by Amarie Avant
Is this truly love? This feeling like I’m drowning in him, and he’s drowning in me. I’ll have to ask Roslyn if I should associate love and suffocation.
“What’s running through your mind, chula?” The depth of his voice, so heavy, laces around me. Even though his eyes are closed, I’m his core. All his attention is for me.
“That maybe you drugged me.”
His eyes pop open, like fresh green earth. I swear I can scent earthiness on him. I straddle him, grabbing the camera I keep by my bed, taking a candid. “It’s a good thing. I’ll show you.”
“No . . .”
“Yes. We’re not out, baby. You only refuse for me to take your photo when we’re out.”
“From this day forward, take all the pictures you’d like, Aria.”
“You said you loved me, so I was gonna do it anyway.” I wink. “You’re mine now.”
The shutter clicks on his beautiful face. I take a few more pictures to preserve this moment. My hands run along Dominic’s abdomen, and I trace the line above his pelvic bone, dropping kisses wherever my fingertips caress. I climb down, sliding the sheets with me. He grips the sheets, pulling them back up.
I run a hand through my hair. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Dominic if he’s hiding me beneath the sheets due to my unruly tresses. I start to tug the sheets again.
“Damn you, Dom, you usually like to watch.” I joke. “But what the—are you hiding hickeys from another—”
My cellphone goes off.
“Damn, that’s my alarm. It must be almost afternoon. I have a meeting to attend.” I start to climb from bed when he clasps my wrist.
“C’mere, mami. Forget the meeting. Let’s make a day of you and me?” He doesn’t let go. “Turn off your phone. I want all of you like our first weekend together.”
But we’ve had so many weekends together since then. Nights, days . . . More tasks dart through my chaotic brain. “Yasiel has a geometry quiz this afternoon. I’ve been tutoring him once a week. I also had a chat with Jack about a potential client we should pull.” I sigh, letting my head fall back. Pre-Dominic, Roslyn had to damn near abduct me to leave the house. “Actually, it sounds good to have a ditch day.”
I shoot a quick GIF text to Yasiel, a reminder of the Pythagorean theorem. On second thought, I message Siobhan to check in on Gramps later today. Before my phone can fade to black, I’m beneath the covers with the love of my life.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Aria
Two evenings later, it’s officially the weekend when I’m compelled to plug back into reality. Water runs in the background as Dominic showers. Holding a towel around my frame, I meander along to the opposite side of the bed.
A stream of notifications pops up. One of which is from Siobhan airing her frustrations about our good-for-nothing cousin who lives the closest to Gramps. She complains about how she had to convince him to check on Gramps. She ended her rant, praising me for focusing on myself. I read another message from Yasiel, who was elated about his C+ in geometry.
But the brunt of my many texts come from Roslyn. Clutching the towel to me, I dial her number. Worry surges through my veins while waiting for her to connect.
She answers at the last second. “Aria, damn. I called you a bazillion times!”
“What is it?” I settle at the edge of the bed.
“El Santo was taken in!”
Mouth open wide, I strangle on shock.
“Turn on the news, chica! Now!”
Fingers shaking uncontrollably, I grab the remote, and the television flicks on. Finger glued to the button, screen after screen shows images of breaking news. I remove my finger, stopping on a local channel, bottom lip dropped. “Wow.”
A black reporter is on the scene. Dressed impeccably in a pressed dress shirt and slacks, he fists the microphone in his hand. In the background is the very steps where I argued with Antonio and Dominic. The Miami PD crest displayed farther back.
After a few beats, the reporter says, “We are on-site at the Miami Police Department. A male, whose identity is being withheld, was escorted into the police station earlier today.” The image of a man appears. Something covers his head as detectives on each side hold his arms, leading him into the station. “He’s being questioned as arguably the most infamous serial killer of the decade.”
The sound of rushing water has stopped while I gawk at the screen. The reporter on the scene segues the story back to the main broadcaster at the news station.
“Authorities were understandably diligent in withholding the alleged murderer’s identity. However, we’re told two victims shared the same significant other, and the alleged serial killer has been identified on TMZ as—”
I glance over at Dominic, who’s staring intently at the television. Drops of water cling to his caramel chest. A bath sheet wraps around his waist, stopping at his feet. Another drapes over his shoulders, cascading down his back. The animosity radiating from him fizzles on the surface of his taut muscles. A full range of emotion flashes across his face then flickers back to neutral. It’s as if he’s attempting to settle a volcanic fury.
“They got him,” I whisper.
Jaw working, he glares in silence.
“I remember you saying how you knew one of the young ladies. Dom? They got him.” Eye ducts prickling, I head over to him, ascending on my tippy toes to loop my arms around his neck. “Those bastards finally got him.”
Dominic’s gaze latches on to me with an intensity at odds with his demeanor. What is it? Shock? Has to be. Miami is diverse, filled with various divisions, but not when it comes to El Santo.
“Bueno,” Dominic murmurs against my lips. “All I can think of is your safety. No more chasing after bad pendejos, sí?”
Clarity curves my lips into a smile, and he mirrors it. Sheepishly, I nod. “You had some idea I was still searching . . .”
“You’re invested, mami. You searched for him as a dedication to your sister. Your convictions were admirable, but that pendejo was . . . He was a plague who got chopped the fuck down.”
Dominic crushes me against the protection of his massive chest. An abundance of emotion radiates from him, funneling through me.
I should feel complete, right?
Although I vowed to El Santo’s women to not fail them like I did with ReAnna, a small piece of me swims against the currents, full of doubt.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
El Santo
LeAnna is my crux, the cornerstone of my sanity. The media failed me. All this time, they were on my side. She clings to me, and I focus on how the hair on the crown of her head is tickling my chin. I cling to the delicate feeling. I have to focus on something to devour the fire in my heart as to how the media fucked me over. Those idiotas had given some random motherfucker credit for my efforts. All my time invested. My dedication. My loyalty to my ángeles.
Stoic, I hold her within my arms, while on the television screen, the headlines blare, breaking news.
Lava filters through my veins, leaving blaring red before my eyes. My fingers cling to the hair at the nape of LeAnna’s neck, forcing her mouth to ascend.
Paciencia, I warn myself.
She comes up for air. “Wow, Dom . . .”
“I’m cooking dinner, amor. Get in bed for papi. Wear something pretty.”
With a hesitant nod, LeAnna struts toward the closet. I always stare at her ass, watch her leave, but not tonight. I slip into a pair of pajama pants, situate my junk, and exit the bedroom. In the kitchen, I place some of the groceries my hermano has a habit of purchasing on the counter.
There’s no rhyme or reason to what I’m cooking. I remove my cellphone from my pocket. Senses alert, I wait a few beats before logging into the police force database.
The feed I have is in the special crimes’ conference room. I focus on the whiteboard on the far wall. A DMV screenshot specifies Julio Perez as a former significant other to one of my most recent ángeles and one of the first.
&n
bsp; Even I’m astonished by this breakthrough. Hearing the sound of bare feet in the background, I muss over the food I’ve taken out—potatoes, chicken cutlets, frozen peas. Fuck, I lack the passion for creating meals. Will LeAnna wonder how I’ve served her blackened chicken and now serve her raw, hardened hash?
Drawn to the conversations, I slip out a pair of headphones and increase the volume.
The detective growls. “Carrington, I’m telling you we have the right guy! Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Carrington grunts. “The reporters were all over us when we pulled that idiot out of the hole he crawled in. He doesn’t have the mental capacity nor the balls to be our guy!”
“Fuckin’ right, he doesn’t,” I mutter in Spanish. The rookie detective moves out of view.
“Where are you going?” Carrington snaps.
“Grill ‘em again. He’s played—”
“Not intelligent enough. My perp is somewhere, strategizing how he—”
Milky white thighs drift into my peripheral. Straightening up, I cut the feed, remove my earphones, and slip my phone into my pocket.
The roommate is sitting on the marble slab inches away. Fancy perfume clogs my throat. A lilac silk robe glides across her slender frame. Plumped-up lips curve into a smile. “Hello, Dominic. Do I have your attention, finally?”
“Not really,” I mutter, fixated on how Carrington must remedy the current situation. A parasite infiltrated my role, stole my name!
“C’mon, don’t tell me the mouse keeps you satisfied?” Miranda slips a slender finger inside the opening of her robe, letting one of her tits free.
My mouth snares into a cruel smile, instantly mirrored by her. Yet, she has no awareness of my thoughts. With the strike of a snake, my hand launches around her throat. I press my mouth to her earlobe. “Listen to me good, puta.”
Her breathing intensifies, and she moans in my ear. “Oh, yes, all my clientele have the capacity of fish flopping out of water. Tell me, Dominic, what you’re going to do to me.”
Bicep straining, I watch the blood run from beneath the skin at her slender throat. “You want me to fucking break your pussy in half? Tear that cunt with my dick until you have to call the same doctor who stitched up these tits, sí?” I grab a perfect globe and squeeze.
“Yesss—”
Again, I constrict her throat. My other hand paws heavily at her breast, wanting to pop the solution in them and play it into a bloody pulp. The bitch can’t read the rage on my face as she grunts, grinding into me.
The photo of Perez shines across my eyelids.
Stolen identity.
Reaping the reward of my actions.
All the press is in a frenzy over the wrong mother—
My fingers are pumping into her cunt. Wet, I’ll give her that, but hollow. No suction. Not enough resistance to take the edge off the fact that the title bequeathed to me has been stolen. Perez is wearing my crown!
Unacceptable. I remove my fingers, smearing the slime of Miranda’s pussy across her lips. She licks it all up.
“Let’s take this to my—”
“No. I prefer what you call, my mouse. Do some Kegels, puta.” I shove her chest and grab a towel off the counter to wipe my hands. I notice the cookie jar. Damn. I make a mental note to go back and splice the footage on LeAnna’s nanny cam, cutting this encounter out, as I start down the hallway.
Hands clamped into fists, I enter the bedroom and close the door behind me. LeAnna is propped in bed, lace clinging to her softness. I climb into bed, grip her hips, and yank her beneath my weight. Her ripe, wet pussy calls me. Fucking my muse will ground me, calm my restless spirit.
“Mami, look at you. So motherfucking gorgeous.” Every inch of her curves melds to me, cutting the venom in my body by half. I tug the fabric, revealing more of her skin, biting and sucking at her nipple. While framing a plan in my mind to restore my rightful inheritance, I kiss a trail to her belly button.
For three years, I’ve solidified my brand.
I bite the junction at her hips, and she bucks, splaying her slit wide.
I’ve dedicated too much of myself to let another pendejo bask in the glory.
My tongue dives into LeAnna’s cunt. I groan, reminding myself to call her Aria while saying how sweet she is.
“Oh, Dominic.” Her fingers weave into my waves.
At the sound of the wrong name, the torrent of wrath descends in my chest, tenfold. In seconds, her ass is in my face. I force her neck into the bed.
Positioning my erection at the puckering of her ass, I tease the entrance I’ll never enter without time and dedication. She presses her ass against me, and I dig my fingers into her neck more. Dick throbbing, I run the crown of me along her folds then slide back up to her ass.
“Dominic!” LeAnna gasps into her pillow. She tosses her head back, wriggling away and scrambling into a position where she glares at me.
“What?” I glance at the narrowing of her eyes.
In a trembling voice, she says, “I couldn’t breathe. I was struggling this entire time! And I know I’ve shared what I absolutely refuse to do!”
Recalling how my brother slapped her ass, I snort. “When we were in my bed the other time, you didn’t have a fucking problem, Aria!”
A million stars of disappointment shine in her sparkling eyes. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Me? You’re asking me to leave.” My tone amplifies. “You let my bro—” I pause to collect myself. “You’re asking me to leave. We’re supposed to be in love, mami. What the fuck?”
LeAnna swings her legs over the side of the bed. Just as her pretty little feet touch down, I scoop an arm around her waist and pull her down—something in her shifts.
Her mannerisms are all wrong. It’s like day one with Angelica. In the instant LeAnna raises a palm to slap me, I hold her wrists above her head.
Liquid fire burns in my eyes.
“You want to fucking leave me?” The question thunders across the room. “Don’t be so fucking immature, Aria. There’s no fucking way in hell I’d ever let you leave.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Dominic
Two nights ago, Dario waited for me to charge a nonrefundable plane ticket for him to Cuba. Then the pendejo spewed out how much he hated Papi in the middle of the airport terminal. I flipped him off and left.
Seated in my childhood bedroom, I roll a soccer ball beneath my foot while staring at my phone. I called Aria when I arrived, and then again when checking Papi out of the hospital late on the first night.
Alejandra had a habit of not answering. I had equated it to her beautiful mind and her dedication to a degree. That was at first.
“How the fuck do I tell this woman my true feelings if her actions are starting to remind me of Alejandra?”
I punt the soccer ball out of the tiny bedroom. It hits the wood-panel wall in the hallway and skitters back over. I stop it with the tip of my loafers.
Standing up, I stride all of two steps before grabbing my iPhone from the dresser. The call goes straight to voicemail again.
“Hey, Aria. I’m staying a few days longer. Still haven’t convinced Papi to move yet.” I end the call and hang up.
Damn, I said she made me different. At the moment, it’s not in a good way.
I hustle out of my bedroom, past my abuela’s old room, and into the kitchen. Papi is seated, elbows on the table, nursing a can of beer.
I remove it from his hands and ignore the wildfire of cussing.
“Whatever you say, Papi.”
He stops, side-eyes me, and then laughs. “Be glad you’re my favorite.”
“Heh, it’s probably shit talk like that which pitted me against Dario.” I sigh, rubbing my eyes. “No. It’s not all your fault.”
“My fault? No, hijo. You are my good son. Always have been.”
Settling into a chair across from him, I reply, “Dario was in advanced classes―”
“What does reciting computer
co . . . co . . .”
“Code?”
“Humph, book smarts don’t matter so much to me. I have more brains in my pinkie than Dario has altogether.”
“Papi,” I groan. “Mami valued education, and you beat my ass on those grounds, no backpedaling now.”
“You forgot how I beat Dario or how we had him prayed over after he cut the tails off cats too?”
Running a hand over my jaw, I mutter, “I don’t recall. What made him this way, Papi?”
“The two of you were so young when it happened.”
“What happened?”
“You had a cousin, Miguel. You had to be six when it happened. Miguel must’ve been nine, ten maybe. Mami was watching you one evening when you were sick. Miguel offered to take Dario outside to play. Aye Dios,” Papi pauses, gesturing to the can of beer I have yet to toss.
I slide it back over to him. “I still don’t remember.”
“Dario came home, quieter than he’d ever been. I found him in the bedroom. He had his toothbrush and was inserting it into the rectum of a dead mouse.”
I gag. He tips his beer back.
“I don’t know what was worse, mi hijo, the torture or the cigarette burns I found on Dario’s arms. Dario said that Miguel had taught him not to cry while hurting him. Superheroes don’t cry is what he said. One fucking day ruined Dario.”
“Jesucristo.”
“Since then, Dario had a sneaky, quiet rage about him. The hate in him at such an age. Aye Dios! He went on to setting fires to animals. You can’t recall it?” I shake my head. “I don’t remember an ounce of affection from my boy.” His bottom lip quivers. “No happy birthday since Mami was around to demand it. No, nada!”