Peaches and the Gambler

  She hung up disconsolately, thanking her lucky stars that he hadn’t picked up. Where would that have lead? Nowhere, just as it had during the past five years.

  But still…was he really on the up and up? Or was he sleeping with someone else?

  **

  Vernon, wide awake beside a loudly snoring Monay and tangled up in a nightmare of floral throw pillows, guiltily looked at his cell phone as it vibrated the arrival of Peaches call.

  Oh, well. They were on a break so this didn’t really count.

  Chapter 20

  That same evening, Viviana found herself in a bit of a bind.

  “Get down from there!”

  Viviana hated to admit it, but she was in over her head.

  A very drunk and disorderly Cosimo was dancing, butt naked, upon the perilously rocking table now centered in the middle of the hotel suite she had booked for him.

  “Ti voglio bene, Viviana. I loooove you!”

  An empty fifth of Vodka, procured from the ABC store a block away, lay on its side on the hotel dresser top, guzzled some time ago by a very undisciplined Cosimo.

  When she had called Cosimo’s agent to arrange this visit, she’d mentioned nothing about his blazing alcoholism.

  Viviana’s questionable line of reasoning for arranging his appearance was to have a quasi well-known celebrity she could control on her arm. Then the paparazzi would ‘accidentally’ show up, snapping some juicy pictures of she and the minor Italian actor. These pictures would then somehow, make their way in front of her absent lover, in turn making him incoherent and hopefully filled with raging jealousy.

  However, things had taken a rather nasty turn.

  The journalist to whom she had anonymously tipped her presence had, to her disgruntlement, never even heard of her, and the Celebrity-She-Could-Control thing was so far out of her reach now, as to be in orbit around Mars.

  Both her objectives were abject failures. Thus far, all she had managed to achieve was to run up a very expensive airline and hotel bill and get a man extremely inebriated on cheap Vodka.

  The table, taxed far beyond the weight load it was designed to bear, finally came crashing to the ground. Cosimo, lolling about on the floor, blond hair extensions hanging wildly across his face, lifted his head, peered at the hopelessly destroyed table, then fell back, giggling.

  “Quiet it down in there! Some of us are trying to sleep!” A muffled voice howled from the room next door.

  Cosimo managed to steady himself enough to sit upright. He looked around dazedly, then focused his eyes on Viviana, crawling on all fours to where she was perched on the bed.

  He fawningly grabbed a hold of one of her feet, slipping her heel off and ogling her adoringly. His formerly quiescent penis began to bloom into a monstrous erection. Viviana gazed at it in growing alarm.

  “My beautiful, opera singer. I am so happy--,” he hiccupped, then giggled. “I am so, so, so, so happy to be your honored guest. Look what you do to Cosimo”

  He firmly placed her now bare foot against the length of his turgid penis before she had a chance to snatch it away.

  Rubbing himself with an increasingly frenzied rhythm against her foot, she struggled to liberate it, gripped as it was in fingers with the strength of a commercial clamp. He continued to rub, eyes glazed.

  “No!” she howled, watching as his penis pulsed and grew. The tip looked ready to explode. To no avail, she tried to pull her foot away, grabbing the covers and using them as leverage. It was a no go.

  She watched with a sort of fascinated resignation as the inevitable occurred.

  “Oh, oh, ohhhh!”

  An expression of pure, unadulterated pleasure crossed his face and then he came with a loud groan, cum shooting out at an angled trajectory that drenched both her foot and her lower calf.

  “God damn! Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”

  She finally wrenched her foot free. Because of the slippery human excrement upon her skin, she moved faster than she intended, kicking Cosimo square in the chin. He fell back with a little sigh, knocked out cold.

  Great. Now she could make her escape.

  Going into the bathroom, she turned on the water in the bathtub, vigorously scrubbing at her foot and drying it with a hand towel. She then gathered up her purse, creeping to the door. When she opened it, she was greeted by the explosion of a bright flash of light.

  The paparazzi had arrived.

  **

  Twenty-five year old tabloid photographer Rob Ray, or Roberto Rizzo as his family firmly called him, couldn’t believe his luck.

  Earlier that day, he had returned frustratingly empty handed from a covert photo shoot to capture steamy shots of some of the actors on location in Asheville, North Carolina filming The Hunger Games.

  In no hurry to return to New York to face the photo editor’s wrath, he made a detour to Roanoke Rapids to visit an old friend before heading back north. It was as he was checking into the somewhat dubious Hotel Excalibur, that he spotted opera singer Viviana Donnelly.

  She stalked into the lobby accompanied by a short, stocky man who was sporting strangely arranged blonde on black hair. It took every bit of restraint to prevent himself from snapping a picture right then and there.

  Fortuitously, there were two checkout desks separated by a large, potted plant. The two slid up to the empty counter just opposite where he was. Deliberately slowing down his check-in process, he avidly listened in on their conversation.

  They were speaking in rapid Italian and he thanked his lucky stars that his mother had hammered the language into his young, reluctant brain despite his protests.

  “Why do we have to stay at this hotel? It is below Cosimo’s standards,” the guy whined.

  “Well, Cosimo isn’t paying for this hotel so he’ll just have to deal with it,” Viviana hissed.

  “And what is that horrible smell hanging over the place?” he asked, wrinkling his nose theatrically. “Cosimo may get sick.”

  “It’s the paper factory,” she growled.

  “Cosimo hates the paper factory.”

  Cosimo, petulantly running his fingers through his hair, snagged the heavy gold ring on his index finger on an extension, accidentally ripping it out.

  “Shit!” He glared at the hair dangling from his finger. The clerk behind the desk struggled not to laugh.

  “What’s wrong now?” Viviana asked. Then she saw the hair hanging from his finger, “Oh. That is weave.”

  “What is weave?” he asked, quizzically.

  “Fake hair.”

  “No. It is all mine.” He shoved the offending hair into his pocket. A few stubborn strands remained.

  “Ok. Whatever.”

  They completed their check in and Rob hurriedly completed his own, ignoring the withering glare of impatience the clerk was shooting his way.

  He trailed them just long enough to discover their room number. Then he went to his own room to rest and wait.

  Growing up in Queens, it was hard to picture a young Italian thug loving opera, but he had. He hid this fascination from his group of rowdy friends, spending many a night dreamily listening to Cecilia Bartoli, Dmitri Hvorostovski, and of course the great Luciano Pavarotti. Most of the words on the albums he knew by heart.

  Now, hopefully, he would get to snap a picture of one of the most famous modern day opera singers in the world. His hands grew moist, trembling at the thought.

  He covertly trailed them, watching their comings and goings and waiting for the perfect moment. When they came back from the liquor store, he knew instinctively he was close. Liquor, beautiful women and short men with a Napoleon Complex, always made for something good and tawdry.

  Posting himself just behind an ice machine near an emergency exit at the end of the hall, he waited. Then feeling he was too far away, he boldly stood with his camera right outside the door.

  He heard a very audible crash, then moments later a squealed ‘No!’ He held his camera up, hands sweaty and tense on the lens.
r />   Fifteen minutes later, he captured a photo that would catapult him to instant tabloid history.

  **

  Augostino sighed, closing his eyes and settling back in the plush leather of a first class lounger aboard Aerea Italiana. Normally, he would’ve booked a private plane. But he found it more expedient to simply hop aboard a passenger plane. He eagerly anticipated arriving in the United States and seeing his beloved Viviana.

  The morning had been difficult.

  Angry about his impending trip, his wife had bickered with him from the moment his feet had touched the bedroom floor.

  First it had been about a new housekeeper with whom she had found fault. Evidently the young girl hadn’t allowed the sheets to fully dry, the end result being a faint mildewed odor clinging to the expensive Egyptian cotton in a most unacceptable way. Augostino hadn’t noticed, but then he rarely took offence at such minor things. The girl was, after all, only eighteen and fresh from the countryside, a few mistakes were to be expected. She was also terrified of his wife’s increasingly unpredictable temper. This was probably part of the reason why the mistake had occurred.

  His wife was also livid about their sixteen year old son’s recent habit of drinking and carousing late into the evening with a new group of rowdy friends. He had returned several times with the smell of cheap perfume, liquor and cigarettes hanging like a pall over his body. His wife demanded that he put his son in order. Augostino had explained with extreme patience that he was young and testing his limits. Did she herself not remember those days when they had been young and foolish?

  All reasoning had fallen upon deaf ears. Thus it was with extreme elation that he had finally made his escape.

  His bodyguard tapped his shoulder, a newspaper extended in his direction. “Sir? You might want to take a look at this.”

  Augostino twisted to look at his bodyguard, his predictably neutral face rippling with an expression he rarely saw…

  …worry.

  Snatching the newspaper, he snapped it open. It was a highly popular Italian tabloid he normally refused to waste his intelligence on. It featured scandalous photos of fallen starlets, hazy aliens and famous cheating spouses.

  Featured on the front page was a large, clear color photo of Viviana, a startled look on her face. A naked man was lying prone on the floor behind her, full frontal nudity there for all to see. The headline read: ‘When Augostino’s Away Viviana Likes to Play’

  His face paled, then flushed a bright, brilliant red. A vein throbbed in his neck. Was this why Viviana had flounced off to the States? For another man? He felt faint and shaky.

  “Sir?” Bruno stepped forward, the grayish tinge to his employer’s skin deeply concerning him. “Are you okay?”

  Augostino only vaguely heard his words. As he fell into a dead faint, the scathing words of his ninety year old mother floated about his head.

  ‘One of these days that ragazza nera is going to kill you, you idiot!’

  **

  When Augostino came to a few moments later, it was to the sight of his bodyguard, two flight attendants and the pilot standing over him. The flight attendants looked annoyed, the pilot looked relieved, muttering a barely audible, ‘Carry on then.’ before heading back to the cockpit, only Bruno appeared concerned.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Perhaps you need a doctor? We cannot have a sick man holding up our flight,” the blonde flight attendant with ruby red lips said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’m fine,” he said again. He suddenly felt very old. “Just get me to the States.”

  **

  “Mom, how could you? I mean, how could you do this?”

  Paris came storming out of the back, her tablet computer held aloft, her face a picture of shame and mortification.

  “What’s all the damn racket?”

  The screen door swung open. Viviana’s father, glowering, came in off the porch where he had begun seeking refuge earlier and earlier each day. A newspaper was dangling between his fingers. He slapped it noisily on the coffee table, jamming fists against his hips. It was seven o’clock in the morning and he still couldn’t get away from their dramatics.

  “I’m never going to be able to live this down. Never.” She sank miserably to the couch, sobbing dramatically.

  “What’s wrong, Paris?” Adriana asked, her ragged teddy bear clutched in a chubby fist.

  “Ask her!” Paris wailed, pointing an accusing finger in Viviana’s direction then dissolving once again into hiccupping moans.

  Viviana, remaining stoically silent, felt herself growing smaller and smaller, viewing this disagreeable turn of events as one would an object viewed through the wrong end of a monocular. She disconnected herself. Realizing there was nothing she could say that would improve the situation.

  Her father, having already grabbed the tablet computer from Paris’ grip, viewed the picture Paris was so distraught about. He didn’t make a sound as he studied the screen. His eyes slowly closed. A deep furrow developed in his graying brow as he powered the tablet down.

  He stared at Viviana for several long moments, during which time she studiously studied a thread which had come unraveled from the hem of her denim skirt.

  Shaking his head and muttering about wild girls and naked men, he walked into the kitchen, poured himself an extra large glass of grape wine and walked back out the screen door. He settled himself back in the deck chair he had earlier been reading the days newspaper from, dumping the still warm cup of coffee he had been sipping at over the porch railing and into the grass.

  Hell in a hand basket.

  To confirm this, the phone Augostino had purchased for her several months before, trilled shrilly from the depths of her purse. Moments later, her other cell phone began ringing. The two ringtones formed a rather choppy, yet somewhat pleasant, duet.

  The other phone call was from her agent. She kept vigilant check of all papers, especially the tabloids. Viviana’s was sure there would be nothing positive in whatever message was being recorded.

  Adriana had reverted to sucking her thumb, Paris was still wailing and her father was drinking wine before 9am.

  Way to go Viviana. Way to go.

  Chapter 21

  A couple of days after she and Sly were dropped off with their father, the manager of Uptown Fashions texted Nina to see if she could come in that evening. Co-worker Steve, a lay-about on the best of days, had walked off the job after screaming at a customer that she was ‘Too fat to fit anything they sold here or anywhere else in the mall’.

  This had been the third time in as many months that she had been called in because of an emergency employee meltdown. It was getting old. Upon getting her father’s approval, she got on the bus after school and headed to Northgate Mall.

  Quickly clocking in, she immediately went to work behind the register. There was a somewhat long line of customers impatiently waiting for Nicolas, the shift manager, to complete a lengthy return on the only other register in the store. He looked harassed. As soon as she opened her line, three quarters of Nicolas’ line shifted to her own.

  Shortly thereafter, Melodie Evans sauntered in, dress tight enough to constrict her lung capacity, an abundant heap of weave water-falling down her back.

  She also quickly got to work. Namely flirting and giggling up into male customers faces and sashaying her big ass around pretending to do more work than she actually was.

  Later that evening when business slowed to a crawl, Nicolas told Nina to restock. Stocking was supposed to be both Nina and Melodie’s duty, but she guessed Melodie was too busy shamming to be bothered.

  Muttering as she piled men’s shirts, jeans and tee-shirts onto a rolling cart, she pushed it through the storage room and out onto the sales floor.

  Leaning to adjust the tower of clothing before it fell to the floor, she was treated to the unexpected sight of Monte chumming it up with Melodie.

  Neither of them saw her. Nina observed t
he two chatting like old friends. Monte laughing out loud at something Melodie said, while she tossed her weave around, giggling. She suddenly tapped his shoulder, whispering. Monte stiffened, whipping his head around, a slow expression of mortification rippling across his face.

  “Ni-Ni, I—I didn’t know you were working today,” he stuttered, words coming out in one big rush as he hurried over.

  “What were you and Melodie talking about?” she drilled, tone brittle.

  “Just asking about some of the new stuff ya’ll got in,” he said, defensively.

  “Why not ask me? You know we get commissioned on sales,” she demanded.

  “I didn’t know you were here until just now, Nina.” He frowned with displeasure at her tone.

  “And why haven’t I seen you in the last few days?”

  “I just been real busy with senior stuff and lost track of the days. Why you got an attitude? Just chill.”

  “Whatever,” she said, angrily.

  “Look—I’ll do better, alright.”

  He pulled her resisting body into his arms until she gradually relaxed against him. He kissed her forehead, smiling down into her eyes. Nina melted.

  “Well—I can’t talk --,” she said, pulling away and glancing at Nicolas who was already giving her a disapproving glare. “Just call me tonight. Maybe we can hook up this weekend?”

  “I’ll call.”

  He gave her a somewhat clumsy hug, then hurried out.

  Nina, turning to pick up a pile of jeans, was arrested by the slick expression on Melodie’s face before it was wiped clean and replaced by her customary sugary sweet smile.

  Slowly restocking, Nina remained disturbed by that look for the remainder of her shift.

  **

  Nina was a stalker.

  At least according to Wikipedia’s definition she was.

  Monte hadn’t called her as he had promised three days before. Thus she had been forced to resort to extreme measures.

  She had been calling Monte repeatedly, watching him play basketball from a distance and thinking about him constantly. She was sick to her stomach with what she was loathe to admit was unrequited love.

  Though she hadn’t wanted to stay at her father’s during intersession school break, at least she didn’t have to do any chores. He had a new woman around named Raven who cooed over them like they were little babies, cleaning the house like she was competing for a trophy for the World’s Tidiest Housekeeper. Fine by Nina, she detested most house chores anyway.