Page 49 of Captive Bride: Armani
My mouth drops open. My parents are staring at him. I’m staring at him. Armani’s two for two now. No one has ever stood up for me against my father a single time in my entire life.
“The boys are out back. Playing corn hole,” Mom stammers, still recovering from her shock. “You two are welcome to join if you like. Supper will be a few more minutes.”
Knowing her, that means at least a half hour.
Armani gives me a sneaky grin. “Corn hole?”
I force a tight smile, my mood souring. The last thing I want to do is go out to the backyard and see my brothers, but like ripping off a Band-Aid, I know I should just get it over with. The chair squeaks as Dad stands up and pushes in the footrest with a bang, making me jump. Crumpling his beer can in one hand, he drops it in the trash by his chair.
“Come on,” he says, addressing Armani. “I’ll introduce you.”
Well, that’s development. My father actually got out of his chair for something other than another beer. I silently hope that Armani is not paying too much attention to the 70s-era interior design (the wood paneling, the shaggy carpet, the faux Colonial furniture), as we walk through the house to the backyard. Dad slides open the glass door and the noise comes rushing at us.
My four brothers are locked together, fists and curses flying, fighting over God knows what. Liam is the tallest, his flaming red hair visible above the others. He spots us first, and breaks free from the tussle.
“Holy shit, Candi’s got a guy with her.”
Conor, Patrick, and Sean break apart and turn to look at us. I’m instantly pulled backwards a decade into my life here at home with them. Constantly bullied and picked on and perpetually excluded. They never let me forget I was the runt of the family.
They walk over like a small, overly muscled army. I shrink back, even though I shouldn’t be intimidated by four grown men who still watch cartoons and live with their parents. (None of them are ambitious, to say the least. They all work at the industrial machinery plant with Dad.)
“Boys, this is Armani Bellanti,” Dad says gruffly. “Your sister’s friend.”
They take turns shaking Armani’s hand, looking over him with clear interest. I’m sure they know the name and have already figured out who he is.
“Join us, my man,” Liam says. “Grab yourself a beer and four of those blue bean bags over there. Candi, go help Mom or something.”
Armani picks up a bean bag but skips the beer. “She’ll stay,” he says casually, but with that steely edge to his voice that says he’s not to be fucked with. “For good luck.”
No one argues, considering his tone.
My brothers resume their argument, with words instead of physicality this time, shouting and insulting each other as Liam explains the rules—one point if the bag lands on the tilted board, three points if the bag goes through the hole, eight bags thrown per person each game.
To my amusement, Armani whoops all their asses so hard, one right after the next, that my brothers are practically begging him to go back inside and finish his tour of the house.
“Oh come on, we just got started,” Armani says.
My brothers form a line, an ugliness flashing behind their smiles. A sense of dread washes over me, but Armani doesn’t bat an eye. Probably because he grew up with brothers of his own, and he knows how to defend himself if things go south. But watching Armani punch out all four of my brothers would really put a damper on our nice family dinner, so I go over to him and stand on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear.
“Can we please go back inside before this turns violent?” I hiss anxiously.
He looks at me, a smile quirking his lips. “Okay. If you’ll show me your old room.”
My stomach does a little flip, and I drop my eyes as my cheeks go hot.
Turning to my brothers, I announce, “I’m going to give Armani the grand tour.”
No one acknowledges me as Liam gathers up an armload of beanbags and Sean gets sent to the cooler for more beers. Taking Armani by the hand, I lead him back inside the house.
18
CANDI
When we passthrough the kitchen, Mom is still busy whipping up mashed potatoes with her stand mixer. I see a saucepan of gravy on the stove that’s about to burn, so I hurry to turn off the flame and move the pan to a cold burner.
“Is there anything we can help you with?” Armani asks my mom.
“Oh, I’ve got it under control. It’ll just be a few more minutes,” she chirps.
