Beautiful Hell: A Contemporary High School Bully Romance Page 16

  “Nothing. I guess…” I turn my head to see her, having picked up a few lines between our fathers. “Does your dad want to sell his shares in the company?”

  Janelle shakes her head. “No. He wants to put them into my trust fund, for when I turn twenty-one. Why?”

  Dad is trying to get Joe to sell. He wants to turn Fowler & Malone into Malone & Malone. I reckon that second Malone is supposed to be me, but this wouldn’t be the first time he does or decides something regarding my future without asking me first. He’s in for a rude awakening.

  Either way, it’s not going to work out. Joe doesn’t want to sell. He just asked Dad to stop pushing it. They’re building something great, and they can make it even better if they stick together, without constantly poking Dressler Corp. I’m inclined to agree with Joe on this one. This feud between Dad and Martin Dressler is starting to get really old.

  “Oh, crap, there’s Elias,” Janelle whispers, and I follow her gaze.

  For a few seconds, I find myself unable to move. Elias is so annoyingly handsome, it’s like his ugly soul is perfectly camouflaged in that flawlessly tailored tuxedo. “Who’s that on his arm?” I ask.

  “Not his mother, for sure,” Janelle snorts.

  “Right. Where’d she run off to, exactly?”

  “Puerto Rico. With the divorce lawyer.”

  It’s my turn to chuckle. “That must’ve been brutal…”

  “Hey, the woman is living the life. She got twenty percent of all Dressler assets, and she’s humping a guy half her age. The very lawyer that Mr. Dressler hired to handle his side in the divorce procedure,” Janelle said. “He obviously got disbarred for that major conflict of interest, but I’ll bet he’s happy now, since he’s coupled with a very rich and divorced former Mrs. Dressler…”

  The ghost of an ache slices through my heart. I can only imagine what it must’ve all been like for Elias. His dad is strong. I’m sure he’ll get over it and find a way to screw the missus over, eventually. But Elias… ugh, that’s got to suck. And I should not be so sympathetic towards “the enemy,” as Dad likes to describe him.

  “Oh, speaking of… Have you heard?” Janelle asks, and I shake my head slowly, my attention fixed on Elias and the woman he’s with. She looks like she’s in her thirties, though I don’t see any semblance between them. I doubt she’s family. A date, perhaps? Elias does have a knack of getting into older women’s beds—or so the rumors go, at least.

  “Heard what?”

  “Mr. Dressler. Stage four liver cancer.”

  I am stunned. Breathless. For a moment, it feels like learning about my mother’s illness, all over again, only this time I’m old enough to understand exactly what this means, and where it will lead. “Say what, now?”

  “Cancer. My mom goes to the same oncologist for her yearly checkups. He handled her mastectomy. Anyway… He let it slip about Mr. Dressler. Apparently, it’s terminal, but he’s still fighting it. Chemo, alternative therapies, whatever new treatment he can get his hands on,” Janelle says.

  “Oh, god…”

  “Yeah, super sad,” Janelle sighs. “I actually feel sorry for Elias.”

  I nod slowly. “Yeah, me too.”

  “Your dad will pop open a bottle of champagne when he hears about it,” Janelle grumbles.

  “How about we keep this between ourselves for now?”

  She stares at me for a couple of seconds, then smiles. “Sure thing. I take it you’ve got some sympathy for the guy, after all?”

  “Kira Malone. Aren’t you a little underaged to be drinking champagne?” Elias’s voice makes the both of us jump.

  “Jesus fucking—” I stop myself and take a deep breath, my heart pounding. Putting on the snarkiest smirk I can conjure, I look up at him and his blonde and definitely mature bombshell of a date. “Aren’t you a little underaged to be dating a soccer mom?”

  Janelle stifles a chuckle, downing the rest of her champagne. She takes my glass, too, and discards them on a nearby table before she slips right back by my side. I need my wing-girl, after all.

  “I don’t have any children,” the blonde replies, raising an eyebrow at me, as if I’m the tiny bug she could easily scrape off her Louboutin shoe.

  “Your choice,” I shoot back, then point a finger at her and Elias. “But this here… it still counts as statutory rape.”

  Elias grins. “You’d have to prove it, first. All you’ve got is conjecture.”

  “Someone’s planning a second career as a criminal defense attorney, it seems,” Janelle mutters, clearly amused. The blonde lady is out of her league here, and she’s quick to realize it. I may be sixteen, but Elias and I have been at it for a very long time. On top of that, Janelle is the queen of snappy comebacks. This is one formula no one would want to waddle into.

  “Ignore the kitschy second-hand chandelier, Sarah,” Elias says, throwing Janelle a most contemptuous look. “She’s all bark, no bite. Much like this toothpick here,” he adds, sneering at me. Oh, I would love to wipe that expression off his face.

  “Elias Dressler. What brings you here?” Dad chimes in, rejoining our side of the party. On one hand, I’m relieved. If anyone can put Elias back in his place without me having to whip out my fists, it’s Dad. On the other hand, I’m horrified. My father has a tendency to go overboard where Elias is concerned.

  “Mr. Malone. I’m here for the diamond show, like everyone else,” Elias replies, his demeanor quickly shifting. He’s not a wolf anymore. He’s a hawk, watching us all from a high point, probably wondering whose entrails to rip out first. I’ll admit, I do admire his self-control. There was a time when Dad’s mere voice would make Elias’s face turn red. Not anymore.

  “Really? Can you even afford it after that massacre of a divorce your parents just went through?” Dad asks, wearing a most casual smile. Joe Fowler discretely squeezes his arm, but it’s not going to work. I know that look on Dad’s face. He’s going for the kill.

  “Dressler Corp has just opened a new shopping center in White Plains,” Elias says. “We’ve got a couple more complex projects in New Rochelle and Hartford, as well. We’re doing okay.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re bouncing back,” Dad chuckles, nowhere near ready to let this go. “How’s your mom?”

  That’s a low blow, even for William Malone. I hang my head in shame, while Joe intervenes, aiming to steer the conversation in a different, more benign direction. “I’ve heard about the White Plains mall. It’s got quite the square footage, doesn’t it?” he asks.

  Sarah is absolutely flabbergasted. My guess is Elias didn’t warn her about potentially running into one or both Malones. The poor lady…

  “It’s got 350 stores, sir,” Elias replies, his voice booming with pride. “And an aquarium.”

  “And who’s this lovely lady? Your aunt?” Dad cuts in. He’s already picked up a scent of blood from Elias’s expression upon mentioning his mother. He’s not going to stop now.

  “My date,” Elias says. “Sarah Johanssen.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Dad replies, offering to shake her hand.

  Sarah, however, doesn’t indulge. She’s too disgusted by the flurry of poisonous words that my father is willing to throw at Elias—I wonder if she knows about Mr. Dressler’s condition. “I can’t say the same, unfortunately,” Sarah says, holding her chin high. “Your business rivalry should not destroy the most basic tenets of civility. Elias, shall we go freshen our drinks?”

  Elias is thrilled by her response. Heck, even I’m impressed! “Sure thing,” he says, and they both walk away, leaving the four of us looking like absolute stooges.

  “That smug son of a bitch,” Dad grumbles, gnashing his teeth. “He’s barely growing pubes and he’s already talking about the Dressler malls like he fucking built them himself.”

  “You provoked him,” I say, and he shoots me a deadly glare.

  “We’re Malones. He’s a Dressler. That’s what life is all about!”

  “Budd
y… I think I need something stronger than champagne,” Joe replies, a diplomat as always. “What do you say we check what’s on their top shelf? I’ve heard about eighteen-year-old whiskies and other similarly exotic potions being served at Harry Winston’s bars.”

  It’s his best chance to get my father away from me before an argument breaks out. When it comes to Dressler Corp. and everyone associated with that company, Dad turns into a monster. A mindless, bloodthirsty monster. There’s enough hate in him to destroy an entire planet, and as terrible as it may sound, I’m actually relieved that whiskey can distract him from all that.

  “Yeah, sounds like a plan,” Dad mutters and follows Joe through the growing crowd.

  As soon as they’re out of earshot, Janelle and I look at each other. We exhale sharply in perfect unison. This is yet another bullet we’ve dodged, with both my dad and Elias Dressler. People think my life is ritzy and boring since I’m a trust fund baby—they have no idea how dangerous a simple evening can get for someone like me.

  I wholeheartedly yearn for some simplicity and the most basic problems a teenage girl can have...

  16

  Kira

  Carlotta’s isn’t all that busy on a Thursday evening, which is why Dad prefers to have dinner here. We have our usual booth, close to the window, and the host, Giuliano, knows us well enough by now to bring garlic bread and sparkling water to the table along with the menus.

  Tonight, however, I seem to have arrived early. Giuliano greets me at the door with a broad smile. “Miss Malone! What a pleasure to see you again!” he declares in his stiff, Italian accent. He’s been in America for years, and some of our vocabulary might’ve rubbed off on him, but the voice of his home country persists, unyielding under the passage of time.

  “Good evening, Giuliano,” I say as I hand him my coat, briefly looking around. Our booth is definitely empty. “I take it my father hasn’t arrived yet?”

  “No, Signorina Malone. Have a seat, and I will be right back with the usual,” Giuliano replies.

  I give him a nod and walk between the tables, passing a few couples talking and sharing truffle pasta dishes. The smell is almost intoxicating, and I know Carlotta’s to be one of the few places in this side of the Hamptons where they source their truffles from upstate farmers. I’m definitely ordering the truffle pasta tonight. It’s not a regular dish here, but rather an occasional delight.

  Giuliano puts my coat in the wardrobe and comes back with a basket of garlic bread, two menus, and a bottle of San Pellegrino. “Will your father be joining you?” he asks.

  “He is. Or, at least he should be. It’s not like him to be late,” I say, checking my watch. If there’s one thing my father can never be faulted with, it’s tardiness. The man has Swiss precision.

  “That’s alright, the traffic is quite heavy at this hour,” Giuliano replies. “Would you like some tea while you wait for him? I suppose you’ll both be ordering at the same time…”

  “Yes. Good idea. A glass of jasmine tea would be fantastic. Thank you, Giuliano.”

  He walks away and comes back with a porcelain kettle and a matching cup on a silver tray, which he sets on the table.

  I watch the golden liquid splash and fill the delicate cup with a slender and curled handle, my gaze temporarily captured by the red poppy details on the side, then check my watch again. Dad is now more than twenty minutes late, so I text him, assuming he’s somewhere behind the wheel, cursing some red light. Giuliano heads back to his station by the door, as another couple comes in.

  There’s no answer from Dad, so I entertain myself with social media, though I quickly put the phone away, increasingly frustrated since Elias keeps popping up in my Facebook feed—always at times when the last thing I need is to see his face. The scent of jasmine fills my lungs, the golden liquid warming me up from the inside, and I start to relax, ever so slightly. I think of Margaret and what she said. I think of Janelle and what she said. I think of Elias and what he said. Eventually, my mind wanders back to my mother, knowing exactly what she would say, if she could see me now.

  I’m hanging from the edge of a cliff, and something is trying to pull me down. If I let go, if I abandon everything I’ve worked for until now, it will be nothing more than a pathetic surrender. But if I hold on, if I try to pull myself back onto high and steady ground… I’m in for a world of pain.

  I can only do this for so long before I either fall or climb. My challenge is to find the strength to do the latter before the former happens.

  Dad is half an hour late, and Giuliano is giving me a curious look. As if asking: “Where’s your father?” Not that I’d have an answer for him. I try calling, but after three rings, his voicemail message interjects. He just rejected my call, and now I’m irritated. Maybe he’s on his way. Maybe he’s in a bad mood. If that’s the case, then dinner tonight will be anything but friendly.

  A full hour goes by, and I’m still on my own. Giuliano has refilled my teacup and garlic bread basket a couple of times. He comes over with a faint smile, as if wary of asking what I already know he wants to ask. “Signorina, it’s not fair for you to be left on your own like this. Your father… Where is he?”

  “I have no idea,” I sigh, mentally kicking myself for actually putting forward the effort to keep this one thing between us alive. “Can I get the check, please? I’ve got a feeling dinner isn’t happening tonight.”

  “Of course.” He looks sad for me and as much as I should appreciate the fact that he – a stranger – at least cares, I can’t help but hate the fact that I’m being pitied. He nods his head and turns away.

  Two minutes later, Giuliano comes back with the check, neatly tucked inside a leather holder, and an elegant paper bag with the Carlotta’s logo sprawling across both sides in gilded letters.

  “I took the courtesy of packing you some fresh cannoli for you to take home,” Giuliano says, smiling. “The chef is trying some new recipes, and I thought you might care to try them…”

  “Oh! Thank you, that is so sweet!” I say, my mouth already watering. “How is Nunzio, by the way? Are these cannoli exotic new endeavors, or has he gone back to the classics? I know he sometimes oscillates between the two…”

  Giuliano chuckles. “I have managed to convince him that the classic and homey styles are much more appreciated than that molecular gastronomy he tried to inject into our dessert menu.”

  “Glad to hear that,” I reply, while he processes my card payment. “I will scarf these down later and let you know which ones I liked most, the next time I see you. How’s that?”

  “It sounds like a plan, Signorina,” Giuliano says, handing back my card.

  He walks me back to the door, while I check my phone for the umpteenth time. “I’m sorry dinner didn’t come through this time around,” I tell him. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure we’ll be back next Thursday.”

  “Save some of that cannoli for your father, then, Signorina,” Giuliano replies, and I bid him a fond farewell.

  Walking back to my car, I do a brief assessment of all the people I meet with, on a more or less regular basis. Most of them are wonderful—kind creatures who’ve known me since I was a little girl. Giuliano is definitely one of them. My parents used to bring me to Carlotta’s quite often. Then it was just me and my dad.

  Growing up in Trinity has had its share of benefits. Sure, it’s full of pompous bastards, but it’s also home to a lot of good people and family businesses that I, for one, take great comfort in supporting. We all know each other, either closely or merely on a simple “Hello! Good day!” basis. I’m never truly alone here. That, of course, does not mean I don’t get lonely.

  Ever since Mom died, I’ve suffered, especially since Dad was never really around, always busy with Fowler & Malone and his numerous charities. To this day, I resent him for not being more than a familiar stranger in my life.

  Stopping in front of my car, I check my phone again. Still nothing.

  “Son of a bi
tch,” I mutter. “Sorry, Grandma. You’re a doll, but Dad’s an asshole.”

  I get behind the wheel and pull out of the parking lot, smiling at the roaring sound of the engine. The Aston Martin didn’t cancel out any of my father’s sins, but it’s definitely more than any girl could’ve wished for as a present for her Sweet Sixteen. I’ve been a conscientious car owner, though. This baby will live to see a hundred years, and she’ll still be snarling and bolting through highways like nobody’s business.

  The thing that bothers me the most is that Dad stood me up. He rejected my call. He didn’t even bother to send me a last-minute text canceling, like he would normally do. I’m left feeling awkward, and I’ve got enough on my plate, as it is.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have turned out like this, had I had a better father.

  How much can I blame him for, though? And for how much longer? More and more of my choices are dependent upon my own judgment, not his. I’m starting to feel more like one of the spoiled rich girls that end up topless on tabloid covers, and less like the ambitious ballerina who once brought the whole of Trinity to a standing ovation.

  Upon reaching home, I find myself stunned, and not in a good way. There’s a car outside, right next to Dad’s. A car I know.

  “Elias,” I murmur, getting out of my Aston.

  My blood boils. What the hell is Elias doing here? Why is Dad home, and not at the restaurant, where he should’ve been?

  Suddenly, I’m bombarded by too many questions which I cannot answer unless I go into the house—that brings a host of new problems, since I’m almost certain that Elias is inside. Given how much Dad hates him, I think I should be worried. Then again, Elias is likely faster and stronger than Dad. The mere thought of a violent scenario makes me tremble. I’m a leaf in the wind now, breaking into a cold sweat as I make my way towards the house.

  Putting one foot in front of the other while trying to keep myself calm, I reach the door and go in. As soon as I’m in the lobby, my father’s laughter booms through the entire house and startles me. I hold my breath for a moment, waiting to hear something else. Voices. Elias and Dad. The clinking of glasses. They’re both laughing now.