32. Hendrix #2
After a discreet sip of yummy carbonated alcohol goodness, I slide the glass far enough away for it to look abandoned. “He’s not a mobster either.”
“Whatever.” Craig shrugs, drying a flute with a towel. “Whoever he is, I can tell he cares about you. It’s cool.”
Looking over my shoulder, I smile at Carlo, basking in the realization of how much I care about him too.
“So, where you from?” I ask Craig as I turn back to face him.
“Brooklyn.”
“What part?”
“Bay Ridge.”
I vaguely know the area, mostly apartment buildings and retail.
“This a full time gig?”
“Nah, just to help get myself through college. Rich tip well.”
I take a mental note to prove to him just how much by the end of the night.
“What’s your major?”
“If I told you, you’d probably laugh.”
“Why do you say that?”
Craig leans his elbows on the bar top, getting comfortable in the small talk. “Because most people do.”
“Try me.”
“Fine Arts.”
Throwing my head back, I belt out a laugh.
“Like I said…” he huffs jokingly.
“Nah, dude, I’m laughing with you not at you. I wanna go into the arts too.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m serious…trying to get into Bromwell for C.A.”
“Drawing, huh? Doubt someone like you will have an issue.”
I should be offended by his judgment, given Craig has no idea my level of talent, but I’m not naive to how hard it is for the average person to afford college. Or how much easier it is to be accepted when you’ve got financial backing.
“I’m not like them.”
No need to clarify on who I mean, because Craig’s brown eyes are scrutinizing the privileged kids rich enough to take over a closed beach.
They soften a ton when landing on me, though. “I believe you.”
“Wouldn’t matter if you didn’t.”
“Fair point.”
“Quick to judge, but not to know, huh?” I’m about to reach for the drink again, but Craig does it for me, pretending to wipe off the bar top.
“A dick for that, I admit.” He slides the drink away after I indulge in a gulp. “What’s your name?”
A grumpy Italian demand not to answer the question comes from Carlo beside me as he slaps my bag onto the bar, scowl aimed sharp enough at poor Craig to make him scurry away.
“Seriously?” I swivel on the stool to face Carlo’s gentle-only-for me smile, but it falls when he takes in my flared nostrils.
“ Cosa ho fatto di male? ”
“What you did wrong is act like a caveman during mating season!”
Carlo’s slow blinking tells me all I need to know about how much he understands the reference. But instead of clarifying like any normal immigrant would do, he proceeds to remind me for the hundredth time of his stupid cardinal rules.
Give up no names. No affiliates. No residences.
If I’m forced to, then lie.
I can’t count how many times I moonlighted as a fucking Sandra.
“Fine,” I relent, tilting my head at a nervous Craig. “But I’ve got about an hour left. Can I at least enjoy it?”
This isn’t even about eye candy anymore.
I found an actual sober human in the midst of drunk self-righteous twats.
One who shares the same interests and experiences.
Breathes the same contaminated air I used to.
May not sound refreshing, but after a year of choking on filtered santal and oranges, pollution feels… nostalgic.
Besides, Craig doesn’t need to know my name for us to keep talking—and Carlo doesn’t need to know I already spilled the beans on my unicorn university.
Probably why he lets up, agreeing to surface level exchanges only.
It takes multiple reassurances and a forced smile from Carlo to convince Craig it’s safe to reapproach me. We return to chit-chat the second I light a smoke and he places a virgin Pepsi in front of me.
I snatch it, then Carlo swipes it. Sniffing before sipping.
When seconds pass and he doesn’t start foaming from the mouth, he gives me the cup back.
With a dramatic eye roll, I pick up where Craig and I left off.
Sandra.
“So, Sandra, what do you draw?”
“Comics mostly, caricatures, some portraits. I dabble in painting also, but not as much.”
“What’s your inspo?” he asks while I take a pull.
“Superheroes. They’re my niche.” Exhaling the smoke, I rasp, “Got a pipe dream to illustrate for Marvel.”
“Niceeeee.”
“What about you?”
Craig’s about to respond but gets interrupted by a squeaky nasty voice I know well enough to want to gutcheck.
“You…bartender person. Make me a Gin and Tonic.” Annalie waves him off with fake nails, and I put out my cigarette in an ashtray.
What the actual frig?
Carlo reads my tense shoulders immediately, since I’ve been bitching to him about the bitch since day one of his detail. He asks if I want to leave, reminding me his truck was dropped off in the parking lot.
I respond with my Italian version of a “fuck to the fuck no.”
“Why are you here?” I drag my gaze to Annalie, who’s dolled in high pony hair extensions and a glued on mini dress. “We’re a far cry from street corners.”
“Fat bitches stay trying to be funny, it’s all they have going for them.”
“I’d rather be fat than Saint’s cum bucket.”
Craig approaches like one would a lion. “Gin and Tonic.” He places the glass in front of Annalie, who’s busy meeting my hard stare, then retreats to cleaning glasses.
“Something we both have in common.” Annalie tilts her head mockingly. “Or should I say had , since he tossed you back into the pigsty where you belong.”
I have no idea if Saint is fucking this dirty bitch again, but if he is, he can keep her diseases.
I’m straight grilling Annalie as Carlo reminds me she’s not worth the trouble.
He’s right, she’s not.
Annalie excels at two things: being catty and laying on her back.
Slut shaming women has never been my thing, but this girl, man. She deserves much worse for so many reasons.
But talking shit about me to me isn’t one of them.
Insults mean nothing to those who know their worth.
And I. Know. My. Worth.
So she can eat her words and choke, as long as one of those words isn’t my real name. Because that would be hella embarrassing . Besides, there’s no shot I’ll be reckless enough to let her crash Archer’s party and ruin it.
Even if it means I have to swallow some digs too.
I play the kill card with a kind smile, then, after long moments of silence, Annalie scoffs and traipses into the crowd with her drink.
Cowardly little wench.
“Well, that escalated and deescalated quickly,” Craig jokes, settling in front of me again.
“I’m used to her yappin’, don’t let it get to me anymore.”
“Very mindful.”
“Very demure,” I line my hands under my chin, batting my eyelashes.
Craig laughs, holding out his virgin glass of soda for me to clink.
I do, and we move on with gushing about the arts.
For quite longer than I expected, in fact, because there’s no daylight in sight, and the bonfire is too far to help with the autumn chill.
“You cold?” Craig asks, removing his suit jacket when I hug my arms. But when he holds it out for me to take, a white oxford covered arm shoots across the bar to smack it away, and I’m helped into a different suit jacket.
Craig’s smile is flooding with nerves as he stares at the gun dangling from Carlo’s suspenders, throwing any doubts he had left of him being only a driver out the proverbial window.
I put on Carlo’s ten thousand dollar jacket, and even though I’m warm and cozy, only the innocent bartender gets a thank you.
Once again we’re back to doing our casual thing, comparing artistic notes, teasing, shit like that. But this time with Craig beside me, since the bar is dead.
“So you mean to tell me a rich pretty girl like you actually has brains?” Craig gasps in faux surprise after I give him a judgmental run down on the differences between cartoon and animation.
I hit him with a playful shove of his arm. “Asshole. I told you I’m new to this life.”
There’s a glint in his eyes as they run down my body, a gesture that would usually have me adjusting my cleavage. But, because I’ve been ruined by a particular stepbrother, all I take from Craig’s flirting is a confidence boost.
“I know, I know, I’m kidding. It’s just fun riling you up.”
I drag in a breath, then release it with a long sigh.
“I take it you get that a lot?”
“Oh, Craig. More than you can imagine.”
“Most guys like chicks with power and sass.”
Grief creeps in, lining my belly as I remember all the times Saint would accuse me of having too much of the last one. A poor front on his end, because he always found ways to pull the sassiness out of me.
Along with my vulnerability.
Something I learned to pull from him too.
Shaking off the useless reminiscing, I get back to the guy making my sober night slightly tolerable, deciding to embrace the attention I deserve for all the effort I put in to look my best.
“Yeah, until power intimidates them.”
Craig reaches for the gold necklace Carlo gave me, twisting the horn in two fingers. “Meh. Insecurity is for boys.” He releases the horn, and it feels like ten pounds of raw iron hits my chest.
Bringing the third Pepsi to my lips, I respond nervously, “Hey, I’ll drink to that.”
Craig chuckles, doing the same as Carlo mutters threats of violence for him to quit touching me.
“So, tell me something else about—” Craig’s suggestion gets interrupted by a loud screech, then the music cutting off. Same for every light except the one over the bar. Complete silence hinders the crowd, similar to animals in a forest when a predator is lurking.
What. The actual. Fuck. Is with the bullshit tonight?
Before I get the chance to react rationally, Carlo’s dragging me off the stool, gun in hand as he crushes me against a wooden pillar of the gazebo.
“Uh.” Craig’s gaze bounces back and forth. “Should I be ducking or something?”
“No…” I wince from Carlo’s weight. “Sicilian’s just suffer from chronic paranoia.”
“Right…”
There’s a steady crunching of pebbles along the trail leading to the bar, making Carlo draw his gun in the direction of the sound, and Craig actually ducks because of it.