Excerpt Copyrighted 2005 by Kat Brookes
The afternoon sun blazed overhead, not a single cloud in the sky. Just my luck. It had rained all week. Why not that day? If it had I wouldn�t be seated on the back of Anthony Carboni�s convertible in the parade from hell.
I shifted, adjusting the satin skirt of my old prom gown to let some air at my legs. Sweat trickled down between my breasts, a mixture of both heat and nerves.
You know, just when you think you�ve experienced the worst day of your life another one comes along. For example, I was certain that slipping on the dance floor at Julia Mendini�s wedding reception the summer before and flashing everyone my favorite neon green thong was the ultimate humiliation. But that was a cake walk compared to this.
�Don�t forget to smile, Gina,� Anthony Carboni called back over his shoulder as he sat behind the wheel of his black Mustang GT convertible.
�Bite me,� I hissed as we drove past the countless oversized umbrella tables that lined the main street of town. Tables filled with the locals who�d come to eat and see Little Florence�s first big parade.
He turned to me with a wide grin, straight white teeth against a deeply tanned face. �Only if you promise to return the favor.�
�In your dreams.�
He didn�t reply, simply wriggled his dark brows playfully and then turned his attention back to the float-lined road in front of us.
I aimed my best glare at the back of Anthony�s head, but was quickly distracted by the rich, spicy aroma of tomato based sauces and garlic that drifted into the street. My stomach growled in protest. I had skipped breakfast that morning � no, make that I was too nauseous to eat. Now I was starving.
I wondered if anyone would notice if I jumped out of Anthony�s convertible, just long enough to grab a sandwich to eat along the way. Looking around, I knew there was no way I could get away with it. I just had to face the fact that I was doomed to starve to death before this slow moving parade ever reached the end of the main street. That is if I didn�t die of complete and utter humiliation first.
We followed the parade procession down Mulberry Street which ran through the center of Little Florence, our Cleveland suburb�s version of Little Italy. I was shocked by how many people had turned out for the day�s festivities. The sidewalks along the street were packed.
As luck would have it, or in my case not-so-luck, several of the kids I�d graduated with were among those that had come out to watch the first annual sausage parade.
�Damn,� I muttered under my breath. I figured it would be mostly old people with nothing better to do who would be there. Not my old classmates. Unfortunately there wasn�t much hope of hiding from them while perched on the back of Anthony�s convertible.
They grinned when they saw me, making no effort to hide the humor they found in my newly appointed title. I�m sure the weenie float behind me didn�t help matters. A few of the kids waved as we drove by, but the second we were past them I heard the muffled laughter. The same kind I�d grown up with thanks to having a family that was a little out of the ordinary. And now that I was the town �sausage queen� it appeared I was doomed to carry on my family�s somewhat unusual reputation. I knew for a fact that I�d never be showing my face at any of our class reunions anytime soon � maybe never.
�You smiling?� Anthony called back.
�Yeah, right. You actually expect me to smile when I�m representing that faux sausage and balloon covered float trailing behind us?�
His husky laughter floated up into the air, mixing in with the roadside taunts being flung our way. I gritted my teeth and tried to look as dignified as one could in this far-from-dignified situation. One I was in because of him!
�Yo, Weenie Queen!� some punk kid in a mohawk, ripped jeans and an Ozzy Osbourne t-shirt called out as we passed by. His taunt was followed by snorts and laughter from the group of boys he was hanging with out in front of Mr. Donatelli�s corner coffee shop.
�You are so dead,� I hissed to Anthony through my fake smile.
He was enjoying my misery far too much. Misery he had caused me by putting my name on the ballot to become Sausage Queen for Little Florence�s first annual Sausage Festival. Just what every girl dreams of being � an eighteen year old �weenie queen�.
Anthony Carboni was four years older than me and had been my next door neighbor all my life. He used to torment me to no end when I was a kid � I paused in thought, taking in my surroundings with a frown � no, make that he still tormented me. And if I didn�t like him so much, I�d hate him.
I raised my gold-plated, sausage-tipped staff and jabbed it firmly into the back of Anthony�s navy, button-down shirt. �I swear I�m going to get you for this, Carboni. You just wait.�
He glanced back at me with that devil-may-care grin I had come to know so well. A sexy smile that girls went nutso over, all of my friends included. Thankfully, I was immune to his charm.
�You can have me anytime you want,� he said with a smile that irked me as much as it excited me. �Just say the word.�
�Keep your eyes on the road,� I insisted, trying to ignore the familiar curly-cue of heat that flickered to life in my lower half. My body had obviously forgotten that it was immune to Anthony Carboni�s hunkiness.
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the road ahead. �Fine,� he muttered. �But you�re a hell of a lot sexier than that float of Italian opera singer wannabes in front of us.�
I rolled my eyes. I was so not getting sucked in by his flattery.
