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Chapter Two

Cleopatra

Blaze. My once-stepbrother, too hot even for Hollywood, recently turned mafia man, whom I avoided like norovirus in the classroom ever since I accidentally had sex with him at his brother’s wedding.

I can’t believe she’s bringing him up. “I will not resort to the mob,” I tell Seraphine. “You know I opposed Blaze’s involvement from the beginning.” I reiterate what I tell my class: “Violence is never the solution.”

She arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me. “What about a perfectly tailored pair of concrete boots for the bastard? The Harlem River looks rather hungry.”

“Could I pull off a Carmen Soprano ’90s manicure?” I waggle my plain fingernails before her.

She smiles. “You’re Cleopatra. You could pull anything off. ”

“Thanks, friend.” I sigh. “Anyway, even if I was to go all baddie on Keith’s ass and call Blaze?—”

“Whoa there!” She raises a hand once more, playfully interrupting me, her curls bouncing with the movement. “Let's avoid that phrase, okay? I forgot how amusing it is when you try to cuss!”

“Rude, Seraphina.” I glance down at my clear nail polish, trying to picture long red acrylics in their place. Who am I kidding? A nude pink is as daring as I will ever go.

“Sorry, boo, but it’s true.” She beams that gorgeous grin at me, and I instantly forgive her. “I like you pure. You’re a good girl. Cursing doesn’t suit you.”

“Right. If good girls don’t cuss, they certainly don’t place hits on their ex-boyfriends. Besides, Blaze is currently in Italy. And I don’t believe in violence,” I remind myself.

I have my phone in my back pocket, and it goes off with my dad’s ringtone: Heartbreak Hotel. Groaning, I leave my phone where it is and sink further into the couch.

“Uh-oh. You’re usually one of those perky, answer-on-the-first-ring kinda girls,” she says. “Who is that?”

“My dad.” The last thing I need right now.

She raises a brow in question, “Falcon, the butcher?”

“Yeah.”

“Your family sure has some weird names.”

“Okay— Seraphina…”

She laughs .

Did my Dad see the video? I sit straight up. “Dear God in heaven, do not tell me my Dad’s seen me naked.” I grab my phone from my pocket and read the voicemail transcript.

Seraphina leans over my shoulder. “And what does the purveyor of fine meats have to say on this glorious morning?”

“Hang on. I’ll read it to. you.” I share the message with her. “Check your mail, sweetheart! An invitation should have arrived at your house. I’ve got a huge surprise for you?”

“What do you think it is?” she asks.

I don’t know, but knowing Dad, my life is about to get turned upside down even more.“No idea.”

She wrinkles her nose. “For a self-proclaimed ‘good girl,’ you got more drama in your life than one of those B-list porn-releasing celebrities.”

“You’re not kidding,” I agree. “The last time Dad sent me an invite was to his wedding to Sharon Harrison.”

“MMM, mmm, mmm,” she nods. “Bringing that fine-ass stepbrother of yours into our lives.”

My dad and I moved into her house in the Bronx, where I went through a confusing phase trying to avoid seeing my new brother come out of the bathroom wearing only a towel around his chiseled waist.

“Ex-stepbrother,” I correct. “The marriage lasted as long as Keith did in bed.”

She laughs. “Good one.”

I give a weak, “Thanks. ”

“He’s a real man. Tall, dark-haired, older than us, and with powerful people backing him up, he can clean this up for you.” She fixes her gaze on mine, so intense that I can see the gold flecks in her hazel irises. “Blaze is now a powerful member of the Bachman Brotherhood. He may be based in Italy, but he has ties. Strong ones. His people run this city. And he’s the only person in your life who can make this disappear. He can get this video down.”

“I still can’t believe they are real.” I had heard whispers about them in the city but viewed them as fairies or goblins—entities that could exist but seemed too fanciful. “Or that Blaze and his brother joined and now live in Italy.”

“People at work were always attempting photos of that compound with the brownstones and brick walls, saying it was their Village, a mini town hidden in plain sight, but I didn’t think it was real until Tabby confirmed it.” She takes a breath. “I would call Tabby’s dad, but I’m not supposed to know. She swore me to secrecy.” She studies my face and asks, “You haven’t told anyone what she said, right?”

“No,” I reach out, linking pinkies with her and shaking. “I have not spilled the beans that you informed your favorite bestie that the father of your childhood best friend is in the mob.”

“Good. Tabby would kill me. I’m not even supposed to know but she had one too many Moscato’s that night.”

“Cheap wine will do that.”

“What?”

“Make you spill your secrets.”

“It does go down quicker than the good stuff, doesn’t it? ”

“Yeah.”

“Tough times are the opposite of cheap wine.” She places her hand over mine. “They’re long, difficult, and painful to endure. Sometimes we need help.” Our eyes meet. “You should reach out to Blaze.”

“I’ll think about it.” I’m not going to call him.

The humiliation of having my lady folds on display to the world isn’t enough for me to invite Blaze back into my life.

The risk is too high.

After the wedding, I told myself I would never think of Blaze again, but lying under Keith as he pumped away, ignored my clit while the sweat beading on his forehead threatens to drip on me, I fantasized about Blaze.

After last night, I dream of him, too, apparently.

I’m not foolish enough to be the good girl who inevitably gets played by the bad boy. Who she was at one time related to. If only by law.

Still icky.

After a lukewarm shower, I pick a loose patchwork dress from my overnight bag and grab my orange carryall. Seraphina kisses my cheek as I leave for work.

When I finally get through the side-eyes and whispers from other teachers in the hall, I enter the safety of my kindergarten classroom, only to find my mind wandering to Dad’s voicemail. What woman is he upheaving his life for, now? Dropping my bag into a drawer, I slide into my cushy office chair, wheeling it behind my heavy wood desk .

Instantly, I’m greeted by a curious Poppy, one of my brightest students. I’ll probably recommend she skip a grade at the end of this year. She’s the kind of kid who could get into a lot of trouble if she gets bored.

She peers at me over the pink plastic frames of her glasses. “Why don’t you have eyebrows today?”

I squint at my reflection in the metal pencil cup on my desk. “I slept over at a friend’s house last night and forgot to grab my makeup bag.”

“Teachers have sleepovers?” she asks.

I shrug. “Sometimes.”

“My mom said I’m too young for sleepovers.” Poppy shrugs her little shoulders, mimicking me. “Kinda makes me think you might be too old.”

“Probably.”

“Your face is kinda scrunchy today, too,” she adds. “You look worried.”

“I got a voicemail this morning that told me to check my mail. But I wasn’t home?—”

“Cause the sleepover,” she interjects.

“Right,” I nod. “This is just my wondering face.” I lie to comfort her. “I’m wondering what was in the mail.”

She stares at me, her brow creasing for a moment before saying, “Maybe the mail was a card from your grandpa. Mine always sends me a ten-dollar bill on my birthday, but Mom says it’s just to peas his guilt for working on his tan in Florida with beary weevils instead of coming to visit me.”

Beary weevils?

Barely Legals…

“It’s not from my grandpa,” I say, hoping to close the subject.

She adds, “My mom’s face always gets scrunchy like yours when he sends the card.”

Despite my better judgment, I say, “It’s from my dad. I’m worried he’s getting married again.”

Her eyes light up. “You get to be the flower girl!”

“If I’m too old for sleepovers, I’m too old to be a flower girl.” I shake my head, smiling at her.

She gives a curt nod of agreement. “Good point.”

The rest of the day goes by in a haze. I avoid the teacher lounge as if stomach bug germs are covering every surface in that room. I might have taken a personal day if my kids didn’t have a sight word test today.

Let’s be honest, though… I can’t imagine giving up control of my classroom to a substitute teacher.

Ever.

After school, my stomach twists in knots as I walk to Keith’s place, a shoebox of an apartment in a creaky old 1900s building that I’ve grown to love, minus the scent of cooking lamb that wafts up from the first floor.

When he sees it’s me, will he close the door in my face ?

Worse yet…

Will seeing his face make me sink into that dark place of rejection, self-hatred, and the sheer agony of a broken heart?

I’m suddenly standing in front of the door, our door, its black paint peeling, yet unable to recall climbing the stairs to get here. The aroma of roasting lamb wafts from the kabab shop, aggravating my already queasy stomach. I lift my hand, slowly curling it into a fist to knock.

I’m terrified.

There’s been no time to process. I haven’t even cried. It’s all been so sudden.

I didn’t even want to break up.

Even after being humiliated.

Cheated on.

My trust broken.

My world rocked.

What I believed to be the solid foundation of my future crumbles beneath me, and tears well up at the corners of my eyes as I stand here, my hand poised in the air. My stomach goes queasy, thinking of how I must demand that he remove the video.

Bravery was never one of my qualities.

Bile rises in the back of my throat. I think I’m going to be sick. My hand falls to my side without knocking. I stand there, drumming up the courage to confront Keith .

Then the door opens. I want to turn and run, but instead, I stay, taking a deep breath and reminding myself to breathe.

“What the heck happened to you?” I exclaim, taking in the state of Keith’s mangled face.

He breaks my gaze, glancing down the corridor like he’s looking for someone. “Nothing.”

Instantly, I switch into nurse mode. I grab his shoulder and lead him to the sink. I begin unrolling paper towels from the roll and running them under cool water. “This looks deep. What happened?”

He won’t meet my eye. “It’s fine.”

There’s a cut, a deep gash near his right eye. His nose is swollen and bloodied, and his lip is also split. I dab at the blood by his right eye with the cool, damp paper towels. “We need a doctor to check you out. You might need stitches?—”

“We?” He gives me a curt look. “There is no, we.”

“Right.” My hand falls away from his face. I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut. I swallow the lump of tears in my throat. “Still. You should have someone look at that.”

“I said it’s fine.”

I look away from him, my face heating from the rejection. I wait a moment before speaking, fearing my voice will betray my hurt. “Who did this?”

“No one.” He storms toward the bed. Lying down, he throws an arm over his eyes, as if to shield himself from the sight of me. Wincing, he brings his arm back down beside him on the bed .

Our bed. His bed. Their bed. He and his randy girl, Candy.

I follow him, still trying to dab at his face. “Let me at least get the blood cleaned up?—”

“Leave it, Cleopatra. It’s nothing.”

I murmur, “I need to get a few things. Then, I’ll be gone.”

Pain from his rejection pricks my chest. I go to the sink and throw the paper towel in the trash. If he doesn’t want my help, fine. I won’t continue to make a fool of myself. He’s done a good enough job of that for me. Brushing past him, I head to the tiny space that passes for a bathroom.

Like other teachers, I carry a large bag as a purse, which I now hold open, filling it with personal care items, my one prescription, and my makeup bag to avoid scaring Poppy with my sparse eyebrows.The familiarity makes the air close in around me, choking me. I can’t breathe. I need to escape this place.

Quickly, I breeze past him as I move towards the kitchen counter where we tend to leave everything. “Did I get any mail this morning?”

He mumbles at me. “Yeah. The red envelope. On the counter. Something from your dad.”

I glance over and see the card; I stuff it into my bag and give Keith one last look.

He’s staring up at the water-stained spot on the ceiling. He looks sad. Defeated. He’s wearing the shame of a man who just got his butt kicked.

I feel bad for him? —

Then he readjusts the pillow that’s under his head. The same one that he later shoves under my ass in that video, raising my hips in the way I like so he can hit that deep spot inside me. A tornado of unpleasant emotions whip through me all at once.

Revenge Porn!

Anger wins out over my other feelings, loosening itself from the wind tunnel and filling me up, hot, sticky, and burning.

“Keith. How could you do that to me?” I hate the emotional whine that’s rising in my voice. “It’s the most humiliating thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“I read your note. It pissed me off.”

“You cheated on me, for goodness’ sake! For months!”

“Yeah,” he snaps, venom seeping into his tone, “But I wasn’t fucking my sister.”

His words land like punches in my gut.

I feebly attempt to stand up for myself, but I place judgment on myself for that taboo, sexy night with Blaze. “Stepbrother. Ex-stepbrother. And we were on a break. I’m sure you were getting your fill of teenage waitresses then.”

“I always knew there was something between you two. I could feel it in the air. And the way he looks at you—he’s always got one eye on you, no matter who he’s talking to.” Keith shakes his head, suddenly, the morality police. “He’s a family member. It’s not right.”

I hurl an insult my kindergarteners would be proud of. “You’re not right! ”

I rush to the kitchen counter, taking my hate note in my trembling fingers. I read the final line, the admission I knew I shouldn’t make, the one I only left out of anger, which led to this entire disaster.

When we were on a break and I was in New York for the wedding, I had sex with Blaze, and let’s say I came more that night than I have in the last year with you.

He watches me from the bed with a vague expression as I tear the note into pieces, stuffing them into the garbage that will soon be overflowing now that I’m not here to take it out.

His voice is blank, drained of emotion. “Doesn’t matter now anyway. It’s gone. Down. Deleted. Did you not see my apology post?”

“No. I’ve been at school all day…”

A creepy, eerie feeling rises on the back of my neck like dozens of spidery legs crawling over my skin. I stare back at him.

Keith doesn’t apologize. Ever. At least, not to me. Someone would have had to make him—the very same person who turned his face into their punching bag.

A blaze that is about to meet an inferno.