Page 13 of Cruelest Contract
Angelo switches on the kitchen light. “Don’t hurt yourself with that warm welcome.” He and Gabriel both have the same wavy dark brown hair and wiry build. Only our eldest brother Matthias inherited our father’s athletic height and broad shoulders.
There’s a bruise under Angelo’s right eye. No surprise. If there’s a fight happening within ten miles of his vicinity, Angelo will find it and dive right in. His black leather jacket isn’t appropriate for the desert in late spring. He’s wearing it for another reason, probably to conceal a gun.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Angelo. We don’t keep in touch. He was a violent kid. He’s grown into a far more violent man. Angelo has never dared to lay a hand on me but being in the same room with him still makes my skin crawl and I take an instinctive step backwards.
He notices and snorts with amusement. “What the hell are you so nervous about? If I was here to take you out then your brains would already be painting the wall.”
My heart hammers and my legs feel rickety but I try to look casual as I bend down and pick up the cupcake box. Angelo’s eyes follow me while I unload all my baggage on the breakfast bar.
“It was nice of you to stop by just to terrorize me, Angelo, but this needs to be a short visit. I have plans.”
Angelo moves closer, his eyes still fastened to me. I resist the urge to bolt for the front door.
A long, extremely uncomfortable moment passes before he starts chuckling.
“You don’t have fucking plans,” he scoffs. He pries open the bakery box without permission and flips the lid.
I watch as he extracts a red velvet cupcake. “Of course I have plans. It’s my birthday. My boyfriend will be here any minute.”
Angelo takes a large bite. “You don’t have a fucking boyfriend either.” He chews, swallows, and grimaces. “This tastes like stale cunt.” He fires the cupcake into the trashcan.
And here I thought he’d achieved maximum asshole status years ago.
Nope. Apparently there was room left to grow.
Also, I bet that stupid rental Porsche is his. It’s just like him to be flashy with zero manners.
With a sniff, I hold my head up. “I don’t remember updating you on my social life. And now that you’re finished vandalizing my dinner it’s time for you to leave. Like I said, I have plans.”
Angelo rolls his eyes and drags out a counter stool, taking a seat and surveying me coldly. “Who do you think you’re kidding? You haven’t had a boyfriend in something like two years, not since that cheesedick from Boston got the memo he’d live longer if he scampered back to the east coast and lost your number.”
My mouth falls open and blood roars between my ears. Words all melt together as I struggle to absorb what this means.
Brecken Doyle was a guy I originally met in an Intro to Finance class. We were casual friends for a couple of years before any romance happened and after three months of exclusive dating I hoped we might be headed for something long term. For weeks I’d been listing the pros and cons of telling him about the whole ugly history of my family.
But then Brecken basically ghosted me. He returned to his hometown outside Boston and changed all his contact information. He even ran out on his lease, leaving his roommate high and dry.
Alice, outraged on my behalf, offered to fly to Boston and give Brecken what she ominously referred to as ‘The Treatment’.
“It’s not you,” she assured me over and over while I blubbered on her sofa with a melting container of cherry vanilla ice cream. “It’s him.”
Wrong. Turns out it wasn’t him.
But it wasn’t exactly me either.
I give Angelo my most contemptuous glare. “Just how long have you been spying on me and interfering in my love life? Am I allowed to date anyone without your approval?”
He snorts out more laughter, rocking back and forth. “Like there’s been a parade of admirers breaking down your door. Fuck, are you stupid? Did you really think Grandfather wouldn’t keep an eye on you?”
If I was braver, if I was Alice, I might snatch my half full metal water bottle and fire it at Angelo’s head in a fit of rage.
Every one of my fleeting relationships skates through my mind. It doesn’t take long.
The engineering major who decided to transfer to a school in Alaska.
The bartender who was working his way through law school but then very abruptly opted to go backpacking across Europe, never to return.
And then poor hapless Brecken, who fled to Boston, presumably under threat of physical dismemberment.
