Page 87 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
He doesn’t even bother to close it behind him.
I’m not sure, but I think the blistering string of curses I shout after him can probably be heard all the way down the block.
TWENTY-FOUR
I don’t get back to the house until almost midnight. By now I’ve managed to convince myself murder is a capital crime, and I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life in an Italian prison.
But man, if it weren’t against the law, there would be one dismembered marchese buried in the woods behind the house.
I stop by the kitchen to fix myself a plate of leftovers, then head to my room. When I flick on the light in the bedroom, I find Cornelia snoring in the makeshift doggie bed I created in one corner of the room using old blankets and pillows. She’s snuggled up to one of my T-shirts that she must’ve dragged out of my open suitcase in the corner.
I haven’t had the time or energy to unpack.
Trying to be quiet so I don’t wake the dog, I set my handbag on the dresser. Then I sit cross-legged on the bed with my plate and laptop and munch while looking online for a local clinic where I can get an STD test.
I find a place with a nearby address, have Google translate their webpage to English so I can read it, then book an appointment. That awful task completed, I decide to google my name since I’m already in a bad mood.
I should’ve known better.
After reading every article on the first four pages of results, I’m convinced I can’t move back to San Francisco, at least not without changing my name and having some major plastic surgery. Those pictures are never going away. Never. When I’m a hundred years old, there will still be full-color photos floating out in cyberspace of me punching Brad in the nose on the altar of Grace Cathedral.
Any man I’ll ever date in the future will be able to see those pictures. He’ll be able to read every smarmy detail about the worst humiliation of my life.
“I won’t date,” I tell the computer, getting teary. “I’ll become a nun. I’ll marry Jesus. He won’t care that I’m the laughingstock of San Francisco. He won’t care that I’m damaged goods.”
He might care that I’m about as religious as a head of lettuce, but whatever.
I snap shut the computer and flop back onto the bed. After a minute or two of staring at the ceiling, I’m so angry I can’t lie still anymore. I set the plate aside, hop out of bed, and dig my cell phone from my purse. Then I call Satan.
He picks up on the first ring, sounding wide awake and hopeful. “Babe?”
“You’re not allowed to call me that anymore!”
“Oh. Uh, sorry.” He’s quiet for a moment, listening to me breathe like a dragon. “Are you okay?”
“No. Are you still in Italy?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ve figured out how you can make it up to me.”
“I can’t come out to my parents,” he says, his tone pleading. “Anything else but that!”
“This has nothing to do with your parents.”
He heaves a relieved sigh. “Okay. What is it?”
“Come to DiSanto Couture in the morning, eight o’clock sharp.” I give him the street address, then warn, “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t! I’ll be there right on time!” Then, hesitating, he says, “What’re we doing?”
“Taking your measurements.” I hang up, smiling.
He’s gonna look amazing in the pleated dress.
True to his word, Satan shows up at eight on the nose. Speaking of noses, his seems to be healing quickly. The swelling is down, and so is the bruising under his eyes. By the time I need him to look pretty again for the show, he should be all set.
I have Clara take his measurements because there’s no way in hell I’m holding a tape measure to his inseam. Watching him squirm in discomfort as she manhandles him and bosses him around is so much fun I make her recheck all her numbers and take his measurements again.
