Page 18 of The Worst Pucking Deal

After paying for more shots and drinks than what’s good for either of us, I gesture at the table Gail’s guarding and ask the bartender to help me get the drinks over there. After looking me up and down, he licks his lips and agrees.

Reaching Gail, I place two Cosmopolitans I’m carrying on the table. She frowns, but it’s immediately turned upside down when she spots the tray the bartender carries. “Ohhh,” she coos and claps. “Are all those for us?”

I tip the bartender and thank him before sitting down. Then I reach for another two shots, downing them before answering Gail. “I don’t know how many you’re seeing,” I say, wincing as the alcohol burns down my throat, warming my stomach. “But yes. Fucking cheers.” Without pausing, I take another two.

There we go. Now I’m no longer feeling anxious, and I can finally breathe.

“Wow,” Gail grins. “Guess the lunch with your cousin didn’t go well?”

I grimace. “Actually, it wasn’t bad. It was… as expected.” When Gail’s eyes soften and she takes my hand, I shake my head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she asks with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Whatever that look is, don’t. I don’t want to talk about my fucked up family.”

I watch as Gail takes two shots, emptying the small glasses in record time. “So what do you want to talk about, cupcake? The financial views? World hunger?” She winks. “Or maybe you want to tell me why you keep looking at the bartender?”

“Am not,” I deny half-heartedly even though there’s no point. I was definitely checking him out, but not for the reasons she thinks. “I’m looking for a potential husband,” I admit.

Gail snorts so hard I’m almost concerned for her. “Sure, sure.”

I take a moment to consider whether telling her is a good idea or not. The thing is, I already know it isn’t, but I also know I have to. I can’t just suddenly show up with a husband in tow and no explanation, and since I’m determined to buy my freedom with a wedding band, there’s no way around it. This definitely calls for more alcohol.

“I’m not joking,” I say after emptying my first Cosmopolitan. Gail doesn’t know what the hell she’s missing by declaring vodka her enemy. “I need to get married before my cousin forces me back to Rome in a month. And that can’t happen. Because if I go back, I’ll be forced back together with my husband.”

Gail rears back, looking like I just slapped her. “Rome? Husband? Luce, what the fuck?” she whispers, horrified. Fuck, did I really just say that out loud? “I thought you were single and from fucking Kansas.”

I avert my gaze, embarrassed I just blurted it out like that. Though I never meant to tell her where I’m really from, if I did, she deserved to be told in a better way. Then again, how the hell do you dress up the fact you’ve lied to your best friend for years?

Clearing my throat, I lamely say, “Yeah, well. I’m not.” If it wasn’t for the alcohol coursing through my veins, I would never have slipped up. Fuck, I feel terrible. But there are too many lies for me to allow one to ruin the evening. “I made a deal with my uncle one year before I came to America. And that year was spent teaching me to blend in as an American,” I explain.

“What?”

Maybe it wasn’t as much of an explanation as I thought. I wince at the shocked look on Gail’s face. Reaching for the liquid courage on the table, I do another shot. “Okay, here goes,” I mumble. “I made a deal with my uncle to get away from my psycho husband, and part of the deal to come here was to get rid of my accent, understand the culture, and all those things.”

“But why?”

I shrug. “I never asked, but I assume it was to avoid drawing attention to myself.”

Gail makes a frustrated sound. “Are you intentionally being a bitch right now?”

Shame makes it hard to look at her. “No. I’m trying to explain—”

“Well, you’re not doing a good job,” she shouts. “What the actual hell, Luce?”

I quickly look around, wanting to make sure we aren’t drawing attention to ourselves. Of course, we’re not. In the crowded and loud pub, we’re just another two women talking at a table.

“Why did you lie to me?” Gail continues, sounding like she’s on the verge of crying.

“Because I had to,” I answer, regret lacing my words. “I didn’t want to. There have been so many times where I wanted to tell you the truth, but I couldn’t, Gail. If you knew… no. I just couldn’t.”

She hasn’t removed her hand from mine, still squeezing it as she scrutinizes me. I wish I knew what she’s seeing on my face. Am I like a stranger to her now?

“So when you went to your uncle’s funeral, you went to—”

“Rome,” I clarify.

Gail huffs. “At least that explains the tan you came back with. Did you see your husband?”

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