Hated (Hearts of Stone #3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Black Sheep

  2. Weathering the Storm

  3. Sausage Jockey & Sharpshooter

  4. Midnight Snack

  5. Right Shoes & A Debriefing

  6. Two Left Feet

  7. Right to Remain Silent

  8. #ShowMeYourWookie

  9. With Dignity

  10. I Regret It All

  11. Walkie-Talkie

  12. Good vs. Evil

  13. Glitter Balls

  14. Canasta & Sacrifice

  15. Regret is Forever

  16. Salt in My Wounds

  17. Stay With Me

  18. Moxie

  19. I Miss My Music

  20. I Wasn't Running Away

  21. Keep It Safe

  22. I Came Back For You

  Acknowledgements

  Hated Play List

  About the Author

  Books by Christine Manzari

  HATED

  A Hearts of Stone Novel

  by

  Christine Manzari

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Christine Manzari

  Copyright © 2017 by Christine Manzari

  www.christinemanzari.com

  To Jon, Riq, Kirk, Yaron, & Julio.

  For the epic memories of our Prank War

  in the Centreville dorm at UMD.

  — FRANKIE —

  1. BLACK SHEEP

  We weren’t members of the mob. Not officially. But you’d never know it from our names—Jimmy, Tommy, Pauly, and Frankie. Our lives resembled some B-list mobster movie that no one had ever heard of before. And with a last name like DiGorgio and an absentee dad, we were not only the black sheep of our family, but we were pretty much destined to receive blame for everything that went wrong in Buckley, the small town where I’d grown up. Although to be fair, we were almost always responsible for most of the trouble.

  Most of it. The rest was my dad’s fault.

  My dad. Jimmy DiGorgio Sr. He was a good guy. A good guy who just happened to do illegal things. Things that led to weekly visits with him while separated by a pane of glass. Things that led to him wearing an orange jumpsuit with a number, instead of his name, printed on the back. Yup. My dad was a regular resident at the local prison.

  He’d never killed anyone, at least I didn’t think he had, but society didn’t look too kindly on someone who repeatedly took things that didn’t belong to them. Especially when that person looked so damn respectable while robbing you blind. You’d think after the second or third time getting caught, my dad would have learned his lesson, but no. He’d get released with just enough time to knock my mom up again before his addiction took over and he got thrown handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser again.

  Repeat offender. And impregnator.

  My grandmother often asked my mom what she saw in Dad, and my mom would smile and say, “Charm.”

  And that’s when I learned that being charming didn’t necessarily mean the same thing as the Prince Charming in the Cinderella stories. Don’t get me wrong. My dad could charm the pants off anyone, which come to think of it was probably how he and my mom got together in the first place. But it was that same charm that gave him the impression that he had the license to take whatever he wanted, no matter who it belonged to. He was like a real life H.I. McDunnough in Raising Arizona. But instead of holding up convenience stores, my dad was addicted to taking from the “Haves” because, in his opinion, we were the “Have Nots.” He had a knack for talking his way into a company, and while he was earning himself the title of employee of the month and climbing the ladder of success, he had his hands deep in the company till taking them for all they were worth.

  Computer fraud. It was his superpower.

  He could bewitch a security system as easily as he could a person. And he never played the same game twice. His name and M.O. changed as often has his prisoner number. He was too smart and charming for his own good. For anyone’s good really.

  That’s why I never bothered with being charming. I couldn’t allow myself to become my dad no matter how much I loved the idiot. Frankie DiGorgio might have been a daddy’s girl, but I was nothing like my father. I was unapologetically and offensively honest, offensive being the operative word. I wasn’t out to make friends or win people over. What you saw was what you got. I didn’t regret who I was, but I did have regrets. And coming back to my hometown was making my regrets starkly clear.

  I stood at the bottom of the steps, my hand on the wooden rail, as I looked up at the house that had been my home for most of my life. Four years had passed since I’d left, but it had been even longer since any of my brothers had lived here. Nana had been moved to the nursing home only a few months ago, but the house looked like it was abandoned for much longer. Guilt settled low in my stomach at the realization that my fear of coming home had led to the current state of the house. The house that my beloved Nana had lived in alone. If I had only been brave enough to come home sooner, maybe it wouldn’t look like it had a good chance at becoming the local haunted house.

  The paint was peeling off the porch railing, the roof needed replacing, and everything had a look of general abandonment. That’s why I was here....why I had finally returned home. I had an entire summer to get the house back in living condition. My family was counting on me. If we were going to sell this place and give up our childhood home, I was at least going to make sure we got the most for it that we possibly could.

  I shrugged, finally admitting that I had probably bitten off more than I could chew. And then I grinned to myself because...how very typically Frankie of me to do so. No one would be surprised.

  Determined not to choke on my ambition within the first ten minutes, I started up the stairs. As soon as I put weight on the first step, the board snapped in two, and my foot plunged through the broken wood.

  “Goddamnit!” I swore as I caught the railing and just barely avoided snapping my leg in half. I tried to dislodge my foot without ripping the skin off my ankle and managed to tear one of the balusters off the railing in the process. Well then. I guess I’m adding a few more things to the To-Do list.

  After freeing myself, I sat down on the worn wood and tried to wipe away the cobwebs and bug carcasses that clung to my Converse sneakers. I let out a sigh and gazed around. Even though I knew it looked worse than it was, the place appeared as if it was a few screws shy of crumbling into a heap of rubble and that thought made me sad. The house was old, but back when my brothers, mom, and I lived here with Nana, this place was cozy. It was home.

  I leaned back on my hands, and my fingertips found the old carving at the top of the steps before my eyes did.

  FRANKIE RULES

  I made Austin carve that there after he lost a bet to me. Of course, I didn’t think about the repercussions of defiling the infamous porch my grandfather had built by hand. When Nana found the carving, she made me mow the lawn the rest of the summer as punishment—a punishment my brothers never let me forget. But hell if it wasn’t worth it. FRANKIE RULES will forever be ingrained on this porch, and it’s there for everyone to see before they enter the house.

  Even though she was irritated, Nana never made me sand it out, and I think in a way she liked my fearlessness and was proud to let those words live on. With a dad like mine, she knew that my confidence was the one suit of armor I needed a
gainst the rumors and looks of disdain that I often faced. The kids at school were rarely kind, but then again, neither was I.

  I traced the letters and felt a bittersweet smile wrestle across my mouth. Oh, how Austin had bitched and moaned as I made him scratch out each letter with Tommy’s pocket knife. Austin was the voice of reason in our friendship, the one who avoided trouble, and yet he honored the bet and risked his ass to please me. He was one of the few people who could.

  Please me, that is.

  An unexpected sound echoed across the lawn. I blinked myself out of my memories and lifted my gaze just in time to see the curtain fall back into place over one of the windows of the house next door—Austin’s old bedroom window to be exact.

  Wait. Is someone there?

  My stomach flipped and not in a good way. I’m not sure why that idea would surprise me. After the Stones moved to Vegas for Austin’s and Dallas’s show, Dueling Cellos, the house had been empty. They hadn’t even rented it out. At least, that’s what I’d heard. But it had been years since they left. Maybe they’d finally gotten renters.

  Or worse. They sold it.

  I pushed up from the porch, brushing the dirt off the back of my pants, and slowly wandered to the edge of the yard as I craned my neck toward the front of his old house. The big decorative pots on either side of the door had fresh flowers, and there was a truck parked in the driveway that I hadn’t noticed before.

  I glanced at the window again but didn’t see anyone. The Stone house looked just as perfect and pristine as it always did. Even when it was empty, it never looked abandoned. But then again, even when people were living there, you couldn’t tell. Maybe it was the fancy gardening and magazine-worthy appearance that gave it the look of life…whereas our house looked alive because it was always full of people coming and going. It’s possible that our house had always been run-down and I never noticed when I lived here because it was decorated with the people I loved.

  The thought flashed in my mind that I should at least walk over and introduce myself to the new neighbor, but then I discarded that idea as quickly as it came. I was only here for the summer and there was no point in opening up new wounds by seeing a stranger taking over Austin’s past…my past. That would be more than I could handle. It would be the final nail in the coffin of my childhood crush.

  Even though I promised myself I’d never be like my dad, there was the one deception I would allow myself. Deep down I knew Austin was gone for good, that I had probably ruined any chance at reconciliation, but as long as that house was empty, I had allowed myself the fantasy that he might one day come home. That he might come looking for me.

  Nope. I wasn’t going to go over only to make myself upset for no reason. I was going to fix up Nana’s house, I was going to sell it, and my brothers and I would finally be able to get her the care she deserved.

  It didn’t matter who was living in the Stone’s house.

  I turned back toward my place and told myself all the lies I needed to hear to put one foot in front of the other and not look back.

  — AUSTIN —

  2. WEATHERING THE STORM

  12 YEARS AGO — SUMMER 2005

  “Who are you?” she asked, taking her helmet off and resting it on her hip as she stared at me. She let go of the handle, and her bike toppled over into the grass. Dirt smudged her face, her pony tail was a tangled mess, and her knees were a mix of half-peeling Band-Aids and barely healed wounds. I’d been watching her through the window for hours, and I was intrigued.

  “Austin,” I told her, holding out my hand. “Austin Stone.”

  She frowned at my outstretched arm for a moment before taking my hand in hers and giving it a vigorous shake like she was half-tempted to arm wrestle me.

  “Frankie,” she said.

  “Frankie?” A girl? Named Frankie? My mom would hate that. Mom always said, “Girls should be ladies and boys should be gentleman.” Frankie apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Not only was she a girl with a boy’s name, but it looked like she hadn’t seen a bathtub or hairbrush in days. There wasn’t much that was girly about her, and I had a feeling that there was absolutely nothing that was ladylike.

  She snapped her gum and then moved her helmet to the other hip, throwing me a challenging look. Her gray eyes narrowed at me. “My name is Francesca, but everyone calls me Frankie.”

  “Francesca?” I asked stupidly. She didn’t look like a Francesca. I had to admit Frankie fit her better.

  She took a step toward me and even though she had to look up to meet my eyes, her gaze held a threat. “Don’t call me that and I just might let you be my friend.”

  I reached up to push my glasses further up my nose. “Yeah, okay.”

  “So, you just moved in?” she asked, her gum snapping through a half-blown bubble as she inspected me.

  I nodded. “My dad got a new job.”

  She bent down to grab the handle of her bike and slung the strap of the helmet over it. “Do you ride?” she asked.

  I cleared my throat. “I can ride.”

  I glanced toward the mounds of dirt and rickety wooden contraptions behind her house. I’d watched her launch herself over the ramps and jumps all day long. She crashed about as often as she didn’t. And yet she got back up every single time and did it again. “But not like you.”

  “I can teach you,” she said, shrugging as if it was as easy as learning to read.

  She started walking toward the covered porch that ran along the rear of her house and I followed, watching as she leaned the bike against the steps. “Maybe,” I said, noncommittally. “You know. After practice. If I have time.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in excitement. “Practice? What do you play?”

  Her smile and interest were genuine, and for once, I didn’t hesitate before answering.

  “Cello.” I was used to kids in my old school teasing me, but somehow, I knew this strange, messy girl wouldn’t care.

  She chuckled. “Oh. I thought you meant like swimming or something. You look like a swimmer. I like to swim. But we don’t have a pool.”

  There was a pool in my new back yard next door, but honestly, I was more interested in this girl’s chaotic yard. Our pool was nice, and there were brand-new lounge chairs around it and fluffy new towels, but these mounds of dirt and death trap ramps looked dangerous. Fun. Something my mother would never approve of.

  “So, a cello is like one of those big violin things, right?” she asked, miming like she had a bow in her hand and was playing. “I heard the music earlier, but I thought it was just a CD. You’re good.”

  “Thanks.” I grinned at her. “My brother and I both play. Our mom thinks we’re musical prodigies or something.”

  “You have a brother?” she asked, interested.

  I lifted my shoulder in a shrug, almost not wanting to tell her. Dallas and I shared everything, and for a few moments, this strange girl was all mine. I wasn’t used to having something that belonged only to me. “Dallas is my twin brother. And Abby is my sister, but she’s a lot younger than us.”

  I expected her to jump at the mention of my sister, but she merely said, “That’s cool. I have three older brothers—Jimmy, Tommy, and Pauly. They’re all jackholes.”

  “Jackholes?” I had no idea what a jackhole was.

  She snapped her gum again and walked up the steps of her back porch, motioning for me to follow her. “Yeah. Nana says I shouldn’t say that word, but I told her there was no sense in denying the truth. Once you meet them, you’ll see what I mean. Want a popsicle?” she asked, as she reached for the door to pull it open.

  “Yeah, sure.” I knew my mom wouldn’t like the idea of me following Frankie into her house. I knew that she expected me to be home practicing. But I also knew she wasn’t going to be home for several hours.

  “Awesome. My brother Jimmy just bought a copy of the new Saw movie. Nana says I can’t watch it, but she’s at Mrs. McKee’s house playing Canasta, and my brothers are all out. We should w
atch it.” The grin she gave me was wicked and should have scared me off. It didn’t.

  Dad was at work, Mom had taken Dallas downtown for a doctor’s appointment, and Abby was spending the weekend with my aunt.

  “Sounds good.” At that moment I knew that I would probably never be able to tell this girl no.

  ***

  I stood on the other side of the curtain and watched through the sheer fabric as she looked up at my window in surprise. I hadn’t expected to see her. I guess I knew there was a chance that she might eventually return to that house, but I hadn’t been ready for her today.

  No one could ever be ready for the storm that was Francesca Alessandra DiGorgio. She hit you unexpectedly, and the only thing you could do was weather her chaos.

  Where had she been all this time? Why had she disappeared? And why was she back?

  I turned away from the window and promised myself that I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care at all about Francesca DiGorgio.

  She had made her choice, and it wasn’t me.

  — FRANKIE —

  3. SAUSAGE JOCKEY & SHARPSHOOTER

  I wiped the sweat from my upper lip with my t-shirt and glared at the dusty boxes stacked around the old attic where I’d spent so many childhood days. Although I had the windows open, it was still hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock on the Fourth of July.

  I cringed at the thought that had come automatically. Two rats fucking? Why had Nana always said that? That wasn’t hot…that was fucking nasty. Although Pauly used to say it was hotter than Lucifer’s taint and that made me want to gag even more. The only thing worse than the word taint was imagining a hot sweaty one.

  I walked over to the window for a breath of fresh night air, which was only slightly less muggy than the rest of the attic, and caught a glimpse of the large pool next door. It was lit up and begging me to come take a dip. I’d heard the truck leave hours ago and right now, the temptation for relief from the heat was almost too much to handle. I’d spent many summer days splashing around in that pool with Austin and Dallas. It would be so easy to hop over the fence, jump in, and cool off with no one the wiser. I could be in and out in about two minutes flat.