Page 2 of Professional Liar
No preamble. No bargaining. Not even a threat.
I opened my mouth to start the usual routine of her lying and me chipping the details free one by one. Then she leaned in to whisper in my ear. “I want you to marry me.”
My heart stopped. My lungs contracted. Six oh-so-tiny words ricocheted through me like ejected brass shells.
“No. Not you. Not me. Not ever.”
She cupped my neck in her hands. “Pierce…”
I picked her up by her perfectly formed ass, stood, and dropped her on the couch. The length of the room didn’t seem like enough space to separate my anger from her fragile body. “Get the hell out.”
I turned by back and headed toward the door. Her feet hit the floor with the click of her heels. “I’m not joking. Marry me.”
My ribcage sucked tight to my heart like cling wrap. Breathing became difficult and shallow. “I’m not joking either,” I said. My words butted into each other too fast and too many and too cold.
I can’t look at her.
We’d done this before, except I’d been the boy on his knees. The boy bearing the bruises from his father’s fists. The boy sacrificing his family legacy, holding a ring. She’d been the one standing and laughing and ripping apart the friendship we’d spent five years building.
I can’t look at her.
The sound of her shifting on the couch decimates the distance I need from her. “Baby…please.”
Each echoing word pierces my heart, splintering any mercy I have left. Each too fast pump rushes a fresh load of fury into my blood.
I can’t look at her.
All I felt was anger. Complete anger.
And then her small hand settled on my shoulder. My rage beat through me so strong, I feared I might strike out. But I didn’t. As if kept in line by years of pain at this woman’s will.
She was the same girl I loved once. The same girl I’d hated too. She was the same girl who gave me her virginity and took my own. And she was the same girl I’d never be able to leave.
A sheen of tears pooled in her eyes, but nothing fell. No, crying in front of the enemy wouldn’t do for a Marino. The founders of the five families would rise from their graves to reclaim their family recipes. “I told you, I need help. You’re the only one who can—”
“What? Stand the sight of you? Pretend for five minutes not to hate you? Well, great job, you just shoved me away. I think I actually hate you.”
She took a stumbling step backward. “I shouldn’t have come here. I…”
She wobbled on her four inch heels looking around, searching for something. I didn’t know what. She didn’t bring anything but her toxic good looks, generations of family feuding, and massive ego with her.
But her gaze leapt to mine again for a second, and my grated, jaded, over-tested resolve cracked and crumbled.
She got me.
She fucking knew it, and I fucking knew it. Hell, the damned body guards outside who were likely laying bets knew it. I grabbed her upper arms with a little shake. “What do you want from me? What do you want.” The second more a prayer than a demand.
No God could save me now.
“I told you. I need you to marry me.”
The anger and hate fizzled out of me, along with the fight. “I’m not like you. Marriage means something to me. So does family.”
She slid her hands along my waist to wrap them behind my back. “Family means something to me too. You know I hated my father, but I would do anything for Bianca. Why else would I be here? You know this isn’t my usual…style” She looked around and shrugged, like she still didn’t know what to say for herself.
“What does Bianca have to do with you getting married?”
Now she wouldn’t meet my eyes, focusing instead on the medal around my neck my father gifted me at my first communion. Maybe she wasn’t here to con me?
