Freeloader

Part 1

My father is in business. He prides himself on the successes he's created for our family.

"Gia!" He always says to me. "You have to be somebody to be somebody."

This kind of obscure wisdom is something I'm used to, and it's usually accompanied with cigar smoke and excessive talking with his hands. My father is a typical 1940s Italian living in 2017.

And he really is an anachronism. You should see the way he looks at modern technology with a turned up nose. "I don't do any of that," he says to his business partners, waving his hand dismissively when people attempt to show him things from their cell phones or laptops.

But in the privacy of his home it's, "Gia, how do I send an email?" Or "how do I answer this message on my phone?"

It's not that my father isn't smart. He's influential in our community, a great leader, and owns companies that span nationwide, mostly all legitimate.

He never went to college, and says he barely finished high school. He says that college didn't matter when he was growing up.

And for him, it didn't. He is street smart, and knew the right people, and when Big Joe went to prison in 1988 for a crime that could not be traced back to any of his colleagues or his business, my father took over his day-to-day operations. And when Big Joe died of a massive coronary 18 months after he was indicted, the business was left solely in my father's hands. And now he's created an empire.

But he still has dreams of me and my sister earning our degrees. He knows that he lucked out. He also doesn't want us to depend on a man.

In contradiction, he's been trying to set me and my sister up with "nice guys" since we turned 18.

"You'll like him, Gia," he always says. "He's [insert name here]'s nephew. He's a nice guy. Italian."

And, so, we always are permitted to see this nice guy. And most of the time, if he's been introduced to us by our father, the guy is too scared not to be a nice guy. Because, like I already said, our father is very influential.

My sister Grace found her nice guy a couple years ago and she married him. This gives me father 100% focus on finding me a nice guy. An Italian. It's exhausting sometimes.

I guess I have a type. And my father's type and my type don't always fall in the same category. And I would like to meet a nice Italian guy and make my family proud, I really would. But, you know, you have to be somebody to be somebody.

And I'm still looking for that somebody.

•••

After the doorbell rang for a fourth time I knew I had no choice but to answer it. I had been engulfed in the warmth of a bubble bath, soulfully meditating and relaxing, and immediately despised any doorbell pusher.

It rang a fifth time as I wrapped myself in a large, fluffy towel.

"Shit, I'm coming, alright? Hold on!" I yelled, opening up the bathroom door, instantly releasing steam and warmth that was being built up in the bathroom. I muttered profanities as I headed towards the door, leaving wet footprints across the tile as I walked.

I knew my sister Grace was expecting a package from Amazon, but I've never met a deliveryman who hit the doorbell so many times. I peered through the peephole to see who my visitor was, only to meet the dark eyes of a beautiful nuisance: Luca Mancini, Grace's husband Leo's little brother. He happened to be my age, but behaved like a fifteen year old. He was a friend, but he was a pest.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, situating my towel to prevent exposure.

"Gianna, I know you're in there," Luca said in a low, singsong voice. He rapped his knuckles against the door softly. "Open up."

I sighed and unbolted the door, cracking it open ever so slightly.

"Why are you here?" I asked, peering around the door at him. He was dressed in his usual look- a white button down, khaki shorts and Topsiders. His brown hair was tousled, as if he'd just woke up. He was unbelievably attractive until he opened his mouth.

"Leo asked me to pick up some papers," he answered, pushing against the door and stepping through the threshold. I stepped back, shocked at his assertiveness, but I'm not sure why I was surprised.

He didn't bother concealing the up-down look he gave me, his eyes lingering at my hips too long, and he smirked at me. "You have bubbles on your cheek, Gi," he said, brushing the back of his hand across my face seductively.

I rolled my eyes and slapped away the hand of the tall, broad shouldered man standing in front of me, tightening my towel across my chest.

"You are so weird," I told him, and he let out a low laugh.

"So what's going on, Freeloader?" he asked, referring to the fact that I was jobless and living with my sister and his brother. He plopped down on the expensive leather couch as if it was his own, stretching a leg onto the glass coffee table and looking up at me with that smirk again.

I rolled my eyes at his comment and looked longingly towards my bedroom. "Well I was in the bathtub..." Perhaps he'd get the hint that he needed to help himself to what he needed and leave...

But of course not.

"You need to wash these bubbles off," he said, pointing to my bare upper thigh, where another patch of bubbles sat. "Want some help?"

I wrinkled my nose in faux disgust, "no thank you."

"Hey, I've seen your sister naked. I can see you naked too. You look alike. You're just a little more boney and awkward," Luca grinned at his own remark.

I rolled my eyes and turned to leave the living room, walking towards my room. "I don't want to know why you've seen my pregnant sister naked," I said over my shoulder.

"It was before she was pregnant... I think. And it was an accident!" Luca explained. As if that cleared everything up.

"Aren't you supposed to be getting papers?"

He waved his hand at me dismissively. It looked like something my father would do, and I thought of him, which made the tingly, warm feeling in the pit of my stomach that Luca always gave me quickly go away.

As I entered my bedroom, Luca shouted, "you smell like lavender!"

"You smell like desperation!" I retorted, shutting the bathroom door and twisting the lock. A smile of satisfaction crept across my lips.

•••

Luca was still sprawled out on the couch half an hour later when I came out of my bedroom. He had a bag of Cheetos on his lap and his feet on the coffee table, watching the golf channel.

"Why are you still here?" I asked, passing him in the living room and entering the kitchen. I didn't hear anything in response, but it was when I stood on my tiptoes to reach a glass from the top cabinet, my t-shirt inching up, that I felt his fingertips and then palms on the sides of my bare stomach.

"What are you doing?" I said, startled by him sneaking up on me.

"You look good, Gi," he whispered, pushing his hips against my backside. His warm breath hit my ear, causing an involuntary shiver down my spine.

Before I could respond, he pushed at my hips, spinning me around to face him, then pushed me back against the cabinets. Within seconds I was sitting on the kitchen countertop, and his lips were on mine, and his tongue was inside my mouth. His hands brashly pulled at the bottom seam of my t-shirt, when I heard the car keys hit the floor.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" Grace shrieked,  and I realized we'd been busted.