Page 1 of The Gangster's Girl

CHAPTER ONE

India

A secret smile spreads over my face at the excited look in my eyes as I stand in front of the mirror in my tiny bedroom. I’m brimming with energy, goosebumps sweeping my arms and a current’s sneaking down my lower back, belly and down to my thighs.

Twisting and twirling, I tilt my head to the side, admiring the way my long dress grazes my knees. I wonder if Uncle Clay will like it. I think he likes sundresses like this one and I stroke my hands down my hips, blushing when that current in my body fires twice as hard.

It has to stop doing that because it feels like being split in two. Pouting, I turn my mouth into a rosebud and apply some gloss to make them look more...kissable? Inhaling, I give myself a long look, a critical one because I’m not sure what I’m doing here.

Uncle Clay and I aren’t a thing. We will probably never even be athing. To him I’ll never be anything else than the kid who used to run after him, pulling at his slacks and demanding his attention. To him I’ll never be anything but the daughter of his oldest friend.

But deep down I can always hope. And I’m eager to see him today, since I haven’t visited him in over three months. Three long, tedious months and I almost drove myself crazy with how much I missed him.

On midsummer’s eve, I even went to the forest and picked seven, different wildflowers and put them under my pillow. My mom told me if I do that, then I will dream about my future husband the same night.

I didn’t tell her I dreamt about Uncle Clay.

Though, I don’t blame my dreams about him on my magical ritual. I blame it on my usual infatuation with him and I’m alone in being head over heels for him. Everyone is infatuated with Clayton Augustine Xavier. The man with the Mida’s touch, ruthless in business and overprotective about the ones he cares about. Men want to be him and women want to be with him.

Biting my lip, I glance at myself in the mirror. That’s right,women. Not nineteen year oldgirls. Uncle Clay will never see me as a woman, no matter what I wear or how much makeup I apply or how mature I try to act.

I twitch when there’s a short knock on the door before my mom Ronnie barges inside, flashing me a sunny smile.

“Hey you,” she twitters, fanning her face because it’s hot today. “Are you ready?” She proceeds to cross the floor over to my bed, jumps up on my mattress and glares at me with her big eyes.

Ronnie and I look so much alike that people frequently mistake her for my sister. But sometimes I don’t see it. She’s statuesque and free spirited and sometimes whenever I’m around her, I feel pretty frumpy.

My dad Robbie and she had me when they were sixteen. Thatyoung. I was their surprise and Ronnie always like to squeeze my cheeks and gush about how happy she is she got such a pretty daughter.

“I mean can you imagine if I had given birth to a mousy girl?” she likes to say, then burst into laughter and shake her head in amusement. She’s a little superficial at times but she’s got a good heart, just like my dad.

“What do you think?” I ask her. “Do you think I can go like this?”

Screwing her face up, Ronnie says, “Looks a little plain, I think. Why don’t you try out those shorts and that little, tube top we bought last week?”

I throw a hesitant look at the garments. “Not sure...”

“Oh, come on, try it,” she insists, “besides it’s just Clay.” She looks at her French manicure, absently adding, “His opinion doesn’t matter...”

I give her a heated look because his opinion does matter to me. It would be like me telling her that Robbie’s opinion doesn’t matter and then she would throw a fit. But I do as she suggests, squirming into the tight clothes and Ronnie claps her hands.

“Perfect.” She jumps down from the bed, giving me a hug and she’s never really smelled like a mom. She smells like a barfly but I’m used to it. “Let’s go. Robbie is so freaking excited tonight he’s practically frothing.”

At that I laugh and we walk out, stepping right into the living room and kitchen because the three of us live in a trailer by a bright lake. Robbie’s casually leaning against the counter and his boyish face splits up in a smile when he sees us.

“Ronnie girl,” he grins, “looking foxy foxy today.” He says the last with a growl, pinching Ronnie’s butt and she lets out a girly squeal, running out of the trailer in her slinky jumpsuit and wedges. His gaze goes to me and he ruffles my hair. “You look very pretty too, bugs.”

“Not if you keep messing up my hair,” I scowl, trying to smooth my tresses and Robbie chuckles.

“It’s just Clay we’re going to. He won’t care.”

My scowl deepens because that’s the thing. I want him tocare. Not that my parents would understand and I feel a tinge of worry when I think about what Robbie would say if he knew how I feel about Clay.

As wild and reckless my parents are, they’ve always kept boys away from me as if anyone with testosterone has rabies. Probably because they deep down always have been afraid, that I would end up knocked up like Ronnie too young and too soon.

Outside the sun shines like a torch on the sky and there’s not a single breeze as we all squeeze into Robbie’s, red Toyota. Rolling the windows down, we turn up the music and sing along without any shame.

Pedestrians stare at us and I know what they’re thinking; That the Penrose’s are a bunch of hillbilly’s in this proper and elegant small town where everyone cares about keeping up appearances. Except my parents of course.

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