* * *
Shama
* * *
His kiss begins suddenly, and at first, I’m frozen, stunned by the sudden grasp of his hands, the feel of his body fully pressed against mine. Tall. Hard. Extremely solid.
It’s not like I didn’t know what I was doing, inviting him up here.
What was the harm in giving in to a fantasy for once in my life? Especially when I was leaving the very next morning?
But then he walks me into the room. The door slams shut behind him, the bottle and flowers he carries fall to the carpet, and my body springs to life.
“Oof!”
“Fuck,” he hisses as my hands slide into his thick, cropped hair.
My mouth opens to his, accepting his tongue, his full lips, his bites, and licks. He tasted like caramel and just a hint of the Hennessy that was floating around the set tonight. Only one word runs through my mind, fast and hurried like an electrical current.
Carlos.
“Get this off,” I mutter, yanking his shirt over his shoulders, revealing the finely toned chest and delicious set of abs that have been taunting me for days. Only this time I can actually touch them.
“Play fair,” he says and he steals another kiss. His hands reach down to take ample handfuls of my ass, and he groans against my mouth as he squeezes. “Goddamn, I’ve been wanting to do that for fuckin’ days, Shama. You know that? Days.”
“Is that right?”
I smile against his mouth, before nipping his lower lip. He captures my mouth with his eyes, and I sink into it. Because holy hell, the man can kiss. His tongue is hypnotic, twisting me into a trance so within seconds, I barely know where I am.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he growls as his hands travel up and down my sides, squeezing here and there, mapping the terrain of my body as he peels my clothes off. Soon I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my underwear and bra. He takes a step back.
“You look like you’re examining a piece of art of something,” I remark.
His eyes travel back up to meet mine, and that wicked grin makes another appearance as he reaches down lazily and unbuckles his pants. “I am.”
I try and fail to ignore the way my heart gives an extra thump when he says it. But before I can say anything else, he backs me up against the wall, reaching down to lift me against it. He fuses our mouths together and grinds between my legs. I mean...wow. That’s not just a belt buckle down there, if you know what I mean.
“What?” I ask as he pulls my panties to the side. “Am I not good enough for the bedroom?”
He stills. Shit. If I had a dollar for every time I killed a guy’s mojo after opening my big mouth, I’d...well, I wouldn’t have had to work quite as long as I did.
But Carlos doesn’t move away. Instead, he smiles again. It’s not the same smile as before. There’s no swagger there, no game. This is charming, almost shy. It brings out a dimple in his left cheek I didn’t see before in the bar, and his full lips purse together while his dark eyes twinkle, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what to say.
“You’re too good for the bedroom, if that makes any sense,” he says, then drops my feet to the floor, takes my hand, and leads me past the bed and out to the balcony.
We’re on a corner, looking out to the beach. Maybe people could see us if they really wanted, but there are no lights here other than the moon slicing through a few clouds in the summer sky. Carlos pulls me close and kisses me again, kisses me until I’m dizzy and can’t breathe right. Whoa. Those lips. Fucking hell, that shouldn’t be legal.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the big lounge chair. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into the bedroom, and I wait, wondering what he’s rustling up in my little hotel room. I’m just starting to wonder if I should go in there after him when the doors reopen, and Carlos emerges carrying my comforter and at least three of the massive pillows from the bed. I get up to help him, but he sets the pillows by my feet and proceeds to spread the comforter onto the balcony floor.
“You know they don’t clean these things regularly after use, right?” I ask him.
“They do at this chain,” he says with a smirk. “Ma was a maid for a long time, and she worked for this hotel in New York. I used to help her for extra money when I was younger.”
The idea of him cleaning rooms is…charming. And disarming. Though I knew that Carlos, like a lot of artists, didn’t come from much, it’s hard to imagine when he pretty much drips wealth.
“They are not going to be happy about cleaning that,” I say.
Carlos stands and shimmies out of his black pants, revealing arousal that hasn’t faded under a pair of plaid boxers. “Send me the bill, pretty,” he said. “Just get down here with me.”
Slowly, I slide down next to him and allow him to gather me into his arms.
“You make me...you make me…” he says again and again, in between kisses that smear across my shoulder, neck, between my breasts.
I clasp his head to my breasts, urging him on. “I make you what?”
His mouth finds mine again. “You make me want to be better. Live better,” he says in between an avalanche of kisses. “I want to be good enough for a woman like you.”
Oh, hell. This is going to be one hell of a night if he keeps saying things like that.
You have to leave, Shama. You’re on a plane in the morning.
“You are good enough,” I manage to get out as I slide my hands over his strong, defined arms, then reach down for the waistband of his boxers. “You’re perfect.”
He groans as my hand wraps around him, then presses me backward so he cages me against the ground. The roar of the ocean sounds below us, and the stars twinkle over him, but all I can sense is him.
“Please,” he gasps as I guide him between my legs. “Please. Fuck, Shama. I need you so bad. I––fuck!” he exclaims as he finds the entry he desires. He fills me in one deep thrust. “Tell me,” he orders. “Tell me again. Tell me you need it too.”
He’s long, but not too long. Big, but not too big. I arch against his movements, my legs wrapping around his waist of their own accord.
“I...need...it.” The rhythm he’s setting makes it hard to speak at all, but I manage it for him. I’d manage just about anything. If he would just ask.
He sits up, takes hold of my thighs and spreads them wide so he can watch himself pound into me. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
My eyes shut tightly as I take every rough pound, every harsh lunge he has to give. This isn’t what you’d call making love––it’s not sweet and soft; it’s not gentle and slow. But it doesn’t feel easy either, the way a fling should. It’s intense and furious, like the waves pounding on the sand. Like we both know there isn’t a moment to lose.
When I look up at him again, his eyes pop open, two hazel stars as a supernova flashes through us both.
His thumb slips between us, brushes lightly over my clit. And in that moment, that’s all I need.
We fall apart together in cries of desperation that neither of us expects. But above, the stars just twinkle on, like they knew this would happen the whole time.
* * *
K.C.
* * *
I didn’t sleep. Not after she climbed on top of me about five minutes after we finished together the first time. Not after I spent an extra ten minutes tasting her everywhere until she shouted my name for the whole city to hear. Not after she conked out on my chest right there on the balcony, then woke up and surprised me with the best fuckin’ BJ of my life. And definitely not after we fell into this crazy daze, a new song still ringing in my ears. Music. Our music. This melody in my head that seems to be her.
Santa Monica twinkles below us, the ocean a black, dark space beyond the promenade. For the first time since I was a kid, I’m sleeping on the floor, wrapping up this incredible, irreplaceable woman and staring at the ocean she’s about to cross. Wishing to God I was going with her.
Absen
tly, I pull the Santa Cecilia medallion to my lips and kiss it for good luck.
I’ve worked too hard for this day to leave it all for some girl. And even if it was a good idea, I’m still contractually bound. To a tour. Promotions. Appearances.
Too much to leave without paying a massive price.
But…
“When’s your flight?” I ask. The sun is starting to peek over the horizon.
Shama stirs on my chest. I watch the elegant lines of her shoulders ripple a little as she stretches to check her watch.
“In about five hours,” she replies. We have some time.”
Time.
“You really want to go all the way over there?” I’m a dick for asking, but I can’t help it. “Seems…hot.”
Hot. In India. Way to fuckin’ go, Captain Obvious.
Shama just chuckles. “Yes. It will be hot.”
“What are you going to film? In Delhi, I mean?”
She sighs. “I honestly don’t know. I need to see what I see first. See what speaks to me. I’ll stay with some family first while I get my bearings. And then I’ll go where inspiration leads, I guess.”
“What if…” I toy with her hair, combing out some of the tangles I put there. No, you can’t say it. I shouldn’t. She’s doing her own thing, and I’m doing mine. I don’t have time for more than one night. I’m about to spend the next year on the fuckin’ road.
Most people ain’t her, mano. There’s Nico again, telling me what’s what. And you know, he’s right.
I open my mouth to tell her that I knew her before. But instead, something else comes out:
“Come with me instead.” I blink, shocked by the words, but also by how much I mean them. Quickly, I recover. “You could do your documentary everywhere we go. Do it on the tour or something. But we’ll be on the move. Shama, you’d get to see the world, just like you want. And you can film anything, everything. Te prometo. I promise.”
My words become babble, a ridiculous string of nothings in Spanish and English. Anything to get her to reconsider her plans and come with me instead. I’m crazy. This is crazy. I barely know this girl, and she barely knows me. But nothing has ever felt more right than holding her like this. Sometimes you don’t know you’re searching for something until you’ve found it. And I can’t be the only one feeling what I’m feeling. I can’t be the only one who sees beyond just tonight.
Shama sits up, unabashed as the blanket falls from her shoulders. But I’m too entranced by her face to be distracted by her curves or the beautiful shadows of her body. I could go another round or four with her. But everything I need right now is on her face.
And it’s going to break my head.
She cups my cheek and runs her thumb over my lips.
“Carlos,” she whispers, and her eyes glimmer, almost like she’s about to cry. “Carlos, I know. I so, so want to…”
I swallow. “But the answer is no.”
Slowly, she nods, and I watch as a tear slides down her cheek. Sadly, she shakes her head. “I’ve been waiting years to do this,” she says, her voice cracking over the words. “Years. I can’t...I can’t just back out now, you know? This is the first time I’ve ever done something just…for me.”
I get it. Fucking hell, do I get it. How many people did I leave behind in New York every time I flew out to L.A. for months, even years to get my career going? How many hearts have I broken, never willing to settle down because if I did, I would have ended up just another bodega owner or janitor in New York, working two or three jobs to get by.
You only get so many chances in this life to be yourself. I’m not about to take hers.
“Don’t cry, Sparks,” I whisper though the words only bring out more tears. “Not for me, pretty. I don’t deserve your tears.”
She hiccups back a choked sob and gives me a grim smile. “You deserve anyone’s tears, Carlos,” she says. “Least of all mine. I hope you know that.”
I press a kiss to her lips, and pull her close so she’s lying on top of me. “I believe it now, Sparks. I think you could get me to do just about anything. That’s what you’ve been doing all weekend too.”
She laughs, then lets me pull her down for another kiss that turns into something more than just a peck. I keep doing it, let her slide down, feel how much I want her again. She guides me inside her, wincing slightly as she lowers herself onto me, then tips her head up with pleasure.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I whisper, though I’m already starting to thrust from underneath her.
Another tear falls. She doesn’t fight them, because we both know this is goodbye.
“Shut up and take it, Carlos,” she mutters, laughing and crying all at once.
I slip a hand around her neck and pull her down for another kiss. If these are our last moments, I’m going to make them good. “Whatever you say, Sparks. Whatever you need.”
One Year Later
Shama
* * *
The cab pulls up to the townhouse in Riverdale, a shabby, yet spacious home in the Bronx that houses two of my best friends.
I’m tired. Exhausted, actually. Not just from the multi-day flight that somehow got me back to New York from the tiny town in Bali where I finished my documentary on South Asian indigenous music. From the entire year I spent documenting tiny indigenous communities all over South Asia, getting their native music forms on camera for a docu-series that was commissioned by none other than HBO halfway through the year.
Thank you, Gary, I suppose. I never wanted to produce that last video, but it changed my life in multiple ways. One call from the A&R executive kicked off the career I never knew I wanted—as a music documentary filmmaker.
The other way, of course, was Carlos.
It’s not like I never heard from him again. I had a cell phone, after all, and when I returned to the city here and there to send my films back to New York, I’d always be cheered by the sudden flurry of texts and emails. Carlos would send me the news along with pictorial reminders of just what I was missing out on. Carlos onstage, usually shirtless, while he gave the crowd what they wanted. Carlos standing next to his record, first certified gold, then platinum. Carlos at the Grammys, accepting his first-ever award as a performer, not just a producer. “Porque” won Song of the Year. And I won’t lie. I cried a little when I watched him thank me on a scratchy broadcast I managed to track down in Hanoi.
“I’ll hold onto this until we meet again, Sparks,” he said, holding up the shiny gold statue and blowing a kiss to the camera just before the music played him off.
But the texts, just like everything else, eventually petered off. I spent a month riding a bike around Indonesia while “DJ Cairo” was back in the studio. Naturally, we were both relegated to a memory, a lark at the beginning of a vacation, at the end of both of our previous lives. One magical night that might have ruined me forever, but which I wouldn’t give up for anything.
I knock on the door and wait eagerly as tiny feet pitter-patter to the door. It swings open, and almost immediately, I’m bowled over by Mateo, my godson.
“Auntie Shama!” he cries as he wraps his thin arms around my waist.
“Hey, you!” I love this kid so damn much. Even though he’s almost eight, he’s never too big for hugs.
“Shamashamashamashamashama!” Mateo’s sister, Coco, squeals behind him, and like a flea, the doll-like four-year-old plasters herself to my legs. “Did you get me a present?”
“Coco!” the deep voice of Nico bounds through the hallway as he comes to collect his kids. He scoops the little girl up and sets her on his hip. “Mija, you got better manners than that.”
“What’s up Special Delivery?” I say as I accept Nico’s kiss to my cheek.
Nico scowls at the old nickname, a remnant of his days at Fedex. “Trouble,” he says as he stands back to let me into the house. “Always giving me shit, girl.”
“Where is she? Where’s my best friend?” calls another familiar voice.
I
look up to see Layla running down the stairs, and a few seconds later, I’m tackled by my best friend.
“Ahh!” she cries as she rocks me back and forth. “Look at you. You look amazing!”
“Thanks, dude,” I say, squeezing her back just as hard. “I also look like I haven’t slept in two days—which I haven’t. I’m need to crash forever, but I wasn’t going to miss your birthday. Speaking of.” I pull out a little box from my purse and hand it to her.
Layla opens it and lifts the delicate gold bracelet. “Oh my god, Shams,” she murmurs. “This is too much.”
“It’s not. I got it from this amazing artist in Bangalore,” I said. “Hold out your wrist. I’ll help you put it on.”
She does while Nico shepherds the kids out the back door to the deck, where a bunch of other party attendees are mingling. As Layla admires her gift, I spot some familiar faces from college, mostly people from college and some of Nico’s family. Another man stands with his back to the door. His shoulders look familiar in that Giants jersey.
I shake my head and turn back to Layla. It’s been way too long since that night in Santa Monica. One whole year of nothing but me. I need a drink. And a date.
“I see you checking out K.C.,” Layla says slyly.
“Who?” I ask.
“Nico’s best friend,” she says, nodding toward the deck. “He’s back in town.”
“No, I was just…remembering,” I said.
Layla frowns. “Remembering what?”
“Oh, you know. That guy just kind of looks like Carlos. That DJ whose video I did before I left.”
Layla looks back and forth between me and the guests. “Carlos…you mean Cairo?” Her eyes widen. “Oh, my God, Shama. You mean you didn’t…you didn’t know that—”
I frown. What is she talking about? I told her all about my little tryst with Carlos. None of this should be a mystery. “Know what?”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she stands up straight and grabs my hand. “You know what? Let’s just join the party.”
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