The clerk is an old grey-haired woman. She’s sitting in the air from an oscillating desk fan, and she’s watching telenovelas on a little square TV set behind the desk. She looks up in surprise when we come in. We both speak Spanish fluently, having been raised in bilingual households, so that’s not a concern.
“Good afternoon,” she greets.
“Good afternoon,” I respond. “We’re here to sign in for the night. I called ahead… Mr. and Mrs. Esteban Hernandez.”
Steven dislikes using his Mexican first name, but I like it better than the English version. He presses his lips into a firm, disapproving line.
The desk clerk gets the keys ready while I sign the register. Steve hands over his credit card, and she swipes it. She tells us, “The room is upstairs, number seven. There is an ice machine outside room five, just down the balcony. We don’t have room service, but if you get hungry, there’s a restaurant just down the street.”
“What’s it called?”
She looks at him like he’s crazy. “It’s the restaurant.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Thank you.”
We go upstairs. Steven carries the bags and I carry the candles, since we don’t want them to melt. It’s October, but it’s still hot here, and the last thing we need is to be picking wax out of the trunk’s carpeting. I unlock the door and push it open, and a rush of hot, stale air almost knocks us over.
“Popular place,” he comments.
“There’s probably not a lot of business. Most people don’t really stop, I guess.”
As hotel rooms go, it’s pretty standard. There’s a double bed, a little desk with a straight-backed chair, and a dresser with a television on it. I’m not sure what there is to watch, but then, I doubt we’ll be taking the time to zone out in front of the tube anyway. I put the candles on the dresser beside the TV while Steven fiddles with the air conditioning.
“It probably doesn’t work,” I tell him.
“Damn it! I’m roasting!”
I pull the cord on the ceiling fan, and the blades start spinning slowly. It takes them a while to get up to speed, but when they do, they create a nice enough breeze that the room is tolerable. I open the door to let in some fresh air.
“You’re letting in bugs,” he complains.
“Then we’ll squash them later. I’m also letting out the hot air.”
“You’re letting more hot air in.”
He sits down on the bed, clearly out of sorts. I close the door.
“Fine. There. It’s closed. Are you happy now?”
Steven looks at me as I walk toward him, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Almost.”
I come up to stand between his knees, my hands on his shoulders. “What would make you happy?”
His big mitts land on my hips, and he pulls me closer by way of answer. I hug his head to my breasts.
“Thought you were hot,” I tease.
“Getting undressed would help that.”
I have to laugh. As always, we’re of the same opinion as to how to spend the time. I step back, smiling.
“You were so tolerant and patient at the border…”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. Don’t argue or you don’t get your prize.”
His eyebrows rise. “My prize?”
I go to the closet and find a spare pillow, which I bring over to the bed. He watches me approach.
“My prize is that you’re going to smother me?”
I laugh. “I should, but I still haven’t taken out that insurance policy.”
“Bother.”
I drop the pillow onto the floor between his feet and I kneel on it, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. His pupils are already blown, and he knows what I have in mind. A sexy smile covers his face. God, he’s gorgeous.
“Really?”
I reach out and unbutton his jeans. “Really.”
He’s already half-hard, and he helps me get his pants and shorts off. We just dump them on the floor beside the pillow I’m kneeling on, and I push him back. He reclines on his elbows, lying back to enjoy while still being able to see the show.
I take him in my hand, seeking some enjoyment of my own. I love his shape and heft, and the way he feels, hot and hard against my tongue. He’s a manscaper, which I appreciate, so his balls are soft and naked. I lick them while I give his cock a few languid strokes. He sighs. I love the way he sighs when he’s receiving pleasure, and I love knowing I’m the one who gives it to him.
I love this man so much.
I suck his balls into my mouth, first one, then the other, gently holding them and rolling them with my tongue. He reaches down and strokes my cheek, his hand light. He’s gentle, which is another thing about him that I adore.
I lick my way up the line between his balls until I reach the base of his cock. I can feel his pulse thundering in the vein, and I follow those drums up to his flaring head. I look up at him through my lashes, and he’s looking at me, his kissable lips slightly parted, his eyes moist with desire. His already bronze skin is flushed over his high cheekbones, and he nods to me.
“Ay, dios. I love you, Marisol.”
He must be needing this if he’s speaking Spanish. I can’t help but smile as I run my tongue over his head, dipping into the slit and tasting his salty goodness. He sighs again when I take him in as far as I can in one slow glide. That vein throbs against my bottom lip, and for a moment, I have the strangest rush of gratitude for the proof that he’s alive.
Of course he’s alive. What am I thinking?
I focus on his delectable cock, sucking it, bobbing my head in a leisurely pace that’s teasing but not too much. His hands curl in the bedspread.
“Mari…” he groans.
I understand his unspoken request and start to suck him harder, moving my mouth up and down his shaft a little faster. I fondle his balls in my hand while I pleasure him, and I can feel them tightening. He’s about to let go, and I’m happy to help him get there. I increase my speed and intensity, and his legs shake with the effort of not thrusting into my throat. He groans again and puts his hand on my head, not pushing me, just encouraging me.
I give it to him exactly the way he likes it, and soon he’s pulsing into me, his hot gift painting the inside of my mouth. I swallow it down and lick him clean.
“Mari,” he sighs, sated.
I crawl up onto the bed and lie down beside him. He takes me in his arms and holds me close as he falls asleep. I don’t mind. This one was just for him. He’ll pamper me later, I’m sure. We don’t keep score.
Happy that I was able to make him happy and drowsy from the heat, I end up falling asleep, too.
Part way through the evening, he tries to disentangle himself from me without waking me, but I’m a light sleeper. My stomach rumbles to remind me that we haven’t eaten dinner yet.
“I hope the restaurant is open,” I tell him when he comes out of the bathroom.
“Me, too.” He bends down and kisses me. “Did you have a good nap?”
“Not half as good as yours,” I tease.
“Just you wait.”
“Mmm. That sounds like a threat of the very best kind.”
He smiles and dresses, and I watch him. He’s got a beautiful body, not too buff, not too soft, not too much or too little of anything. I did amazingly well for myself, I must say.
Once he’s dressed, he checks to make sure his wallet didn’t fall out of his pocket, and then he says, “Shall we?”
I get up and slip my feet back into my shoes. “Absolutely.”
Allende isn’t a big town, and the restaurant is easy to find. We arrive fifteen minutes before they close, but they welcome us with smiles and only a few suppressed sighs. Out of deference to the staff who’ve been working all day, we order our dinners to go and take them back to the hotel. There’s a picnic table in the atrium, and we sit there to eat.
“So tell me about Maria Josefa,” he says, before shoveling rice into his mouth.
“Couch time.”
“Absolutely.”
He laughs. “Okay. What should I not say?”
“Whatever you do, don’t criticize her shrine.”
Steven frowns. “Shrine?”
“To La Santa Muerte. She’s a big believer.”
“Ah. Is she a curandera too?”
“Not that she’ll admit to. She attends Mass twice a week, but that doesn’t really mean anything. A lot of practitioners, like Margie, add Catholic elements to their curanderismo. It’s all sort of part of the same thing, really.”
“So don’t criticize the shrine. And don’t question her.”
I laugh. “Oh, God, no. Don’t question her about anything. What Abuela says goes.”
He chuckles. “My grandma is a lot the same. Her way or the highway.”
“But in the most loving way possible.”
“So she’s like you.” His eyes are twinkling.
“Exactly.”
He nods and takes a drink. “Is she a good cook?”
“Amazing.”
“So that’s where the similarity ends.”
I kick his shin lightly. “Bastard.”
Steven laughs. “I look forward to meeting her. I hope she gives us her blessing.”
“I think she will, if you behave yourself. I know that’s against your character, but try.”
“I will. I promise.”
The sun is setting, the food is good, and the company could not be more to my liking. I’m having a good evening.
I don’t know how I got so lucky.
Marisol
We make love all night long, so we end up almost sleeping through checkout time. Luckily there’s not much in the way of packing that we have to do. We hit the restaurant and dine in for breakfast, then get back on the road. I switch the CD from Shinedown to a collection of corridos. Steven rolls his eyes at my choice, but as shotgun, I run the music, so he has to muzzle it. I love listening to these songs. They’re such a purely Mexican form of art, and it makes me feel closer to my heritage… not that I’m ever that far removed from it. I’m feeling very Mexican today.
My grandmother’s house is just outside Sabinas, and we arrive in the middle of the afternoon. I see her as soon as we pull in, her flowered sundress bright in the midday sun. She’s filling her bird feeder, and when she sees an unfamiliar car pulling into her driveway, she stops and squints at us. As soon as Steven parks, I open the door and jump out.
She drops the bag of bird seed, and it scatters all over the ground. “Marisol!”
I run to her, and we embrace tightly, laughing and crying in delight. I haven’t seen her in person for fifteen years. We talk on the phone, and we email — abuela is surprisingly tech savvy — but this is the first time we’ve seen each in the flesh in far too long.
Steven walks toward us, hanging back a little. Abuela sees him and walks up to him. She reaches up to put her hands on his shoulders and pulls him down to where her 4’11” self can reach his cheeks. She kisses him on both cheeks, then steps back.
“You must be Esteban,” she says, smiling.
He doesn’t rankle at the use of his actual name. I’m proud of him. His desire to be assimilated into American life isn’t necessarily welcome here.
“I am. And you must be Doña Maria Josefa.”
She laughs. “I’m not that fancy. Just call me Abuela.” She pats him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family.”
She ushers us into the house, which is a little modern ranch-style home that my father and my uncle had built for her. The interior is cool and dark, since she has the curtains pulled over the windows to keep out the worst of the heat. The shrine to La Santa Muerte dominates the living room, and the altar is littered with photographs of the family members who have gone before us. My grandfather, various aunts and uncles I never met, other faces I don’t recognize… they all have places of honor. A set of votive candles flicker.
“Granny, you can’t leave candles burning when you’re not inside to watch them!” I fuss at her. “What if one falls over or something?”
She waves her hand and clicks her tongue. “They’re fine. I was only out for a minute.”
Steven, bless him, walks to the shrine and bows his head to it, showing reverence for the saint. Maria Josefa looks impressed and nods to me in approval. He looks at the photographs.
“Who are these people? I’d like to know my new family.”
She beams, and I have to hand it to him. When it comes to brownie points, he knows how to score ‘em.
Maria Josefa joins him at the shrine, and I follow. I need to know who these people are, too. She goes through a long list, pointing out each photograph in turn. My grandfather Roberto, my great aunt Sofia, my uncle Santo and his wife Carolina, and the list goes on. Most of these people are new to me, so I try to memorize what my grandmother says. When she’s done with the litany, she turns to Steven.
“I want to ask La Santa Muerte’s blessing for your marriage,” she says, and she takes our hands. “Pray with me.”
We all kneel, and she puts my hand in Steven’s, then holds our united hands in hers. “Santa Muerte, look with favor on these children. Bless their future with love and long life, and bring them joy and many sons and daughters. Amen.”
“Amen,” I say. Steven echoes us.
Maria Josefa springs back up to her feet, as nimble as a deer. “Well! You must be hungry. Come sit, and I’ll make some tamales for us.”
I link arms with Steven and lead him toward the dining room. “Abuela is a fantastic cook, and we’re both going to gain twenty pounds from all the food she’s going to make for us.”
“Good!” she exclaims. “You’re both too skinny. Especially you, Marisol. Where are your hips? Men like curves!”
Steven winks at me, and I laugh.
Grannies. They’ll love you to death if you let them.
We eat and we talk, and Granny breaks out a new bottle of local wine to toast our future. It’s all so perfect that I can hardly believe it’s real. Then, to celebrate my homecoming and our impending wedding, we go to Sabinas for dinner.
We’re seated on the patio, enjoying the last rays of the sun, when the back door on a passing white panel van opens and a naked girl leaps out. She runs toward us, screaming, “Help me! Help me!”
I’m on my feet immediately, running to her, and Steven is right behind. He’s shouting something, but I can’t make out the words. The girl grabs me and starts babbling.
“Hide me! Please!”
She’s covered in bruises, and she’s utterly terrified. I push her toward Steven, turning my back to the street, but I look over my shoulder at it. The van screeches to a halt, and the doors open, disgorging two men with guns. My grandmother starts screaming, and Steven yells.
“Marisol!!”
The girl shrieks as Steven holds her, and she’s between us like the cheese in a sandwich. I hear a man yelling at her to stop. I hear guns, and then everything goes into slow motion. I feel three impacts hit my back, and it’s like being hit by a truck. Then there’s hot pain, and I’m falling, falling, and my ears are full of Steven’s screams mingling with my grandmother’s. I see the naked girl falling to the asphalt right in front of me, and when I hit the ground, my breath leaves me in a rush. My last thought goes through my brain before everything goes black.
This cannot be happening.
Elian
Martinez hands me the file as soon as I walk into the station. I’m less than thrilled with this case, and not just because they saw fit to call me in on my day off. It’s never good when an American tourist gets killed in your town.
I open the file and look at the report and the printouts of the digital crime scene photographs. She was very pretty; it’s a terrible shame. The other girl, the one whose failed escape
attempt led to this tragic event, was pretty, too, but in a sallow way. The American was a true beauty.
Damned shame.
“Do we know who did it?”
“Our sources say that it was the Rojas Cartel.”
That’s more bad news. I furrow my brow.
“Great. And the naked girl?”
“Goddaughter of Carlos Mireles. Yesleina Pendas.”
Mireles was a mid-level coke dealer in Honduras, sort of a regional distributor for the Rojas Cartel’s product. He must have gotten caught skimming profit, or else product got lost or damaged and he couldn’t pay for it. Apparently his goddaughter paid for his mistake with her life.
I’d like to say this was the first time I’ve seen this since I started working at the PFM, but it’s not. With our counterparts at the USA’s FBI, who should be showing up any time, now, we’ve dealt with hundreds of murders and kidnappings. The cartels are a serious problem. That problem gets nothing but worse when wayward Americans get caught in the crossfire. The difference in this case is that we normally see this sort of thing in Tijuana, Acapulco or Ciudad Juárez. This is a first for Sabinas.
“Witnesses?” I ask.
Martinez says, “The dead American’s Mexican grandma and her American boyfriend. Also an entire cafe full of diners who didn’t see a thing.”
“Right. They were all too busy diving under tables.”
“Basically.”
That’s what we call a reasonable excuse. Nobody wants to be caught pointing a finger at Rojas or his boys. That’s a good way to die these days.
Martinez looks over my shoulder at the dead girls’ pictures. “Shame. So young.”
I nod.
He continues, “The boyfriend is in room two. The grandmother was too upset, so Diego took her home.”
Wicked Souls: A Limited Edition Reverse Harem Romance Collection Page 75