Page 61 of Forgotten Comeback (Parisi Family #5)

Chapter

Sixty

Taylor

“On a scale of zero to ten, say, ‘I am cursed,’” my therapist instructs.

“I am cursed.” I try out the words. They don’t hold the scary emotional charge they once did when I first started EMDR.

“How true does that feel?” she prompts.

“Zero.” I grin.

“And on a scale of zero to ten, say, ‘The man I love is going to die.’”

“‘The man I love is going to die.’” The words don’t choke me with fear, but I don’t like the sound of them on my tongue.

“What number?”

“Three. But that’s only because he has a dangerous job,” I explain.

“The man I love is going to die because of me. How true does that feel?”

“‘The man I love is going to die because of me.’” I pause, feeling into my body. “Zero,” I say triumphantly.

My session ends, and I step outside to find Gavin waiting for me. “How’d it go?” he asks, opening the car door for me.

“I love you. Say it back.” I grin, bouncing excitedly.

“I love you.” He helps me into the car before hustling around to the driver’s seat.

I try to crawl over the console, but he stops me. “What’s wrong?”

“One more week, and then I’m going to destroy this pussy,” he promises.

“Why do we have to wait a week?” I cry incredulously. “I love you; you love me. So show me.”

He grips the steering wheel so tight I’m afraid he’ll rip it from the dash. “My last bout, I channeled all my sexual frustration into beating my opponent. I want to keep that laser focus going into the championship.”

“This is bullshit.” I cross my arms, staring him down.

He shrugs. “This is loving a boxer.”

Like a petulant child, I pout all the way to…the boardwalk. “What are we doing here?”

But he doesn’t tell me, leading me to the ticket booth and buying tickets for one ride. We get in line for the ferris wheel, and like a Pavlovian response, my pussy tingles in anticipation.

“We’re not here for that,” he warns me, and I resume pouting.

We’re ushered to our seat, and the bar closes, as we begin our ascent. I’m hopeful Gavin’s changed his mind by the way he’s looking at me, but instead of placing his hand on my thigh, he reaches inside his pocket.

“What’s that?” I eye the little black box.

He answers by opening it, and I gasp. It’s a spiderweb ring made of black and white diamonds. “I love you, and you love me. Let’s be not crazy for the rest of our lives together. Marry me.”

I open my mouth, then close it.

“It’ll have to be a civil and not a legal ceremony,” he continues. “But we’ll be husband and wife in our eyes, and they’re the only ones who count. Taylor, be my wife.”

“You’re denying me, and now telling me I can’t have a legal wedding, and that’s your proposal?” I raise an eyebrow.

“It’s either I marry you or my dick, but you’ve already stopped that wedding once.” He smiles smugly. “We know you can’t share me, even with my right hand.”

“Gavin?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Stop running your mouth and put the ring on my finger.”

“Is that a yes?” he asks hopefully.

“Yes,” I say, my eyes welling with tears. “Let’s be not crazy for the rest of our lives together.”

“Together,” he promises, slipping the ring on my finger and kissing me sweetly.

My studio bell rings, and I hurry to the front door, ushering Inferno inside. “Thanks for agreeing to this,” I tell my future brother-in-law of sorts. Now having met John, Inferno’s mask is identical to his twin’s face. It’s the bendiest of mind bends.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he warns, whatever that means.

“I’ll have you positioned over here, seated on the stool.” I lead him to the area I have set up. “We’ll work in thirty-minute increments and take five-minute breaks. Try to be as still as possible, but if you have to move, no big deal.”

Inferno unbuttons the top of his dress shirt, and using both hands, he grabs the edge of the mask.

It’s peeled off like a second skin, and I suppress a gasp.

What he’s been hiding is a shock to the system: his face and neck, severely scarred, like the man’s been dipped in a vat of acid.

“What are your artistic thoughts so far?” He challenges.

I go with honesty. “Your form is disturbing, yet interesting. I don’t want to look, but I also don’t want to look away.”

His lips lift ever so slightly before he places the mask on the table and returns to the stool. “Proceed.” It feels as if I’m getting a peek at something forbidden, like sneaking into hell and watching the devil seated on his throne as he laments the choices that got him there.

Creativity buzzes beneath my skin as my charcoal flies over the pages, filling one after the other. Only when I look up at the clock do I realize we’ve been at it for two hours. “I’m so sorry; we went longer than I promised. Let’s take a break.”

“No apology necessary.” He rises and gives his neck a roll, a move Gavin does often. “May I see?”

“Please,” I tell him, and he walks over to examine my work. He eyes them without expression, and I hold my breath.

After a painfully long stretch of silence, Inferno says, “I would like to commission you to paint a mural in my office, with Dante ‘vibes.’”

“Dante’s Inferno?” I clarify, and he slices his head. “You have a sense of humor, then.”

“More a sense of the macabre. We have that in common, don’t we?” He muses, eyeing some of his sketches that I’ve given devilish qualities.

“Yes,” I admit. “I’m a twin like you, except I absorbed mine,” I say for some reason.

“Cannibalism?” he asks, as if we’re discussing something mundane like the weather.

“Oh my God, no, it was vanishing twin syndrome. It happened in the womb,” I explain.

“Ah,” he says thoughtfully. “What was your twin’s name?”

I blink. “My mom never named her.” New therapy topic unlocked. “Anyway, I guess you heard the news about me and Gavin.”

“Yes.” He watches me, but doesn’t comment.

“The socially acceptable response is to say, “Congratulations.” I motion with my hand.

“Your marriage to my brother won’t be legal,” he says instead.

“We prefer less government involvement in our affairs.” Gavin told me Rocco was dead, and I’m guessing that wasn’t just a metaphor.

“But you will become a part of our family, and you will always be protected,” he vows with an intensity that borders on the scary.

“Okay.” The devil’s giving me his blessing, and secretly, I’m beaming.

Inferno returns to his position on the stool, and I move to monochromatic watercolors, painting him—not in a dreamy—but a nightmarish free form. “What happened to you?” I finally work up the courage to ask.

“I died, but my body didn’t have the good sense to stay down,” he says in a sardonic tone. “Now, I get to cosplay being alive.”

“How’s that going?” I wonder.

He pauses a beat. “Depends on the day.”

I nod, that making perfect sense to me.

His phone notifies, and he removes a glove, his hand as mangled and scarred as his face. Retrieving his phone, he reads the message before silently placing his glove back on. Striding across the room, he uses the mirror to get his mask back into position. Without a word, Inferno walks out.

“The socially acceptable response is to say, “Bye,” I call after him.