Pete's voice sounds more like a growl. He can’t see me because I’m sitting on the floor, on the other side of the couch, hiding like a wuss. “You’re no fun, Ferro. Hey, yo! Gina! Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Erin calls to me while ogling Pete. I stand, reluctantly, holding the bowl of popcorn. I take in the sight of him. Dressed in his usual ragged jeans, tight-fitting t-shirt, messy helmet hair and dark stubble, he seems to get more and more attractive each time I see him. He's picture perfect, all disheveled and manly, the perfect combo of angelic and devilish all at once. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m secretly attracted to dickheads and the dickier he gets, the more handsome he seems. Pete’s got his not-a-happy-camper look on his face. His left cheekbone looks swollen and red, a thin red line running across it, like a cut. Probably the result of one

his recent fights. When our eyes meet, his face relaxes into something resembling relief. He walks towards me with long, determined strides. “Honey! He’s hoooooome!" Erin's voice is teasing. "Oh, look! It’s the old ball and chain.” When Erin makes references to Pete as ‘the old ball and chain,’ Pete’s death glare returns and cuts from her to me. “You told her about the engagement? That was confidential information. Do you have a death wish or are you just too naïve to know danger when it's staring at you in the face?” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath, unable to deal with this right now. I drop the bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table and some kernels manage to escape back to the floor. This is ridiculous. There's no way I'm going to let myself be bullied on my own turf by my... whatever-it-iswe're-supposed-to-be. I fold my arms across my chest and tilt my head to the side, tapping my foot on the floor. So maybe I don’t look quite as menacing as I’d like to with my bunny slippers bobbing up and down, but I try my darnedest anyway. “Back off, Pete. Erin was at the rave. She already knows my involvement in this and can't blab because she's also partly responsible. This whole deal affects her, too. Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t too many people left on Team Gina these days. So, yes, I

told her. Now, why are you here and how did you know where to find me?” "My mother..." Pete starts to answer, but his gaze slips past me. He looks from the window to the bowl of popcorn, then to me and back again to the window. He’s putting the puzzle pieces together. Oh, crap. The stripper show is still underway. He takes a step closer to me, making my pulse shoot up. I can smell his trademark Eau-de-Ferro scent and my defenses dart up. He looks down at me, an expression of mock disapproval on his face. He tsks his tongue a couple of times, raising an eyebrow. “Are you watching people having sex in their homes, Jenny? I knew you were a little nympho, but a voyeur, too? I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. That is how we met, after all, with you watching me.” His smoldering smile deepens and he trails a finger along my jaw, making me shiver. Vivid images flash before my eyes, the sight of him with that woman at the rave. I've consciously recalled those images so many times on lonely nights they are practically burned into my brain. Thinking about how his hips kept pressing into that woman, over and over again, the look on her face with every thrust... I can’t help but blush and look down. I let out a squeak and cover my mouth. Frack! I’m wearing onesie pajamas and bunny slippers,

with my hair looking like a nerdy pincushion in front of Pete Ferro! I hate that I want to look good in front of him. I hate that I still care about what he thinks of me. I shouldn’t. I hate him. Erin cuts in, pushing past Pete and me. “Her name isn’t Jenny, you hunky, gold-plated, limited-edition, luxury-douche! It’s Gina. GeeeeeNaaaaaah! Fuck! You two are supposed to be getting married? Learn her name, asswipe.” Thank God. Erin to the rescue. “And no, it’s not voyeurism," Erin rants on, "it’s reality TV. Who needs to dish out money for cable when you have neighbors like mine?” Erin grabs a handful of popcorn, tosses it into her mouth and then gags. With a look of horror on her face, she pulls a long hair from her mouth. “Aw, gross! A perfectly good bowl of popcorn gone to waste. Ferro, you owe me a dollar fifty.” She grabs her keys and pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and heads toward the door. “I’m going out for a smoke. It’ll give you kids some alone time. I want this place smelling like sex when I get back.” She looks Pete up and down and bites her bottom lip. It’s only when she gets clobbered by a bunny slipper in the face that she laughs and leaves us in awkward silence.

KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE

AUGUST 22ND, 8:03PM

I take a seat on the couch; Pete sets his motorcycle helmet near the door and follows, sitting down beside me. “Tell me what you’re doing here," Pete says gruffly. "Now.” Control. This is all about decisive moves. Like chess. Damn, I wish I hadn't lost my queen in the first five plays. The urge to chant, ‘Long live the king!’ comes over me, and a giggle escapes. God, he must think I’m mental. Pete’s watching the stripper dancing, but he manages to tear his eyes away. A concerned look flashes across his face. He’s no longer angry. His voice is soft, almost friendly. “My mother tried to get in touch with you but was told you were no longer working for Granz Textiles. Then she found out that you were no longer living at home. She sent me to find you. She thought you’d decided to leave town and back out of our agreement. She even accused you of trying to go off the grid.” His eyebrows come together in the center, and he

looks down at his hands. “I was worried something happened to you. I tried looking for you at the swing club, but you weren’t there. Since my driver brought you here on the night of the fire, it was the next place I looked. Mind telling me what happened?” “You were worried about me?” Pete searches my eyes for answers that I have yet to give and nods. He acts the part of the concerned friend and it’s bittersweet. This friendly version of him tugs at my heart. I want to hate him so badly. I hate everything he stands for, everything he is, but when he acts this way, my defenses crumble and I can't help but want to reach out to him. Maybe this is what he needs me to be for him, not the bitching fiancé, not the passionate lover, but instead the good friend. I doubt he’s had many genuine friends and, with his older brother gone, there's probably a huge gap in his life. Maybe my mother is right. We should be allies instead of adversaries. I give him a small, sad smile. “Thank you for worrying. Not many people have been overly concerned about my well being of late. I appreciate it." Pete nods and looks down at my fingers nervously toying with a ballpoint pen, clicking the top nubby thing repeatedly. He removes the pen from my hands and leans in to tuck it back into my hair with the others. His breath

on my face is warm and the feel of his soft touch on my hands lingers longer than it should. I rub my hands to try and wipe the feeling off. I'm pretty sure that I can do the friendship thing if he keeps a safe distance, but can he? I have to at least give it a try. Pete's gone back to watching the stripper across the street, his attention only half on me. "Hey, Pete?" "Yeah?" "This constant bickering between the two of us is going to get old real fast. I don't want us to spend the rest of our lives angry at each other all the time. I know I'm not exactly your ideal wife, but do you think we can maybe call a truce? We could start over, but this time as... friends?” Pete's eyes never leave the stripper ’s window, but his gaze is lost in thought. He scratches the back of his neck and fixes his attention back to me, a cautious, uncertain look on his face. I can't look into his azure eyes too long without being mesmerized, so I decide to concentrate on his chest, which isn't any better. “Friends, huh?” I chance a look back up and nod. "That's all I'm asking. No more yelling and no more resenting each other. Unless it's called for, of course. Then I can totally rip into you." A small smile lines his lips and there's a softness in

his eyes. “Of course, Gina. That would be nice actually. I don't want us to fight either. You're kind of deceiving, you know, like a rose; beautiful and fragile, but damn if you aren't as prickly as a thorn, too." "Ass!" I swat at his legs and we both laugh. "So, friend, are you gonna tell me what happened and why you're living here now?” Pete lifts a hand toward me and puts it back down, like he wanted to touch me, but thought better of it. I tell Pete how things went down with my father after his abrupt departure. I shrug and talk like it’s no biggie. It sounds so weird talking so casually about this to him. Can you really be friends with someone once he's seen you half-naked and sucked on your nipples? As the memory resurfaces, I look at his lips and feel suddenly self-conscious at my lack of a bra under my pajamas. While I'm distracted by naughty nipple-suckling thoughts, Pete’s pissed-off-o-meter goes up a notch. His demeanor switches from relaxed to tense and twitchy territory. He looks like he could snap at any second. I rest my hand on his hand, hoping to reassure him. “Please don't get all worked up. I appreciate your concern, but it won’t change anything. What’s done is done, and I’m fine, really. I’ll be okay.” I place a comforting hand on his cheek. It’s become

a reflex. Pete leans slightly into the touch. “Are you sure you’re okay?" I nod. The truth is I've never been better, all things considered. Pete extends his arms and pulls me close to his side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. It’s not a romantic embrace or even a passionate one. It’s a friendly hug, both welcoming and weird at the same time. I curl up next to him on the couch, feeling oddly at home in his arms. We sit silently, watching the stripper continue her dance from across the street.

LIFE LESSONS

AUGUST 22ND, 8:31PM

“So, tell me about this TV show.” Pete says. I let out a nervous laugh. “Well, this is our educational channel. It’s awesome. This chick works at the strip club down on the corner and brings home clients once in a while for a special, all-inclusive lap dance. For the show's purposes, we assign them clever names like Dick or John.” Pete’s gaze is transfixed on the stripper ’s home. The stripper is now down to her teeny tiny G-string panties and is slowly crawling over to the man, like a wild animal approaching her prey. From here, we have a very clear view of her ass. Dick sits in the recliner, waiting. “See? Shit gets real on this show. This is the part where she undresses the man, straddles him and boings him like a pogo stick.” I start to play nervously with my pajama collar. When did it get so hot in here? As predicted, the stripper slowly unbuttons Dick's shirt and peels it off him, one sleeve at a time. Her naked breasts are right in front of his face. He’s not allowed to

touch her, not yet. His hands have to stay on the armrests of the recliner. I remember the heat of Pete's breath on my breasts and can only imagine what it must feel like for the stripper right now. The memory revives the feeling within me, making my chest ache. Dick’s shirt hits the floor and the stripper kneels in front of him. She unfastens his pants, lowering them with his boxers, down to his ankles. Watching them perform such intimate acts with Pete so close to me awakens a sense of desire I should be squelching given our new friendship status. Friends, I can probably manage. Enemies is doable, but no longer my choice of preference. Occasional lovers? I can't do that. That option is no longer possible, not with him, not with anyone. If I let him touch me that way, the aftermath would ruin me. The stripper ’s head bobs up and down. She's giving Dick's dick a blowjob. My breath quickens and that familiar liquid heat envelops me, wondering what it must feel like and wondering what Pete would taste like. I squirm in my seat and Pete’s hand squeezes my shoulder, pulling me closer to him. The heat radiating off of his body is stifling. The stripper stands, discards her tiny scrap of a Gstring and straddles Dick, slowly lowering herself onto him and then they start to move. My breath hitches and I curse myself silently for not being able to hide this growing feeling of lust. We're watching live porn and

it's turning me on so badly it almost hurts. My breathing is too loud. It’s like an air horn in the dead quiet and I can feel Pete looking down towards me. Feeling the way I do, the worst possible thing for me to do would be to look up. So of course, that’s exactly what I do. Oh. Those eyes, like perfect gems. Those lips, soft and full. I’m all too aware of my own lips now. I moisten them and my lips part. Pete’s eyes darken and fixate on my mouth. My body still craves him, wants him to do sordid things to me. I want to scream out his name in ecstasy, but my head is screaming something completely different. It's telling me to move away, now. The way he looks at me is deceiving. He’s sending out confusing signals all over the place. His gaze radiates friendly tenderness, but his body shows all the signs of an aroused man. His flushed face and heavy breathing, the way he grips my shoulders, that bulge that wasn’t so bulge-like a moment ago... Gina! Don’t. Stare. At the bulge! Pete lowers his head, bringing his lips just a breath away from mine. He looks into my eyes, gently stroking my cheek with the back of a finger. I want to open my mouth and suck on his finger, make my tongue twirl around it, but I don’t. The thought is there and just won’t go away. Sucking hard on that finger and biting down on it gently is all I can think about. “I, uh, guess this isn’t quite the kind of TV show to

watch with a friend, right?” My voice sounds just a little too deep and husky. Pete’s expression is intense and sober, making my pulse quicken. His voice is low and soft. “You had no trouble watching them with your friend Erin.” He leans in, dropping his mouth on my neck, just below my earlobe and I sag into his embrace. The heat of his mouth on my skin is searing. One of his hands starts to wander, skimming my body with light touches. My eyes close. I feel dazed. Everything around me is blurry except for Pete's touches, his kisses. I imagine Pete throwing me down on the couch, my legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer to me. I want this so much I'm breathless. “That’s different," I say, struggling to remain in reality. "I don’t have recurring erotic fantasies about Erin like I do about you.” Pete laughs into my neck, but it’s a tense, uncomfortable laugh. He pulls back slightly and closes his eyes, breaking the connection. He backs up, removing his arm from around my shoulders. I feel like he doused me with ice-cold water; having him so close without touching me makes me shiver. I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs tightly to try and keep warm, a solo bunny slipper looks up at me mockingly. That’s when it registers. Oh, shit! I admitted to this man that I frequently

dream about him in a dirty way. I can’t move. I’m mortified. My eyes widen and my face takes on shades of epic redness. After he runs his hands through his hair, making it a cruelly wonderful rumpled mess, Pete turns his head to the side, toward me without looking at me. “This friend thing is going to take some getting used to. Sorry about that. I got carried away, I suppose. I, uh, need to get going anyway. You have an hour to pack your stuff. I’ll have a driver downstairs waiting for you.” Huh? I shake my head, not quite understanding. I'm still half wading in a bog of lusty need. “What do you mean, pack? Where am I going?” Pete lifts that sexy blue gaze and looks straight into my eyes. "You're coming to live with me."

TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEAK OF:

SECRETS, VOLUME 1, BY H.M. WARD

PROLOGUE

Everyone has a secret. Some people will do anything to protect it.

I’m practically giddy with excitement as that dream is within grasp. I’m sitting across from Sophia Sottero. She’s an amazing wedding photographer for the affluent families of New York. In a nutshell, she is everything I want to be, and meeting her in the flesh is so overwhelming I can barely contain myself. I try not to squirm in my seat as her gaze slides over my resume. Sophia is in her early forties with jet-black hair that is smoothed into a neat chignon at the base of her neck. A slender, black suit showcases her figure perfectly and makes her look regal at the same time. I hold my hands in my lap, trying hard not to fidget. The smile that lines my lips is making my face hurt, but I can’t stop. A tiny voice inside my mind squeals with excitement. Sophia glances up at me, “Tell me, Miss Lamore, why do you want to work at Sottero?” Beaming, I reply, “Sottero is the most prestigious

photography studio in New York City. The style your shooters attain is breathtaking.” My hand clutches my racing heart. It’s true. And with every fiber of my being I want to learn what she knows. “Everything about your studio makes me want to be a part of it. It’s not only the soaring reputation, but also what you do for each and every bride who comes here.” “And what is that?” “You make them feel like the most beautiful woman alive. For that entire day, each bride knows she’s flawless. You don’t just give them photographs, Ms. Sottero, you capture their dreams and freeze them in time. It takes heart and skill to do something like that, which is why I would love to have my internship here.” Sophia’s gaze lowers to my resume as I’m speaking. When I’m done talking, her dark eyes lift to meet mine, “May I ask where else you applied?” Normally I would figure out a way to dodge that question, but I want this job so much. I smile calmly and tell the truth, “Couture and Le Femme.” A dark brow lifts when I say Le Femme. She places my papers on her desk and leans forward, “Le Femme? Really? What on earth made you apply there?” “The University requires a minimum of three interviews, and we are supposed to diversify the positions we are looking at. They think it gives us a better footing post-graduation.” I practiced this response before I came. Anyone who finds out that I have an

interview at Le Femme won’t take me seriously. It’s a blight on a pristine resume and an excellent grade point average. Sophia tilts her head, like that is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. She points a perfectly manicured nail on the shiny desktop. “Listen, Anna. Let me do you a favor. I realize the kind of hoops you have to jump through to get your diploma, and the interview at Le Femme is just a waste of time. Cole Stevens is blight on the industry. His work is trash, and any aspiring young photographer should steer clear of him. I know it’s a necessary evil, so I’ll tell you how to end the interview quick and easy. Go in there and act confident to the point of cocky. Wear something that you should never wear to an interview and they’ll show you the door before you even sit down… Unless?” She lets the question hang in the air. “Unless what?” “Unless you want to work for Cole Stevens,” Sophia says with distaste, as she leans back in her chair. Although she’s trying to hide it, Sophia’s become tense since we started talking about Le Femme. I can’t tell if she just hates what the studio does, or if it’s more personal than that. She watches me for a moment, taking in my reaction. I visibly shudder when she suggests such a thing. “I have no intention of working for Cole Stevens, Ms. Sottero. That interview is a means to an end. I want the

internship here with Sottero. I’ll be the best intern you’ve ever had because I want to be here.” “It’s a dream?” “It’s more than a dream,” I say leaning forward in my chair. “Sottero is the place where dreams and reality collide. And somehow you figured out how to capture those moments in photographs that are too stunning for words. Forgive me for being blunt, Ms. Sottero, but I admire your work, your studio, and everything you stand for. If I was given the opportunity to learn from you I know it would give me a secure footing in a difficult industry.” We speak for a little longer. I don’t fumble anything. Sophia appears to genuinely like me. As she walks me out, the older woman shakes my hand and says, “I think you’ll do well here, Miss Lamore. Contact me after your interview with Le Femme and we’ll see what we can work out.” A grin spreads across my face. I shake her hand too long and too hard, but I don’t care. My dream job is sitting in the palm of my hand. The only thing left to do is finish up with Le Femme to satisfy the University’s requirements and then I’ll have an internship at Sottero!

CHAPTER 1

Sunlight pours through the slats in the blinds, forming narrow bars of light. I blink once, clearing the sleep from my eyes. Nerves don’t slither through my body the way they had yesterday. Today is different. Butterflies don’t erupt in my stomach and threaten to fly out my nose. My tongue isn’t dry and tangled. There is no frantic pounding in my chest. Not today. A slow grin spreads across my face as I stretch. Today is a means to an end. After showering quickly, I slap on the outfit I selected the night before. Without glancing in the mirror, I head into the kitchen. The apartment is quiet. It’s Saturday and Emma is still asleep. At least I thought she was. “Anna, what the hell are you wearing?” she asks groggily. My roommate is in the hallway, halfway into the bathroom. She stops and stares at me. A tattered robe clings to her narrow figure. Black hair is frizzed around her face, completely flat on one side. In a few hours, she’ll look like a model. It’s been like that since we started college. Emma is the hot one, and I’m “the hot girl’s friend.” Emma blinks several times, like her big blue eyes are broken. “Don’t you have an interview?”

I nod, grabbing an apple from the kitchen counter. As I sling my bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and head toward the door, “All part of the plan.” She doesn’t have time to respond before I’m out the front door, which is good because I would have lost my nerve. The entire time I’ve known Emma she has never let me escape unquestioned. I know she’ll pelt me with questions as soon as I get home. It makes sense that she’s a mass communication major. When she gets a job as a reporter, I know she’ll be good at it. Questioning people is in her DNA, and my outfit was sure to raise questions. Sophia mentioned that she worked with Cole Stevens at one point and divulged some pet-peeves of his that will promptly end my interview. After the third interview is complete, only then can I get hired. University requirements. I run down the stairs toward the street. Our apartment is a fourth floor walk-up, standard shoe-boxsized so that no one in their right mind would want to stay any longer than necessary. Emma and I rented it two years ago when we started graduate school. Breakfast on the go isn’t a part of my ideal morning. Actually, getting up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday isn’t even sane, but this is the time slot I needed, the one where the interviewer is so tired that she needs to prop her head up with coffee mugs. Besides, who puts business meetings on Saturday morning at 7:00am? That makes this the worst interview time

possible. It’s just a formality, Anna, I tell myself. The past week has made me a jittery mess. The internship matters. The placements can mean getting a good job after college, and I need to be the best in my field to get anywhere in this field. Choosing the arts was insane enough, but being a photographer was even crazier. Everyone and their dog own a camera and claim to be awesome. Botching the internships could mean I’ll have to be some schlep trying to find work on Craig’s List, and I have sworn that won’t be me. Photography is art and I’m an artist. Ambition got me this far. The rest of was guts. My position with Sottero is cinched. I just have to finish this last task before I can take it. I stare straight ahead as I round the corner and descend underground to the subway. The air smells like burnt pretzels and blows my hair gently. I breathe deeply, relaxed—confident. When I went to my interview with Sophia Sottero, I was a mess. My palms were sweaty and I could barely stand still as the train clunked along the tracks. The same scenario occurred for my interview with Couture. Both are outstanding studios run by women that I admire. I want the internship with Sottero so badly. Couture is my fallback, and Le Femme—I can’t imagine the person who wants an internship at Le Femme. Probably some perv-with-a-camera like the infamous owner, Cole Stevens. Now, that isn’t totally accurate. The man has to

have some talent to shoot high-end lingerie on nearly naked models. One of those barely-there panties costs more than my grocery bill. It isn’t my thing, but like I said—three is the magic number and this is my third interview—the one I don’t care about. Glancing around, I notice that the subway is relatively empty, which is normal for New York on a Saturday morning. That’s the only bonus to the early interview time—I didn’t have to get up at 5:00am. I switch trains a few times and walk up into the sunlight. Structures of glass and steel tower above my head, but I don’t look up. New Yorkers never look up. Checking my watch, I hasten my pace. Although I don’t want this job, the University still checks to make sure I apply myself, which means at least showing up on time. I find the building and exit the elevator onto the seventieth floor. A silver plaque hangs on a dark door: LE FEMME STUDIOS.

CHAPTER 2

I push through the door and step into a quiet office. I stop in my tracks. There is no one here. No receptionist. No employees. Turning, I look around the room slowly. Large portraits of Stevens’ work line the pale blue walls. All the surfaces—the desk and coffee tables—are pale blue glass. A to-die-for view of the Manhattan skyline fills the windows that line one wall. It’s a sight that costs a fortune, a clear status symbol to anyone who walks through the door. I step further into the room, “Hello?” My voice doesn’t really come out. Why am I whispering? “Is anyone here?” I pad across to the window after looking over my shoulder. Convinced I am alone for the moment, I scan the city far below, and rest my fingers against the pane. “This must look amazing at night,” I mumble to myself. “It does.” Startled by the male voice, I jump. My heart ratchets up a notch when I see that Cole Stevens is the one standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. He smiles down at me like my reaction was funny. He is older, close to forty, but you’d never think it by looking at him. Everything from his bone structure to his stance screams model. He has the kind of confidence that

comes from a lifetime supply of money, and the designer clothes to match. Dark jeans cling to his narrow hips, topped by a white linen shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows. The top button is undone. Cole’s dark hair has that carefully messy look. The man is famous, sexy, powerful—he’s also everything I detest. He spent the last fifteen years of his life making his name, but he did it on the back of his father ’s fortune. I pay for college myself. There is a permanent rift between me and people like him, people who have had everything handed to them. That’s part of the reason I don’t want to work for Le Femme. Aspirations of being a wedding photographer for the affluent have been running through my veins for years. The idea of capturing a woman on the most important day of her life appeals to me much more than this fettishography kind of stuff that Cole shoots. Cole’s hands are in his pockets, his blue eyes assessing me and my outfit. He seems like he’s been up for hours. He must be a morning person. That would make working with him even worse. People who thrive at 5:00am are freaks. Unlike me, dressed to impress. Pressing my lips together, I peel my hand off my blouse and act like I was just brushing off a speck of lint. Confused, I look past him. I thought his assistant was doing the interviews. People like Cole don’t bother with college interns. Shaking off the shock of seeing him in the flesh, I introduce myself. “I’m Anna Lamore. I have

an internship interview at seven.” He pulls a hand out of his pocket, extending it to me. His shake is confident, his hand warm. “Cole Stevens. No one is here this early since its Saturday.” His smile is kind, and it isn’t until now that I really look at his face. There are tiny wrinkles that line the corners of his mouth, like he smiles often. Taking his hand, I shake it and nod. His grip is gentle, but firm. Something about him sets me off kilter. Butterflies erupt in my stomach and I don’t know why. When he ends the handshake, Cole glances at me once more and turns away—gesturing for me to follow. I take in the posh offices as we walk down a long hall. “Welcome to Le Femme,” he says. The casual tone of his voice makes me think his head isn’t as big as the media says. “As you know we are the world’s premiere boudoir studio, predominately shooting lingerie accounts for swank designers. We do everything inhouse, from selecting models to make-up and postproduction. Nothing is out-sourced,” he stops and holds open a glass door. His hand flicks on the lights and we sit at a huge wooden conference table. This room has a much warmer feel than the waiting area at the front. Walking past him, I catch his scent. It’s a light clean fragrance. His eyes are on me as I pass, no doubt studying my absurd outfit. I slide into a seat and lean back, steepling my fingers like I’m plotting to take over the world and smile

at him. Cole tells me more about the company he created as I tap my fingertips together, trying to muster the guts to finish doing the things Sophia suggested so I can put this interview to rest quickly. “The internship is a prestigious position, Miss Lamore. Many students compete to get it, and there is only one position. An internship here gives you access to employment with the company when you’re done. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re at the top of your class.” His fingers tap the top of the table as he stops speaking. Cole’s gaze slides over my face, the slouch of my shoulders, and then drifts to my jeans that are rolled up to my knees, showcasing striped rainbow knee-highs. Sparkling yellow Chucks are on my feet. They match the tutu around my waist. His eyebrows creep up his face before he looks back up at me. I’m not certain if he’s questioning the data or stating that he can’t believe it from the sight of me. I should have been dressed in a suit. If I was brave and wanted this internship, I would have worn some fashionable business attire with a snazzy flare. But I’m dressed like a bedazzled circus clown. I had to make sure I don’t have any chance of getting this job, and showing up dressed like this would ensure it even if I did take Sophia’s suggestion a little too far. Smiling, I nod, “Yeah,” my fingers tap on the table top, strumming like his. He notices the mirrored

movement, and his eyes flick to my hand before returning to my face. “I’m the top in my class.” Silence fills the air before Cole finally speaks again. My manners are intentionally horrible. He notices my lack of proper decorum, my utter indifference. It’s screaming through my body language even when I’m not speaking. Cole’s gaze narrows. The look he gives me is irritating. It’s smug, like he knows what I’m up to. Leaning back in his chair, he folds his arms over his chest. For an old guy, he’s pretty chiseled. “Let’s cut to the chase, Miss Lamore. I don’t normally do the intern interviews. Your resume looks the same as a hundred others. Your work demonstrates potential, but it’s nothing phenomenal.” He pauses, taking in my reaction. I’m surprised at his candor, but don’t react. I don’t want this job, I remind myself. I have nothing to prove to him. I don’t care if he thinks I suck. I know better. I know Sophia Sottero was excited when she met me. I know I want that internship and not this one. Cole leans forward, “The reason I wanted to meet you, the reason you caught my attention, was because you chose the worst interview time we offer... ” He grins at me, and leans back into his chair again. “It implies that you wanted this position very much.” I shrug, folding my arms, mirroring him again, “It was the only slot left.” The lie slips easily off my tongue. “No, it wasn’t,” he replies, leaning forward, calling me on the lie. There’s a gleam in his eye that wasn’t

there before, like hot curiosity igniting a match-tip. His gaze is intense, and I can’t help but squirm when he looks at me like that. “You were the first person to sign up. So tell me something, Anna, if you would—“ he looks down at the ring on his index finger and then back up at me, “why did you wake up at the crack of dawn to come to see me? Why do you want to work for Le Femme?” His words say one thing, but his tone says something else. It’s a dare, a challenge almost, to continue with my plan. My pulse is racing. I march ahead with my idea, muttering things that Sophia assured would get me tossed out. Ignoring that gaze of his, I lower my eyes and pick at my nail polish while I speak, “Well, Le Femme has been around for a while. I mean, the company itself was formed nearly two decades ago. I mean, you’re not a fly-by-night studio, so that’s appealing. But, you’re not ridiculously old, either.” I flick my nail and a piece of red polish flutters to the carpet. I continue speaking, watching it fall, “It’s not like you’ve never seen a digital camera and insist on using an ancient Brownie or something crazy like that.” Immediately, I want to laugh and shirk off the nerves that are spilling down my spine like ice water, but I can’t. “Thanks,” he says, smirking at me, his eyes shifting to my fingers as I pick and flick. When the piece of polish lands on the carpet, we look up at the same time. “I’m thirty-eight by the way

I’m not old, he means, I have a lot I could teach you. “Yeah,” I clear my throat and lean forward. I’m tactless, crass, and rude. Everything he wouldn’t want, yet he is looking at me like there is nothing he wants more. That gleam in his eye tells me that something is off. I redirect, trying to offend him, “Like I said, not that old.” I pat his knee like he’s a geriatric patient who got lost in the mall parking lot and lean closer, speaking a little too loudly, “I know things are changing fast and that’s why interns are good—they’re young and can help older people in our industry with shifting trends.” I wink at him and lean back in my seat. My heart is pounding in my chest. It’s the most brazen thing I’ve ever said to someone’s face. I slammed his age, ability, and company in one breath. “Really?” his expression is hard to read. Leaning back, he steeples his fingers and taps them one at a time, his eyes never leaving mine. The room fades away and the only thing I can see are his eyes, dark as sapphires, and glinting like he’s amused—or pissed—I can’t tell which one. Damn it. Why does he hide his reactions so well? It’s obvious that I don’t belong here, and yet, he’s still talking to me. “Yeah, of course.” I shrug and lean back, draping my arm over the back of the chair. In the back of my mind I’m thinking that he should have ended this already and shown me the door, but he prods me to talk. And the more I talk, the more insane I sound. Pretentious brat

doesn’t even come close to some of the trash coming out of my mouth. “Coming here would be a risk for me though,” I say. “People say you’re losing your edge—that it’s only a matter of time before Le Femme is replaced by someone else.” “And what do you think?” he taps his index fingers together once and waits for me to answer. I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants, making up passive-aggressive insults for over twenty minutes. I decide to give him the shove he needs to show me the door. Glancing at my arm draped over the back of the chair, I pause and then look back up into his face. Maintaining a calm exterior is getting harder and harder. I’m lying, blurting out anything I can think of to get him to dismiss me as some arrogant twit. Looking him square in the face, I answer, “I think you’re already past your prime. I mean, come on. Let’s be honest. Your work’s been slipping for years.” I feel bad saying such a thing. I may not like his subject-matter, but Cole is a good photographer. Saying anything else is a lie, but I need to get him to show me the door and he hasn’t. When I finish, no one speaks. His expression is neutral even as I verbally bitch-slapped his company, and then him personally. It’s clear that I think he’s a has-been. At least I think it’s clear. Cole just stares at me from behind his palms, occasionally tapping his pointer

fingers together. I stare back. We watch each other in silence for a few moments. When Cole speaks, he’s looking at the table. Suddenly he moves and pulls a cell out of his pocket and rests it in front of him. The light stubble on his cheeks is distracting me a little. He is easy on the eyes, even if he is nearly twice my age. Cole’s voice is deep and rich, “You know what I think?” He glances up at me from beneath his brow. He takes his phone and taps it on the table, then continues, “I think that you’re trying to blow this interview—that you don’t want this job.”

COMING SOON: LIFE BEFORE DAMAGED, VOLUME 7 THE FERRO FAMILY

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COVER REVEAL: THE ARRANGEMENT 19

THE ARRANGEMENT 19, A Ferro Family Serial by H.M. Ward

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Broken Promises: A Trystan Scott Novel, by H.M. Ward

Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Life Before Damaged THE AFTERMATH ILLUMINATION I HEART PONIES AND THEY LIVED MISERABLY EVER AFTER GET OUT! THE GOOGLE INVEST IN GOOD EAR PLUGS SOCIETY HOBO VARIETY SHOW PISSY-PETE KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE LIFE LESSONS TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEAK OF: Prologue CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 Coming Soon: COVER REVEAL: More Ferro Family Books More Romance by H. M. Ward CAN'T WAIT FOR H.M. WARD'S NEXT STEAMY BOOK? COVER REVEAL: