Thankfully, by the time Gigi returned, I’d composed myself. For the next hour, we proceeded to slug down limoncello and slowly piece together the limbs of Rory’s space invader costume. Our stitches grew less and less regimented as the clock crept toward ten and the alcohol dulled our dexterity in slow degrees. Still, I thought we were doing well enough. At least, until Gigi broke down in hysterical laughter, face-planting on the desk.
“Oh my god!” She snort-laughed uncontrollably. “I just realized…” Another snort. “I think I’ve sewn this entire arm on backwards!”
“Gigi!”
“I’m sorry! I’m not a professional seamstress!” She paused. “Maybe Rory can be a one-armed space invader.”
“How do you expect him to fight off the evil horde of deep-space monsters with one arm?”
“How do you expect me to make rational decisions when I’ve had four glasses of limoncello?”
“Fair enough.” I sighed. “I think this is our sign to stop for the night. The rest is mostly done. We’ll fix the arm tomorrow morning during breakfast, before he gets on the bus.”
“Just under the wire…” She shot me a lopsided grin. “Would you believe that’s the credo on my family crest?”
My answering smile died as the front door to the inn swung open with a violence that made the chandelier rattle. All joy and laughter swept out of the room in a blink as the towering silhouette of a man filled the frame. He was so wide, his arms brushed the jambs to either side. His thickly bearded face was contorted into an expression of such rage, the force of it nearly knocked me off my stool.
“You bitch!” the man boomed.
“Donny,” Gigi whispered back, her voice thready.
Suddenly, I was sober as a judge.
“You fuckin’ bitch!”
Oh, no.
As the behemoth advanced toward the reception desk, I reached out, grabbed hold of Gigi’s arm and attempted to drag her off her stool. I had no plan, just the screaming instinct to put as much distance between us and Donny as humanly possible. But she was frozen like a deer in headlights, not moving even when my fingertips dug into the cotton of her long-sleeved shirt.
The man took two strides closer, his construction boots causing a series of seismic booms across the frayed rug. “You think you can get away with this? Keepin’ my boys from me?”
“I’m not keeping them?—”
He cut her off. “Shut up!”
Shit, shit,shit.
I was not getting a good feeling about this scene. In fact, I was getting a very bad feeling about it. Donny’s face was red from fury and, if I had to wager a guess, a fair few rounds at the bar. A volatile combination.
“I’m telling you right now, Georgia, so listen good,” he snarled. “You ain’t keepin’ my boys from me.”
Gigi was trembling. I could feel the shakes radiating through her frame as I held her arm. Still, she managed to sound remarkably steady. “Donny, you can’t be here right now.”
“I’m not goin’ fuckin’ anywhere!”
Donny’s face was mottling redder and redder with every passing moment. He was like a volcano set to blow. And I definitely didn’t want me — or Gigi, or her boys — standing in the blast radius when he did.
Doing my best not to call any attention to myself, I reached under the desk with my free hand and slid my cellphone from the front pocket of my sweatshirt. I allowed my eyes to flicker down to the screen for only a brief moment as I scrolled to the most recent addition to my contact list. A number I’d programmed in only yesterday. Before I could talk myself out of it, I jammed my thumb against the screen to dial.
Thankfully, Donny was so busy glaring at his wife, he didn’t seem to realize I was in the room, let alone calling reinforcements.
“We have an arrangement,” Gigi said, finally sliding off the stool to gain her feet. Even at full height, her husband towered over her. “If you want to see the boys, you need to do it right. Use the proper channels. Talk to your attorney, go through the courts?—”
“Fuck that and fuckyou, bitch!” Donny hissed, clearly not a fan of proper procedure. He took another step, planted his ham-fisted hands on the desk, and leaned over it. Up close, his ruddy skin was marred with several prominent scars — probably souvenirs from a lifetime of bar fights and brawls. “You’re not keepin’ my family from me. Tomorrow is Halloween. If I wanna take my boys trick-or-treating, I’m takin’ my boys trick-or-treating. And there’s not a goddamned thing you can say about it.”
Gigi’s shoulders cowed inward. I saw it. I felt it. Still, she tried to stay strong. “We have to do what the attorneys say?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the attorneys! I want to see Dec and Ror.Now. It’s been weeks.”