Thoroughly Whipped

“Hey baby, show us your labia!” My eyes opened just as a car full of teenage boys with pimples and braces drove past, fingers on either side of their mouths, flicking their tongues in my direction.

“At least we can be thankful the biology education in Hell’s Kitchen is sound,” Harry said so seriously it caused me to burst out laughing. I winced at the sudden rush of pain to my head but didn’t care.

“It’s definitely better than them shouting show us your flaps anyhow.”

“How one knows so much crudity is truly astounding,” he said, just as the door opened and Mom stared at me in shock.

“Faith?” I must have looked a sight, because then she shrilled, “FAITH! Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? You look like shit!”

Before Mom pounced on me like an overprotective mother hen, Harry leaned down to my ear and said, “And now I see where you get it from.”

I laughed, just as Mom wrapped me in her arms, pulling me away from Harry. Papa came to the door next. “Mia bambina.”

I heard footsteps on the stone stairs. Pulling free from the octopuses that were my parents, I saw Harry leaving. “Harry,” I said, and he looked up. “Thank you.”

“Oh, how rude! I didn’t even see you there, young man. Did you bring Faith home? What’s happened?” Mom said.

“I got hit in the head by a rugby ball,” I said. I pointed at Harry. “This is my boss, he helped me to the hospital and brought me home.”

“Well, you must come in!” Papa said, his Italian accent matching Harry’s English one in strength.

“Thank you. But I am afraid I must go,” Harry said. “It was very nice to meet you both.” Something inside me fell at that. Fucking hell. I needed to sleep and rest. I was losing my goddamn mind. “Take care, Faith,” he said and went to his car. I watched as he drove away, until he was out of sight.

“That was your boss?” Mom said. “Well he’s sex on legs, isn’t he? If I were a few years younger…”

“Nice, Mom,” I said as she walked me into their apartment and deposited me on the couch. “As if my head isn’t killing me enough, you have to go and put that disturbing visual in my mind.”

“He must come for Sunday dinner,” Papa said and sat beside me, lifting my legs and placing them on his lap.

“I’m not inviting my boss to Sunday dinner.”

“He helped you, brought you home. We are Italian, Faith. We say thank you with food.”

“We do everything with food, it’s why my ass is the size of the empire state.”

“Men like women with a little meat on their bones, darling,” Mom said and handed me a bowl of soup. She always had a bowl of soup of some flavor on the stove. Said it was Scottish thing. That you never knew who might pop around at any moment and need to be fed. “They like something to be able to grab hold of.”

“It’s true, there’s a reason Botticelli’s Venus is so loved,” Papa said, as the first spoonful of vegetable soup slipped down my throat. “Invite your boss, Faith. He must come.”

I finished my soup and went to my old bedroom. As I lay down on my single bed, my cell chimed.

Sorry again about today. Please take care of yourself.

The text was from “Pompous Prick.” A laugh slipped from my throat and I felt weightless. The pain drugs were good.

FP: How did you program your name into my phone?

PP: I may or may not have used your fingerprint while you were sleeping to break into your cell.

I saw the dots telling me he was typing something else.

PP: That is all circumstantial of course. Would never stand up in court.

My heart was beating like a bass drum. Hell, it was beating so hard it was doing the drum solo to “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins. I needed sleep. And maybe an asylum. I knew I was going insane because I was suddenly finding Harry Sinclair amusing and not imagining his unfortunate death at the hands of my stiletto heel in the place he should have had a heart.

In for a penny…

FP: My parents want you to come to dinner on Sunday as thanks for today. They didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier.

I pressed send, quickly followed by instant regret. What the hell was I? Fifteen? Who the heck invited someone to their parents’ for dinner anymore?

FP: Okay, scratch that. No need to subject yourself to that kind of torture. Forget I said anything. I’ll tell them you had a medical appointment you couldn’t get out of.

I sent that. When I read it back, I panicked.

FP: Not like an STD appointment thing. There will be no mention of herpes or anything. I know your namesake was apparently riddled with syphilis, but that’s not what I was hinting at by saying that.