Drips of blood slipped from the small nostril. Paul wiped at it, crying even harder when he pulled back knuckles smeared with red snot.
I bet he’ll never do that again. Unless he’s going to be the kind of man who doesn’t learn a lesson when he’s taught it. Lesson here. Picking your nose is fucking gross. No matter if your parents are screwed up or not.
I patted my pants, finding three suckers. I gave them each one and stuck the other back in my pocket. Peter dived right in. Paul had to catch his breath before he even tried. Once he did, he hiccupped, resting his head against Violet’s shoulder, his tongue flicking out every so often for a taste.
“Thank you,” she said, and then she started to cry.
Fucking Mitch.
“You okay?”
She nodded frantically. “I will be.”
“You might want to stay away from him for a while. Paris—”
“I know,” she snapped. “You don’t have to lecture me. Scarlett already gave me the speech.”
“Did you get her letter?”
“Yeah.” She adjusted Paul on her hip. “I’ll be there. But what about you?” Then she packed up her kids and left.
I stood out in the hot sun, letting it burn against my skin long after she had disappeared.
Back inside, Maggie Beautiful eyed Penny and Jane with contempt, her empty hand curling and uncurling, her fingers turning into the claws I’d seen her use more than a few times in barroom brawls.
“Non toccare che!” Maggie Beautiful yelled at Jane, who was back at the mantle. “Shoo! Shoo!”
The only time Maggie Beautiful ever spoke Italian was when she was frustrated beyond English. She could speak both Sicilian and Italian—she had a parent from each part, and with the languages being so different, she had been taught both. She glared at me before letting me know that she’d be waiting for me on the porch when I was done with myamicis stronzo. Asshole friends.
Jane’s face flushed bright red before she went to stand next to Penny in the kitchen, where Mitch huddled between them, still going over the magazine articles about Scarlett.
He stuck a finger to a picture of Scarlett when his eyes found mine. Only her face was in focus, dark makeup around her eyes making them pop out of the colorless photo, her hair wet around her shoulders.
“Like I was tryingto say,” he sneered at me. “A woman like this is no friend to men like us. Ain’t that right, Fausti?” He said my last name like a taunt. “You go away, for her own good, and what does she do? She finds herself in the arms of a rich, rich man. Dancing for him. Forgetting about the man who works until his hands bleed. Nah, that kind of woman isn’t good for a man like you or me. That type of woman needs carats, champagne, and caviar. The three Cs of the rich life. I mean, that’s why you sent her away, am I right? So she could reach her potential without interference?”
His mouth moved with the rhythm of his reading. He flipped the page. He grinned to himself as he used a finger to trace a picture of her in a dance position that had one foot en pointe and the other raised above her head, leg stretched straight as a board. A position that almost seemed unreal but showed how pliable she was.
“Says here she’s one of the most flexible dancers to date.” He sucked in a breath. “Fuck. That’s hot.” He looked at Penny. “Can you do that for me?”
She shook her head, a slight smile on her lips. She was so blinded by him that she had no idea that he had insulted her. Or she didn’t care.
“Talented!” He shook his head. “Our little Scarlett seems to live up to her name. Whatcha think, Fausti? Do you think her French boyfriend…” He snapped his fingers, pretending to try and remember. He stopped, lifting the hand in triumph. “Nemours, Violet said it was. Yeah, Nemours, that’s his name. Do you think the Frenchie has his tongue on her right now? Fu—”
His head thrust back with the strength of my fist connecting with his face. I held back, for his sake, but Mitch was a pretty savage fighter when inflamed. Still, I could’ve killed him.
I gave him a moment to recover before we started in on each other. Directing him toward the door, out to the porch, and on to the front lawn, we circled each other, like two boxers in the ring.
“What’s wrong, Lewis?” I said, taunting. “You mind when someone your own size makes your nose bleed? Or puts their hands on you?”
He took a swipe at me, but I moved to the side and he missed. Shaking his head, blood splattered in all different directions, like a dog shaking a wet coat. He kept his fists high.
“This is long overdue, Fausti,” he said, his speech nasally, blood running down into his mouth, making his teeth red. “You need to mind your own fucking business.”
I threw a punch, holding back, but still catching him in the gut. He doubled up but recovered quickly.
“What’s got you, Lewis? The fact that you can’t find a wife of your own?” Even through the haze of my anger, I knew three sets of eyes were watching, listening to our piece. “Or that you don’t know who belongs to who?” I was referring to Peter and Paul. “Or because you know that she’s not yours.” Violet was having a girl.
He swung like a madman, catching me in the mouth, splitting my lip. I let him, intent on feeling the pain.
