Page 8 of Hexed
The “acceptable” next step for a man of my stature and family. Back when I was a kid, I looked forward to it. Dreamed of it, even.
When I was really young, I’d be kept awake at night by Ma giggling like a schoolgirl and Pops murmuring dirty words, muffled through the thin walls of our small two-bedroom apartment in Trillia, Brooklyn.
Usually, the next morning, I’d come out to a big breakfast of sausage and eggs and the smell of coffee, while Pops ignored everything and buried his nose in the day’s paper. Back then, Ma always had a certain look. A flush to her cheeks and a sparkle in her blue eyes, identical to mine. Pops would wink and play grab ass when she walked by, and it would make her light up like a kid in a candy store. Warmth would suffuse my chest, providing a stable, dependable comfort.
In every other aspect of life, my pops was a hard-ass. When it came to my mother? He was the quintessential lovebird, and she was too. Watching them made me sure that true love was out there waiting for me, just like theirs.
But as I got older and Pops moved up in the ranks of the syndicate, Ma’s giggles morphed into arguments punctuated by his yells and her screams. And then one day, she popped too many of those pills Pops brought home to “keep her calm,” and those screams turned into silence.
My belief in love was tainted, like a scent evoking old emotions I’d rather forget.
Love equaled the pain of my mother’s death.
So Pops arranging for me to get married to the girl I’ve been fucking for the past year? It’s no big deal for me.
A piece of paper, really.
I glance down at my phone.
Your dad wants you to call him. Something about him being watched again.
Groaning, I debate what to say back. Pops has always had a hard time trusting people, but the past few years after my brother’s death, he’s been particularly unhinged, paranoid in a type of way where there’s no calming him and no way of knowing how he’ll react to any situation.
“Babe, are you even listening to me?”
I glance at my fiancée, Aria, who’s sitting next to me in the car. I skim my gaze down her frame, past the ends of her brightly dyed red hair, over her small but perky chest, then to those killer legs flowing out of a pastel-pink skirt. Her skin is smooth as butter and pale as hell, despite her being half Italian and baking herself at my penthouse’s rooftop pool back home. When I meet her baby-blue eyes, my irritation at her interruption fades.
She snaps her fingers, the thin gold bracelets on her wrist clanking together, and just like that, my soft feelings harden into stone.
I take her hand, moving it from in front of my face, and kiss the back of it. “Of course, princess.”
Her pinched features smooth out, and she grins, one of her eyebrows arching. “Then what’d I say?”
My temples throb, and I drop her fingers to grip the inky-black strands of my hair, tugging on the roots to keep the burgeoning headache at bay. “Christ, Aria, what is this, twenty questions?”
She sinks into her seat, crossing her arms and giving me a sweet smile. “No need to be snippy. You know I’m not trying to upset you. I just wanted some attention, is all.”
I tense my jaw and glance toward the front, locking eyes with my younger cousin, Scotty, in the rearview mirror. I don’t think he really wants to be here, listening to domestic disputes and being my glorified chauffeur for the next couple of weeks, but he’s acugine, trying to make his bones while he waits for the books to open, so he came along for the trip.
He averts his gaze quickly, but I see the flash ofsomethingthere, and I bite back the groan. Scotty’s always been a fucking gossip, and the last thing I need is it getting back to Pops I’m being an asshole to Aria.
For some reason, helovesher. Enough that he demanded I marry her anyway. Not that Aria knows it’s at his request. Or that her father approved the arrangement immediately.
Guilt worms its way through me when I remember I wouldn’t evenbehere if it weren’t for Aria. I owe her my life. Marrying her is the least I can do.
It’s not like she’s hard to look at.
Decent fuck too.
Aria’s already-plushy demeanor softens even more when I angle my body toward her and cup her cheek. My thumb rubs against the smattering of freckles across her nose, and she leans into my palm like a kitten desperate for my touch. She looks beautiful, her skin dewy and the sharp angles of her face highlighted perfectly by the soft pastel-colored LED lighting that lines the interior of the Mercedes Maybach.
“Princess, let’s not pretend you’re with me for my listening skills,” I say.
She scoffs. “Don’t be a jerk, babe. I’m with you because I love you.”
I don’t know why I’m being such an asshole, especially when she’s done nothing to deserve it. Maybe I’m hoping that for once, she’ll bite back. Give me something to feel while I’m stuck in a stuffy thousand-dollar suit, pretending to be an upstanding citizen about to meet my bride’s father.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt any type offire.
