Vanni: A Prequel (Groupie Book 4) Read online

Kate and Carl are affectionate and get along well together, which is quite an accomplishment for thirty-seven years of marriage. I envy them, honestly. To have someone that you know you can count on for decades on end? I find it so hard to imagine. The closest I got was Lori, and we all know how that turned out.

  I glance over at Sasha again, wondering what went wrong in her marriage.

  When her ex shows up to take the kids to his parents’ house, all my questions are sadly answered.

  Philip is a tall man with stern features and a shock of red hair. I assume that’s where Hugo gets his. But that’s where the similarities end between Philip and his offspring. Instead of the wide smile and playful nature of his son, Philip is picky about the clothes she’s wrestled onto her kids, clothes that instantly got dirty with some whipped cream from the pie that they ate. “I thought you would have them ready, Sasha,” he says, his voice dripping with disdain. He looks me up and down. “I guess you were busy.”

  I hold out my hand. “Joe,” I greet. “So nice to meet you. Sasha’s told me all about you.”

  Her eyes dart to mine but I just wink at her.

  “Funny,” he retorts stiffly. “She hasn’t told me a thing about you.”

  “Not much to tell,” I say as I wrap an arm around her drooping shoulders. “We just met.”

  “Good for you,” he sneers. He turns back to Sasha. “Did you pack their suitcases?”

  She takes a deep breath to calm herself. “Of course. They’re on the stoop.”

  “Oh yes. The porch. What a great place for them.” We follow him and the children out to the bricked porch in front. The suitcases sit, nice and tidy, on the step, but Philip makes a face anyway. “I guess I can put them in the trunk so they won’t get my car dirty.” He sends Sasha a venomous stare. “Maybe next time you can think ahead.”

  Again I step forward. “Sorry, pal. That was my bad. Here, let me help you.” I take the frilly pink suitcase and pull it by the handle right through a puddle. I then sit it in his pristine trunk with a shit-eating smile. “Happy thanksgiving,” I say, daring him with the glint in my eye to make an issue of it.

  He grumbles a reply before he gets the kids situated in the car, a nice car that had to cost him a good chunk of money.

  Funny how everything about him seemed to cost money, from the watch on his wrist to his designer clothes. And I knew they were designer clothes because I had seen enough of them in my shopping excursions with Frankie.

  He wasn’t that different from all the other men who paraded in and out of the spas, primping and pampering themselves courtesy of all their excess cash. And yet here his kids live in a cramped house, taken care of by a mother who has to juggle parenthood two jobs just to get them all back on their feet.

  That he had the audacity to look down on Sasha just because she struggled only pissed me off even more. I already had daddy issues. I didn’t want to see some elitist asshole shit all over a struggling, blue-collar working mother her young kids just because he could.

  Sasha stands in the street waving at the car until it turns out of sight. I can tell by the way her expression melts from a smile into a frown just how hard it is for her. I wrap my arm around her shoulder again and guide her back into the house.

  Instead of going back in to the living room with Carl, I follow Sasha into the kitchen to help her put away the bountiful buffet. “Well, he’s just prince charming, isn’t he?” I quip.

  “He wasn’t always such a dick,” she assures. “Then he got a better job, made a lot of money, found another girl, or three, or ten, and voila! Instant asshole.”

  “That sucks,” I say, unable to think of anything deeper and more meaningful to offer.

  She chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah. It kinda does.”

  “At least he wants to be there for his kids, I guess. Though I’m not sure what’s worse… an absentee dad, or an asshole dad.”

  She shrugs as she starts to load the dishwasher. “The grass is always greener, or so they tell me.”

  Once the kitchen is spotless, I suggest that we go for a walk. She doesn’t fight me on it. I can tell she’s still depressed about the encounter with her ex, and the fact that her children weren’t there with her on a family holiday. She’s quiet as we set off down the block, and I don’t say much to engage her. I figure comfortable silence is probably best.

  Finally she slides me a sideways glance. “Thanks for coming today, Vanni. I appreciate it.”

  “Oh, I’m Vanni now?” I ask with a cheeky grin. She laughs.

  “You’ll always be Joe to me.”

  “I can live with that,” I tell her. “And hey, you did me a huge favor today. If I had to spend the day in my old brownstone, I’d have been a wreck. The firsts are always the worst.”

  “Firsts?”

  “First big milestones without a loved one. Yeah,” I spare her a sardonic smirk. “I know all about the firsts. At first, it was my dad who skipped out. I was really young but some of my first memories are those big events when I couldn’t figure out what had happened to him. That first birthday without him, that first Christmas.” I sigh. “I was three years old when I started asking Santa to bring my father back. Funny thing is I don’t think I’d have recognized the fucker if Santa had managed to do it.”

  “I’m sorry, Vanni,” she says softly and I just shrug.

  “Shit happens. You know how that is.” She nods. “Losing Mama hurt a lot worse. The hole was just bigger and nothing seemed to fit. I mean, Aunt Susan tried to fit. She did whatever she could to make it easy for me, especially the holidays.” My heart lurches a little when I realize that this birthday will be the first one in a long, long time without my aunt’s silly surprise parties. That, and Christmas Eve… I don’t know how I’m going to handle it all. “Little did I know it would be the first Christmas without the both of them. I can’t even bring myself to open the gifts she gave me yet. They’re still wrapped, stacked up in the attic somewhere, waiting. You want to ask me where Joe went? I think he died that day too.”

  She takes my hand in hers. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think Joe is alive and well and hidden under there somewhere, beneath all the hurt, wrapped and waiting like your presents. You just have to be brave enough to open that box.”

  “Such wisdom,” I tease.

  “Call me the asshole-whisperer,” she says with a broad smile that makes me laugh. I pull her under one arm and she doesn’t fight it. In fact, it feels rather nice.

  We walk around the neighborhood, where she shows me where she went to school, where she broke her first bone (the monkey bars at the park,) and where she had her first kiss under her parent’s huge sycamore tree.

  I pull her to me and kiss her upturned nose. She gives me another smile before she reaches for a spontaneous hug.

  It doesn’t go any further than that, but it doesn’t have to. Our day was spent in comfortable companionship, and I know better than to screw with that. It’s nice to have a relationship where there are no expectations.

  Besides, she’s got kids. Now that I met them, trying to seduce their mother is out of the question. They need her more. And I’m not going to be yet another asshole who lets her down. Who lets them down.

  Frankly the thought of living up to their expectations is frightening as hell. I’d rather remain a nice, faint memory of that guy that showed up once for Thanksgiving.

  That night I go back to the brownstone. After a month in Manhattan, it looks smaller and more run-down than it did before. I can’t face the bedroom where my aunt drew her last breath. I thought I had exorcised these demons months before, but now the voices dance off of the walls like tiny echoes, and I know what they’re saying. My aunt would say exactly what Sasha had said to me, that I didn’t have to sell out my integrity to make my dream come true.

  When I face myself in the mirror, I see the New Vanni staring back at me, more so than the Old Vanni, or even Joe, my new alter ego. The New Vanni is the one in control. He’s making things happen in
my world, to give me everything I always thought I wanted.

  And yet… surprisingly… it’s hard to be thankful. I know that no matter what this new life brings me, it can’t restore to me what I’ve lost, and that’s a painful reality to accept.

  The only thing that has kept me going for all these months has been my ambition to make something of myself. Something big. Something that can’t be denied, no matter how humble my beginnings.

  And if I don’t have that dream to chase, who the hell am I?

  I sigh deeply before I turn out the light in the bathroom. I walk right past the sofa I’ve already prepared for bed. I grab my coat and my keys and hail a cab back to Manhattan.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  The first few weeks of December fly by. There’s nothing quite like the holiday season in New York, especially Manhattan. There are so many things to see and to do, and Tina’s social calendar is booked solid. I’m on her arm for movie premiers and Broadway shows, though I don’t get mentioned much more than “guest” these days. There are new stories for the tabloids to chase now.

  I’m just the no-name escort, and they probably think I’m paid to do it. After all, I’m not famous enough to truly warrant Tina’s attention. So I disappear on the sidelines while they concern themselves with what designer’s dresses she happens to wear.

  That’s all fine with me. I have bigger things to worry about. My show at Fritz’s is on December 17th, the last Saturday before my birthday, possibly the hardest birthday I’ll face in my life.

  I mostly hammer out the details of the gig over the phone with Cheryl, who is the only one who will return my calls.

  By December 15th, I head down to Fritz’s to personally oversee the details. This show means a lot to me, probably more than any other show I’ve done thus far. Its importance is second only to the NYE show at Sedução, since that could secure a gig for us heading all the way into summer.

  Money hasn’t been much of an issue since moving in with Tina. She does pay me to accompany her to different events, mostly because it takes away from the shows we could be performing otherwise.

  That and it keeps our relationship strictly business, which is most comfortable with both of us. We are doing things that demand a certain level of trust, with kinky sex games and role playing that lets Tina break out of her titan persona and worship at the altar of another god for once.

  We’re not in love. Far from it. And one day, when she gets bored of me and wants to conquer yet another challenge, I want to have a little more to show for my time than a few more chapters to my lovemaking manual.

  By the time Tina’s hired car arrives at Fritz’s that Thursday afternoon, my bank account is slowly creeping back towards the five figure mark again. Eventually I’ll get a car so I won’t have to be driven everywhere, but I figure that will come when I get the steady gig at Sedução.

  When I get to Fritz’s, the neighborhood bar looks much smaller. I see every imperfection I never noticed before. Every chip of paint on the walls, every scratch on the bar. None of it is shiny and new like Sedução, which has become my second home.

  The stage is tiny, much tinier than I remember. I have no idea how we’re going to fit everything on it.

  “Hey, Vanni,” Cheryl greets as she approaches. “How does it look?”

  I check myself immediately. Otherwise I’ll hurt her feelings. “Great,” I lie. “Everything ready to go?”

  “I think so,” she says. “I mean obviously we can’t accommodate the kind of lighting rig that you wanted to bring in. No pyrotechnics, nothing like that. Sorry.”

  “No worries,” I tell her. “If nothing else, we can do the whole thing unplugged. As long as I celebrate my birthday here, I’m golden.”

  “If you’re sure,” she says and I nod.

  I’m still working on how to accommodate my show with the venue’s limitations when Pam arrives. I suck in a breath when I see her stride through the door. She doesn’t see me at first. Instead she has a ready smile for Cheryl, who is preparing the bar area for the evening ahead. She shrugs out of her jacket as she heads to the bar.

  I can’t deny it. She looks great. She’s even gained a little weight since I’ve seen her last. Her hips are fuller, as are her breasts. Her hourglass figure makes my arms ache to hug her and pull those soft, appealing curves closer to me.

  Her skin is clearer, no doubt thanks to all the marital intercourse she must be having. I try not to snarl as I think about Doug. He gets to hold her every single night, the lucky bastard.

  How can I still want this woman? I’m fucking one of the hottest ladies in New York City, and yet just seeing Pam again has me salivating like a dog.

  I just can’t get over the fact that she will never belong to me. That subtle promise she had made with her eyes time and time again, every time she looked up at me like I could hang the moon, has come undone.

  By no surprise, “Come Undone” is on the set list for our intimate performance at Fritz’s.

  The only thing worse than not being able to have her is not being able to talk to her about it. And that’s what I miss most. When I was at my lowest, she was able to pick me up and set me right again. If that’s not love, then what is?

  And it’s that love I want. I want it more than I want to screw around with Tina. I want it more than I want to stack up lovers by the dozen after each and every show.

  I just want someone to give a shit. And when no one else could manage to do that, she did.

  How can I let go?

  I walk over to the bar. Cheryl, who spots me coming, discretely excuses herself. When Pam turns to face me, it’s like an electrical current surging throughout my entire body.

  From the look in her eyes, I know she feels it too. “Hi, Pam,” I say. Just saying her name feels intimate, like a verbal kiss.

  “Vanni,” she says with a tremor in her voice. She glances over my new clothes. I reek of money and I know it. “You look good.”

  “So do you,” I compliment in return. “Married life really agrees with you.”

  She turns away. It sounds like I’m baiting her for another argument, but I’m not. At least I don’t think I am.

  Instead she changes the subject. “Has everything been coming together for the show?”

  “I think so. I mean, you were right, the stage is a little small, but we can work with it.”

  She nods. “Good. Gotta say, you’ve practically sold out. You were right. Everyone wants to know about the hometown boy who did good.”

  I give her a grin. “I’m still at the starting gate. There will be more to celebrate next year.” Her gaze falters. “How about you? Do you have good things to celebrate this year?”

  Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant, please don’t tell me you’re pregnant…

  “Of course,” she answers with a sunny, albeit forced, smile. “The bar is doing really well, much better than a year ago. Dad’s biopsy came back clean. Mom just lost fifteen pounds…,”

  I interrupt her. “I meant with you. Are you okay? Are you happy?”

  She chuckles nervously. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I swallow any retort. “How’s Doug?”

  “He’s out of town,” she answers, though I can tell she doesn’t want to.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s a pilot,” she explains. “No holidays off.”

  “I wish I had known that,” I tell her. “I would have come by to say hello on Thanksgiving.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “I went to see you,” she admits softly.

  “You did?” She nods. “Why?”

  “I was worried that you’d be alone in that old house by yourself, without Lori, without your aunt. And that just seemed sad to me. I know the firsts are.”

  My heart aches that she knows about the firsts. And that she cared enough to want to help me through one of them. That’s classic Pam at her best, and what I miss most. “I wish I’d been home,” is all I can say.

  “Probably for the
best.”

  Finally I nod. “I guess so.”

  But I can’t get her out of my mind for the rest of the day. I can’t stop wondering what might have happened had I chosen to stay at the brownstone that Thanksgiving, and if she had shown up, all alone, maybe with some Chinese takeout or something, so that we could share our lonely holiday together.

  Just thinking of having her alone at the brownstone is enough to make my gut twist. It’s like I keep getting so close to everything I want, and it just keeps skipping on past.

  I’m out of sorts that night as I return to the penthouse. I prowl around the empty space, amped up with no way to release the tension. I end up in Tina’s large tub overlooking the city, soaking to my neck, my hands on my body as I daydream about Pam–the only one who got away.

  I know that’s why I want her. I try to remind myself that she’s married. She’s married. She’s married.

  But God, how I want her. I spend my night jacking off, indulging in naughty fantasies, thinking of how she looks, how she sounds, how she feels. I come hard thinking about her, but I’m still in a state when Tina returns that night. I pick her up at the door and carry her up to her sumptuous round bed. We topple together and I make quick work of her clothes, tossing them aside.

  And though she responds to my touch, and though she knows just where to touch, suck or please me, it still leaves me frustrated. Tina doesn’t miss a thing. “What’s wrong, Vanni?”

  “Just nervous about the shows,” I dismiss.

  She chuckles and reaches for some lotion next to her bed, to smooth into her delicate, perfect skin. “Nerves are for amateurs. You know what you need to do on that stage. I watch you do it every day in rehearsal. No one works harder than you, except for maybe Yael.”

  It’s high praise, especially coming from her. I open my mouth to say that it’s not about the performance at all. I need everything to go well because of how wrong it all went last December. Fate fucked me over well. I’ll never approach another birthday or another Christmas without wondering which shoe is going to drop. It has to be perfect because I’m too afraid of it all going to shit… because it always seems to go to shit.