Toni
As soon as I’m down the block and around the corner, the tears come.
I wipe them away angrily.
God, why do I have to be such a fool?
That look in Gabriel’s eyes, I know that look. It’s the one I’m feeling too.
That I don’t want to spend just breakfast with him. I want to spend the whole day with him and the day after that too. I want weeks by his side.
The thought terrifies me, as do the possibilities of its opposite. What if he knows? What if he’s just toying with me, trying to use me for all I’m worth, trying to mess with the Piccolos through me, trying to ruin all of us? What if he knows?
My phone rings. It’s him. Gabriel.
I don’t answer.
If he doesn’t know, then it’s not me he cares for, anyway. It’s the woman he met in that bar – the devil-may-care seductress who doesn’t have family baggage dating back three generations, who isn’t in charge of his competitor’s business. Who hasn’t been lying to him for weeks.
I turn off my phone.
I can’t do this. Not now, maybe not ever.
By the time I get to a bus stop, the man with the low-brimmed hat has been walking behind me for four blocks.
When he stops a few feet away from me, I hail a taxi.
Maybe my brother’s having me followed. Maybe he knows already, just needs proof, a nice photo to inspire the others to turn on me.
For the taxi ride, my phone stays off, but my thoughts won’t shut up: What’s Gabriel doing now? Exploring his latest conquest, checking out our old office – touching the same door handle I touched, yet unaware of it? Is he thinking of me, is he missing me already, does he want me now, there, beside him?
I want him.
“Can you turn on some music?” I ask the long-haired cabbie.
He obliges with some good old “Uptown Funk,” the song that was playing when Gabriel and I met. Me and my albino on shining motorcycle.
I check my phone.
There’s two missed calls from Gabriel, and a text from Carlos: Where are you?
The taxi pulls up to my house slowly enough. I pay him, get out and throw my coat over my head, run in.
This is getting too risky. I can’t keep doing this, and yet, I can’t stop.
Inside, I shut the door as quietly as I can. Immediately, Carlos is there.
“Again,” is all he says.
I unzip my boots, not bothering to dignify that with a response.
“The men are getting restless,” he says.
“We’ll find a place,” I say.
“I’ve got something to show you,” he says, “Something to do with the Rebel Saints.”
“Later,” I say, turning away and running up the stairs.
I don’t want Carlos to see me cry.
I fall asleep to a tear-stained pillow and muffled sobs. I awake to night.
I inhale, then exhale.
It’s not a new day, but it can be if I make it. What do I want to do today?
I stand up, sashay to my mirror. Smile.
I want something new. Something different. Someone different.
My reflection beams back and we realize at the same time: that’s the problem – I haven’t had anyone new for a while. That’s all. That’s why I’m hung up on this impossibility – Gabriel Pierson of all people. I just need to go fishing again.
Getting ready is easy: Tonight’s outfit is a fuck-me black leather crop top and a fuck-me blue leather skirt that covers my ass more or less. Then a few swishes of mascara, a smear of pink on my lips and I’m good to go.
Tonight’s venue is the same old – the only place I can walk to, the easier place to sneak to: the very bar I met Gabriel at. Babylon, my old hunting ground.
The pond is full tonight – a lot of minnows with their university sweats and oblivious smiles. A few swordfish, all earrings and intent eyes. Maybe I’m feeling adventurous tonight.
I stop in front of the swordfish with the gaze that doesn’t shift, that’s stuck on mine. He’s got black little orbs, so black that the iris is joined with the pupil to form one giant intense gaze.
I put my hand on his chest, and he puts his on my hip.
Our smiles understand each other: Yes, this will work.
This will be my tonight. He’ll do just fine.
He feeds me drinks, though on the dance floor I’m rubbing myself on him without being drunk.
Most men don’t get it. That’s it’s more fun when you’re drunk, but when you’re doing it for the escape, you don’t have to be.
They just have to be like my swordfish: curly black hair he lets me run my fingers through, a hint of a smile, roving hands and broad chest.
They just have to lead me to the dance floor, press themselves into me, sway us into one dance that was like the other dance. Gabriel, the colored lights, me.
I freeze.
The swordfish takes my face in his hands, and I need another drink.
“Toni,” James the bartender says once I get there.
“James,” I say, sitting down and giving him a “free Sex on the Beach wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world” smile.
I could always ask the swordfish, but right now I can’t stand him. A few more drinks’ll solve it.
“Some guy was here asking about you,” James says with a smirk, “That guy from a few weeks ago. The albino.”
I stare at him.
“Want me to give him your number?” he asks, just as the swordfish returns.
He’s all hand on my ass, but he doesn’t understand.
That my stomach is swirling, not from too much alcohol, but from the last man who touched my ass.
I jerk upright, away from him.
He smiles like he understands, slings his arm around me, moves me along except I don’t. Can’t. I can’t go with him.
I look out onto the dance floor, full of all the other nobodies. The men who are notable only in that they are not him. And, in that, that they are useless to me.
I rip myself out of the swordfish’s grasp, stride out the door without a word.
Outside, I tear off my heels so I can run the rest of the way home as fast as I can. So I can jolt the dawning realization away, so I can focus on the fatigue instead of the feeling.
And yet, I can’t escape him, can I? The whole reason for all of this. The man there is no escaping: Gabriel Pierson.
What would he say if he saw me now? Running down the street, barefoot, high-heels in hand, tears rolling down my face, trying not to think of him? Trapped?
There’s no tears this time, only a shocked horrible flop into my bed, a dry-heaving over the toilet, a staring in the unforgiving mirror, into the reflection who’s as dismayed as I am, who doesn’t know any more than I do: What am I going to do now?