10. Hendrix #2
After all, thanks to Safeguard Technical Solutions , you’d have a better chance of getting into Fort Knox than the Lavells’ limestone mansion. I counted at least six cameras planted outside, even keycodes to get me through the door.
“Look on the bright side…he can teach you more Italian to prepare for your dream vacation.”
Ugh, leverage. It’s what I get for being stupid enough to agree to watch La Dolce Vita with Mom and Auntie.
“Years of taking classes have been doing just fine.”
With a skillful eye roll, Mom says over her shoulder, “Carlo, dear. Can you please go and see if you can fetch Hendrix’s things from her school?”
“I don’t need anyone to fetch my things.”
Looking a bit puzzled, Carlo nods and takes off.
“Theory will be home from church with Vic any minute,” she continues. “You two can spend the day together. Go shopping after Carlo gets back, he’d be more than willing to take you.”
Yeah, as would anyone getting paid a fortune to follow two teenagers around a mall.
“What the heck is wrong with you?”
My mother never talks to me like this. Ever.
Even on my worst attitude days, she prefers deep cleansing breaths and matching sass.
In fact, it’s Auntie Pop who’s been harder on me.
Using loud voices and empty threats.
Speaking of…
“Where’s Auntie?”
“At the store. Shopping for the beautiful room upstairs she’s happy to be living in.”
Oh, please. Those two have been inseparable even before birth. Auntie Pop would follow her to Hell without question—and vice versa. Happiness be damned along with them.
Mom’s phone rings again, and I’m tempted to rip it out of her pocket to find out who the fuck it is changing yet another facet of my life.
In an attempt to avoid saying something I’ll regret, I ixnay any further questions, stomp past my mother, and head for the kitchen exit. Then curse when I get cut off at the pass by Vic and Theory.
Vic senses the hostility immediately and presses a hand on my shoulder. “Hey…you okay, kiddo?”
I recoil from his touch, even though months of getting to know him proves he doesn’t deserve it.
“I’m fine. But maybe you should ask your wife.
” With a sidestep to both him and a sympathetic Theory, I continue my escape through the gigantic house, passing the formal living room with loud taps of my chunky heels.
I find Carlo in the foyer, walking toward the door until he notices me and stops. “ Signorina —”
“In case it hasn’t been made clear, Carlo , I’m not a fan of you. So I suggest you stick to calling me by my actual name. Not a pet one.” I pass him, but not before he offers another quizzical look, then rushes to open the door.
“Do you, eh , need-eh me to take-eh you to a place?”
“No fucking thank you.”
“Hendrix!” Theory beckons from down the hall, her breaths ragged as if she’s jogging.
When I turn I find her doing just that.
In stiletto heels.
I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so pissed off.
She lets out a whoosh when she reaches me. “That was totally as hard as it looked.”
“I would’ve been on my ass before even reaching the living room so…”
She waves me off. “You’re walking in yours just fine.”
I save the lack of comparison between stilettos and chunky heels and allow her to get to the point of why she was chasing me.
“So…your mom mentioned you wanted to hang out.”
My lips form a straight line. “Did she now?”
“Yup! And I’m so excited.” She hikes a thumb over her shoulder. “Was actually thinking about going for a swim. You down?”
Obviously I’m not down. Not with any of this.
I don’t even know how to swim.
But…I do have questions.
And maybe a little girl time with an eager Theory is what I could use to get some answers.
About our parents. A missing Saint.
The monster they call Vicious.
Mom wasn’t lying when she said she set up my bedroom.
A beautiful black and white damask bedspread, endless throw pillows to match.
She even had a corner drafting table set up in front of a west facing window.
The wallpaper I hate is now covered in antique Marvel comics, my comics, and even some portraits I painted.
Yes, I dabble in brushes too, but nowhere near as good as I am with pencils.
Walking into the closet, I find it packed to the brim with hundreds of outfits that fit my style perfectly.
Not gaudy or posh, conservative to play the part.
Mom took a room she knows is not my taste and turned it into one I would’ve designed myself.
The gesture brings on a pang in my chest, knowing how hard she worked to make me feel at home in a place she was confident I’d never want to live in.
Making my way down the closet, my fingers run along each designer dress, top, pants, and shoes I pass on the way to intimates.
Chanel, Prada, Louis Vuitton.
Even Valentino.
Every drawer and shelf coordinated by occasion and seasons, a heart drawn with different colored pencils at the ends of each label.
She really is the best mom in the world.
I spot the bathing suit drawer right away and open it, groaning internally when I find only one pieces in the front. That is, until I move them aside and come face to face with an adorable high waisted black and leopard print bikini.
It takes me less than five minutes to get dressed, throw my hair up in a high pony, and pin back my bangs—which are now long enough to be considered curtains.
I reach into my bag on the dresser and pull out my phone, both of which I didn’t realize I forgot in the kitchen until Darla met me by the steps holding them.
After a quick once over, I toss the lace cover up on the floor, imagining how much more spiteful it would be to walk around in a bikini.
The hallways on the fourth floor are identical to the rest, more limestone, vintage curtains, and realistic portraits of people. Not saints. The Persian runner beneath my feet is soft, and there isn’t a speck of dust on the sculpture next to the elevator.
It’s like walking through a Civil War mansion.
The ding comes only seconds after I press the button, and when the doors open I let out a breath of relief.
Elevators and me…don’t love our history.
Mirrors line the car, so I use them to examine my hair the entire ascent to the roof, then wink at whoever may be watching through the camera in the upper corner.
“Girl! Look at you,” Theory squeals, soaking wet, standing right outside the doors when they open.
And of course…there’s Carlo…in the only shaded area by the pool.
“What the hell is with that guy?” I mutter as she links her arm around mine, dragging me closer to the death tub.
“You’ll get used to it.” She squeezes me. “Eventually they’ll become the human version of background noise.”
“You have a Carlo too?”
“No. I have a Stanley.” She waves to the old man nested on a lounge chair under an umbrella, sipping what looks like a delicious Pina Colada.
“The hell? Why couldn’t I get a Stanley?”
“Daddy wanted to make sure I didn’t feel smothered.”
“Why? ’Cause your brother does it enough?”
“Ha! You’re funny. But no. It was just a comfort he wanted me to have growing up.”
I roll my eyes. “Wish my mother shared his sentiment.”
“Like I said, you’ll get used to it!” Theory releases me, her steps turning into a sprint. “Now c’mon! The water feels great.”
“Uh, I’m good over here.” I point to the edge of the inground pool as she dives in.
Theory pops out of the water, then brushes her long, wet hair back with her hands as I sit. “Why not come in? You don’t like swimming?”
“More like can’t.”
“You can’t?” She nearly gasps. “Didn’t you have lessons as a kid?”
“No reason to. We didn’t have a pool.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“I took a class in school last year. Nearly drowned every time.”
“I can tell Daddy to hire one for you.”
“I’m good. My best friend Bex tried teaching me, but I gave up after the third time she had to save me.”
“Well, that’s a bummer.”
“Not really, I don’t care much for water anyway.”
Theory looks disappointed, as if counting on pool time to help us bond.
“But, hey, I don’t mind hanging around as you do. Especially since you have a fancy bar.” I jut my head to the bartender behind it, polishing glasses. “Think your boy over there will make me one of those Coladas?”
“Benson?” She scoffs, a wicked grin curling her lips. “For the right price? He’ll do anything.”
I do not like the insinuation here.
At all.
And I hope to God I’m wrong, because Benson looks not a day younger than forty.
“Anything?” I wince.
“Oh, my shit!” Theory cracks up. “Not that kind of anything. I just mean sneaking drinks, helping escape after curfew.”
Thank fuck.
Because statutory anything is not a moral grievance I’m willing to ignore.
“Okay, good.” I let out a shaky breath. “Shit, man. Lead with that next time.”
“You’re s- th o funny,” she replies, the small lisp I’ve grown desensitized to peeking through.
It’s such a contrast, hearing this vocal immaturity coming from a sixteen year old, who, by the way, looks nothing like a sixteen year old.
Especially not in this magenta spaghetti strap bikini.
Shit, not even I’m brave enough for one of those. I happily draw the line at high waist and shaping.
Save the extravagance for the girls up top, you know?
“I have my moments,” I tell her plainly.
Theory swims over to rest her arms on the edge of the pool. “So tell me, how does it feel to be the hottest girl in school?”
I nearly choke on air. “What the heck did you just say?”
“I said…how does it feel—”
“That was a hypothetical, Theory.”
She laughs again. “So…how does it?”
“Wouldn’t know…’cause I’m not.”
“You totally are. At least in big bro’s eyes.”
I have no idea how to respond to that.
Not a clue.
Because once upon a time I knew Saint was attracted to me. Even if it was just from the joy of the chase. But now? After all that’s happened? There’s no fucking way.
“Yeah, sorry to burst your bubble. But your big bro’s been feeling nothing but hostility toward me lately.”
“Oh, please. He’s been obsessed with you for months.”