1
NEVAEH
I’m going to die from my own stupidity.
Breathless, I slam the bathroom door shut and drop to the cold tile, bracing my bare feet against the vanity and pressing my back to the wood.
“Get out here, you bitch!” Carlo bangs so hard my spine rattles.
“Screw you!” I scream before my brain sputters to life, and I shove my fist in my mouth. What am I doing? Don’t bait the man. Sweet Lord, Nevaeh. Think.
This isn’t a normal fight; this isn’t Carlo getting pissed and letting off steam. He popped me in the eye. Yeah, he was talking with his hands, emphasizing how much he thinks I suck, and it was an accident, but he’s not sorry. I don’t think the blow even registered. He kept on screaming.
There’s a hot, wet trickle dripping down my cheek. I swipe my face with the back of my hand and bite back a whimper. Oh, yeah. That stings. Did he split my eyebrow? I half stand to check my face in the mirror before I remember. Rampaging boyfriend. Blockading the door. Royally screwed. I’m back.
And somehow, I’ve backed myself into a corner. How do I get out of here? There’s a small window over the toilet, but my ass wouldn’t fit, even if I could even get it that high. I’m too short to reach, and too thick to squeeze through.
And we’re on the tenth floor.
Goddamn my glitchy brain.
Bang. Bang. “Get out of my bathroom!”
“Just back off. I’ll go.” Laundry hamper. Bottle of hand soap. Electric razor. There’s nothing in here I can use as a weapon. Maybe I could pull the towel rack off the wall?
Carlo’s voice booms through the vent, loud as day. “Damn fucking right, you’ll go. I’m done with your shit! You can’t even do one little thing right, can you? All you had to do was keep your mouth shut and smile. How hard is that? Isn’t that literally your job?”
Literally, my job is hostess at L’Alba, the club owned by Carlo’s boss. Guess I can kiss that gig goodbye after tonight. If I can talk my way out of this bathroom.
Thud! The door strains, lower than before. He’s kicking it now. Good thing it’s solid wood. There’s only a twist lock, so that’s not keeping him out, but if I stay wedged here, and my thigh muscles don’t give out, he’s not coming in. I’m safe.
I snort a laugh.
Shit, I’m not safe. I haven’t been in years. My entire post-pubescent life has been a series of misadventures, dumb luck, narrow escapes, and poor choices—like this asshole.
“What are you doing in there? You touch my shit, so help me, Nevaeh!”
What am I doing in here? Ack. Brain. Function! How do I get out of this? You catch more flies with honey, right?
“I’m sorry, Carlo. Okay?” I aim for contrite. I nail exasperated.
“For what? Making me look like a bitch in front of my associates? Or running off at the mouth and making yourself look like a dumb whore? What are you sorry for this time, Nevaeh?”
My fists curl, and I bite the insides of my cheeks. I am not going to say that he didn’t need any help from me looking like a bitch. And I am not going to say his mother’s a dumb whore. I’ve met her a few times.
She’s always in the kitchen. She keeps her head down and makes herself busy, but she’s a nice lady. She raised an asshole, but I’m dating him, so who’s the dumb one?
“Just back away from the door, and I’ll leave.” I try harder to keep my voice even and apologetic, but I’m a crappy actress. I do sound terrified and pissed, but mostly I still sound like I’m talking down to a piece of shit.
“You telling me what to do? Fuck you!” Bang. Bang. “I’m done with you. You’re a fuckin’ mess. Your place is a mess. Your life is a mess. In eight months, how many times have I fronted you rent money? Five? Six? You’re thirty years old!”
Twenty-nine. I’m twenty-nine.
“I paid you back!” I shout through the door.
“You’re a leech, Nevaeh. That’s what you are. You thinking you’re gonna get your hand in Dominic Renelli’s pocket now? He don’t want my sloppy seconds.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. I only reached across the guy for some calamari, and a glob of marinara landed on his crotch. Dominic Renelli’s terrifying; I was nervous. I dove into his lap with my napkin and started rubbing before I realized what I was doing. Everyone knows that’s my M.O. Renelli made a joke about it, and I played along. It was nothing.
But this is what always happens. I think I’m making better choices, and it ends like this. Carlo Fiore was supposed to be the smart bet. Yeah, he’s “connected,” but he’s just a money guy. An accountant. I mean, he went to Penn State. How dangerous can he be?
A drop of blood dribbles into the corner of my eye; the socket throbs. I bend forward, tear off some toilet paper, and dab. I didn’t even see Carlo’s arm coming. One second, I was spouting off as we walked into the apartment. The next, I’m flying backwards over the arm of the couch. If I didn’t have a brother I’d sparred with constantly growing up, I’d have been down for the count. I can take a punch, though.
Bang. “What are you doing in there?”
“Staging a comeback,” I mutter under my breath. From the thumps and the swaying of the door, I guess he hears me.
“Always with the mouth!”
“Just let me out of the bathroom. You won’t see me anymore. I get it. I screwed up. We’re over.”
Matter of fact, we were over the minute we left the restaurant. He’d dug his fingers into my upper arm, his other hand clutching the stupid messenger bag he totes everywhere like he’s got the nuclear codes. Then he called me a stupid whore, and I was done.
I let him bring me back here because I wanted my stuff. That was another mistake. I’m going to die over a ratty old Steel Bones MC T-shirt and a bottle of expensive shampoo for curly hair.
It’s weird how calm and focused I am right now even though my body is going crazy. My heart’s racing; blood is whooshing in my ears. I’m fidgety, like always, but I have to keep my legs braced, and there’s nothing to fiddle with.
My mind is totally clear, though. It’s wild. I have ADHD—got a prescription I don’t fill and everything—so I’m never this present and in the moment. Except when I smoke up. Or sometimes during sex. Not with Carlo. Or anyone, really, except Forty Nowicki back in the day.
What am I doing? Focus.
I’d like to say I don’t usually find myself in these sorts of predicaments, but it’s kind of my thing. I pet the dog that bites. I think I can make it—the yellow light, the staff meeting, the rent—but I fall a skosh short. I go out with a mafioso, and it turns out he makes his points with his hands.
People call me free-spirited. The truth is I’m eternally out of control.
Living in my head feels like running as fast as you can downhill. You know when you hit that point where you can’t stop, you can’t even turn if you want to without tumbling ass over teakettle? That’s my normal.
Before Carlo and the bathroom standoff, there was Nick and the long walk on the shoulder of I-97. Paulie and the night in jail. Aaron and the cat fight video. I could blame the ADHD for the sensation-seeking, the risk-taking. And sure, blame the diagnosis for the string of jobs and the speeding tickets.