by K. A Knight
His eyes flash, his lips curling. He leans down and places his lips against my ear. “Tú también me gustas, dulzura.”
The words, although mostly harmless, whispered in my ear, send a shiver through me, and I scrap my nails against his scalp. There’s just something about accents that always get you, no matter what region they’re from. This man is no different, and even though I don’t know his name, even though I shouldn’t be running around with someone who causes such a reaction in the locals, I find myself drawn to him in ways I hadn’t planned for.
“Then dance with me, diablo,” I whisper, “and show me what Día de los Muertos is really about.”
“With pleasure.” He jerks me closer, until there’s no longer any space, and I stare up into his hooded eyes. The way he purrs the word pleasure makes me imagine us in a different, more intimate position.
I almost pull him into the dark alley, but instead, we dance as if we’re not strangers.
We dance as if he isn’t the devil at all.
/-/-/-/
The drive to Matamoros was long, some eight hours from the University once we plugged it into the navigation system. The ride through Texas was uneventful, the scenery both sparse and crowded when we passed through cities.
“Have you broken up with Julio yet?” I asked Myrna. She’d been dating the asshole for a few months, and he treated her like shit. I’d been advocating for the breakup since day one.
“No. He got mad when I told him I was taking you to Matamoros with me, though. I told him where he could stick his jealousy. It’s on my to do list when we get back.”
“Please tell me you literally wrote ‘Break up with Julio’ in your planner,” I teased. Myrna was so organized, sometimes it drove me crazy. She made lists for everything: grocery lists, study lists, hell, she made lists sometimes for who she needed to spend time with. I was usually written at the top of the list and it made me proud Julio had never made it higher than me.
Myrna glanced over, her face red.
“You did!” I laughed. “Your planner says, ‘break up with Julio’. That’s amazing.”
“It’s just to make sure I don’t forget,” she defended.
“Like you would forget to break up with the domineering asshole that waits outside your door like an angry puppy.” I roll my eyes. “The only reason you stayed with him this long is because he’s good in bed.”
She sighed. “That’s true. I’m going to miss Winston.”
“Who the hell is Winston?” I ask, wrinkling my brow.
“That’s what I named it.”
I stared at her with blank eyes until it dawned on me. I snorted and doubled over, my laughter getting the better of me. “You named his penis Winston?” I cackled. “Does he know that?”
“No! Are you crazy? You don’t tell a man you named his cock after a butler.”
I threw my head back. “Winston, at your service!” Tears flowed down my face, my chest sore from the full-bellied laughs. “I can’t. I’m going to piss myself. We need to stop.”
By the time we got to a sketchy gas station just across the border, I nearly had pee running down my leg in my haste to get to a toilet. I was still laughing all the way there, and as I hovered over the grungy porcelain, I couldn’t keep the chuckles from slipping out.
I finished my business, washed my hands, and as I looked in the mirror, I got the sudden feeling someone was watching me. I turned, but when I saw no one, I shrugged my shoulders and finished up. Goosebumps rose on my arms as I looked at the mirror again, as it seemed to flash for a moment.
I couldn’t get out of the bathroom fast enough, and by the time I climbed back into Myrna’s beat up Pontiac, I’d already forgotten why I’d had the heebie jeebies in the first place.
“Winston, at your service,” I teased, and we burst into a new fit of laughter as Myrna pulled onto the road and we continued on our way to Matamoros.
Chapter 4
I forgot to keep looking for Myrna. The crowds on the streets aren’t winding down at all. The later it gets, the more the party seems to grow. Everywhere I look, there are painted faces like mine, some super intricate with jewels, some the bare minimum to fit in. Others wear masks, so they didn’t have to paint their faces at all. The colors make my eyes sparkle with the extravagance. It’s clear to see everyone celebrates Día de los Muertos in their own way. Some probably stay at the cemetery all night long. Others it seems, came to party with the dead, dancing, drinking, and singing until they’re falling down with exhaustion.
The tequila in my blood seemed to wear off a little while ago. The haze over my eyes finally clears and I can see everything without the rose-tinted gaze, but I still don’t pull away from the man who still has his fingers threaded through mine. I still don’t know his name. I still don’t feel safe, but something about him keeps me there. As if we are alike in some way I haven’t been fortunate to figure out yet. Perhaps, we’re cut from the same cloth, he and I. Perhaps, there’s some sort of fate involved.
My feet should have started hurting an hour ago after all the dancing we’ve been doing. I’ve never been a graceful person, especially not when I’m put with music, but when I dance with Diablo, it’s like I’ve been dancing all my life.
Even now, he spins me around, my skirt flaring up around me and flashing the crowd that doesn’t care. Everyone is too deep inside their own mourning, their own celebration, to pay attention to the one gringa who decided to hold hands with the devil.
“Are you having fun?” he asks me, that accent I love washing over me. His fingers caress up and down the bare skin of my forearm. I never realized the area was such an erogenous zone until his fingers find it.
“Yes,” I breathe, “but it would be much more fun if I could call you something other than Diablo.”
“We have been over this,” he chides. “I can’t tell you mine until you tell me yours.”
“You say that as if it’s some sort of rule set in stone.”
He tilts his head at me, and I try my best not to stare too hard into his red eyes, red eyes I’m starting to doubt are contacts at all. “Names hold a lot of power, dulzura.”
“What sort of power?” I thread my fingers into the hair on the nap of his neck, stroking through the soft curls. Even after all the dancing, he’s not sweating. I feel like a slick pig and he’s as pristine as the day. How is that fair?
“Names hold your power inside of you. Once you give your name to someone, you give them the power to destroy you.”
“I thought it’s the heart that lets them destroy you, not something so simple as a name?”
“Are you offering your heart instead, senorita?” He grins and leans down. We stop swaying to the music, his face hovering in front of mine.
“It’s probably too soon for all that,” I tease.
“Is it?” His breath fans across my lips and I have the sudden urge to lean forward and kiss him. My heart kicks in my chest, but I hold myself steady. I can be stubborn, too.
“What would you do, if I gave you my heart?” I continue playing his games, narrowing my eyes on him. It’s a loaded question. I’ve been through some horrible breakups in my college years, ones Myrna had helped me pick up the pieces afterwards. This is just one night. I’ve known this man for hardly a few hours, but something feels more profound here. Whether it’s fate or just the traditions of the festival getting to me, I don’t know. I’m not much of a believer in those sorts of things, but I can’t help feeling this has some thread of destiny woven in. Like something has always been leading me to this moment.
“Hearts are meant to be cherished. If you wish that, you shouldn’t give your heart to me.” He’s so serious for a moment, so out of character with what I’ve seen, that I wrinkle my brow and lean back a little to study his face.
“Are you a heartbreaker?”
Somewhere in the distance, another mariachi band takes over, the rich sound of a trumpet filling the air. Even though the melody tempts me to move, I hold
still, waiting for an answer. I don’t know why it means so much to me. This is just a stranger, one I’d willingly have a good time with, one who is clearly dangerous judging by the locals, but I need to know.
“I’m a destroyer,” he whispers. The corner of his lips kicks up like he’s amused but he can’t hide the emotion in his eyes. He may be a destroyer, but maybe he’s not happy to be.
“Have you ever given your heart to someone, Diablo?” I ask. A couple float by us, dancing far faster than anything I can ever hope to mimic, their feet graceful, their dance a tango of love so thick, I can feel it from here. It helps that they’re old enough to be my parents, and their love is so strong, it’s as if it’s never faded. He blinks down at me, confusion in his eyes. “Have you ever had your heart broken?”
“No.”
I grin, reaching up to twist a finger in that sexy curl on his forehead. “Maybe it’s me that has the power, then,” I whisper. “El Diablo.”
For a moment, he looks stricken, but whatever decision he comes to, he pushes it aside and returns to his smooth demeanor. “Will you destroy me then, dulzura? Will you make me beg for you?”
I stand up on my toes just as someone starts singing an upbeat tune. I can’t make out the words exactly, the language still rough in my mind, but the feeling of it is what gets me. It’s both a warning and an urging, a pushing and a pulling.
“Beg? No, Diablo,” I purr. “But there are other reasons I’d like to see you on your knees.”
His eyes flash bright as molten lava, hooded, his arousal suddenly pressing against my stomach as we move together and sway. One of his hands trails down to my ass and squeezes, the other going to the back of my neck and tangling in my hair, strong and unyielding, but gentle. “Teasing me won’t end well, dulzura. I’m not some kitten. I’m a beast.”
“Even beasts need love.” I don’t wait for him to make the first move. I pull his head down and press my lips against his. He hesitates for a moment, before he savagely takes my mouth, angling my head the way he wants. White hot fire erupts in my core and I mew against him, letting the beast, the devil, claim me in his way.
I’ve always known I’ll be going to hell.
At least, now I know I’ll be welcomed.
I’m so caught up in the kiss, in the feeling of his tongue darting out to tangle with mine, I don’t notice the slight exhaustion that suddenly affects my body. We just keep dancing, in the center of the festival, surrounded by people making crosses at us and murmuring their prayers.
I release his lips and press my forehead against his, my fingers holding onto him just a little bit tighter.
“Are you sure beasts and monsters deserve love?” he asks, his breath fanning across my lips, his eyes closed as he holds me close. “Are you sure I do?”
“The only thing I’m sure of,” I whisper, “is that you’re not what you appear to be, Diablo. But love? That’s an easy one. Everyone deserves the chance to love, even if it’s a missed chance, even if it’s a hopeless one. It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, right?”
His eyes pop open, meeting mine, his face too serious suddenly. He presses his lips to the tip of my nose, and it makes my heart jump at the tenderness of it. “Eres demasiado bueno para este mundo.”
I have no idea what he says, but I don’t ask for him to translate. Some things just sound better in a different language. Some things just feel better when we don’t know what they mean in the first place.
Looking into his eyes, listening to him speak Spanish, I do something my whole-body screams at me not to do, that my instincts revolt so fiercely, I have to swallow a few times to say the words in the first place. Whatever beast he thinks he is, whatever I don’t see, my body recognizes the danger, but I don’t listen to it.
I’ve always been bad at following my instincts.
“My name’s Mallory,” I whisper.
His fingers clench hard against me, bruising, and sadness flickers across his eyes. I don’t question it, don’t ask. I just look up into his face, knowing I just made a mistake, but reveling in it anyways.
“Mallory,” he purrs, before he leans down and his breath fans against my ear. “It’s nice to meet you, Mallory.”
My knees go weak when he says my name, the sound perfect with his accent. “And yours?” I ask, pressing my lips against his jawbone.
He leans back and grins down at me, and even though the sadness is still in his eyes, he’s back to his smooth self. “Dante,” he says. “You can call me Dante.”
Turns out, Diablo wasn’t so far off.
/-/-/-/
I tilted my head at Myrna, listening to her go on and on about Día de los Muertos, about the traditions of her country, and how much she was looking forward to going home.
“You should come with me, Mal,” Myrna said nonchalantly.
“Come to Mexico?” I stared at her with drawn brows. “You want me to come with you to your grandma’s funeral?”
“It’s not a funeral. It’s a celebration. The holiday is about the veil falling, about the dead coming across to visit the living. We sit around and talk about those who passed, remember them, keep their memory alive, and the dead sit with us.”
I turned and met Myrna’s eyes. She knew I didn’t believe in myths and legends. My beliefs had died with my mother when I found her.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said before I could say no. “I know you don’t believe any of that to be true. I’m just asking you to come with me, as a friend.”
I smiled sadly. That, I knew how to do. Losing a family member was never easy, and I knew that as well as most. Myrna had been the one to pick of my pieces. I could do the same for her.
“Is it safe?”
Myrna shrugged. “As safe as Matamoros can be. There are dangers of course, but I can keep you safe as long as you listen to me. No running off like a gringa.”
I snorted. “I don’t run off. If anything, it’s you who always disappears with some handsome stranger.”
“Well, we won’t be doing that on Día de los Muertos. You might not believe in the legends, but I do, and when the veil is down, the dead aren’t the only thing that cross.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, flipping through the textbook in my lap. We had a test next week in Advanced A & P. I’d have to email the professor and let them know the situation.
“Hadas oscuras.” When I looked at her in confusion, she floundered her hands around, searching for the word. “Uh, dark creatures. Like the little thing with wings in Peter Pan.”
“Fairies?” I raise my brow at her.
“But not friendly, and not tiny. They look just like people, but they have red eyes.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You won’t have to worry about my running away with the pixies, girl.”
“You laugh now, but when one of those pretty bastards sucks your soul out, you’ll be sorry.”
“How pretty are we talking?” I asked, laughing until she smiled. I tossed a pillow at her. “Maybe I need a pretty fairy.”
“I’ll take care of you, Mal,” she promised. “You’ll be okay.”
Chapter 5
The festival is in no way winding down by four am. The music never diminishes, the dancing never slows, the cries of sorrow and celebration never stops. There’s something endearing about a whole population of people who believe their loved ones are there with them, that they can talk to them and see them to tell them about their year. I’ve never truly gotten the chance with my mother, and honestly, I don’t know if I would have taken it had I gotten it anyways. She’d left me with more questions than answers, had never been forthcoming with her feelings. It’s no wonder it takes me so long to make friends. Myrna had to work on me for months before I finally hung out with her.
Dante though, there is something different about him, something that both draws me in and pushes me away. Thousands of years of instinct tells me to run the other way while I still have the chance, and y
et, my heart beats a little too loud to listen to those fight or flight urges. He constantly dances between sadness and arousal in his gaze, sometimes both. It’s easy to see that he wants me, but for some reason, he also doesn’t.
We’ve been dancing for the better part of two hours, had shared a few kisses already that had rocked my world so hard, I’m not sure how I can even stand afterwards. The white dress Myrna loaned me has dust staining the bottom of it, the white a little less white, but I don’t care. I still feel beautiful, even if I look disheveled compared to Dante, who still looks like he stepped from a magazine.
“Would you like to go grab something to snack on?” Dante whispers, his arms locked around me and holding me close. I feel protected in his arms, as stupid as that sounds, because I also feel the danger. Who feels such contrasting feelings when they’re dancing with a man?
“Yes,” I moan. “I’m starving.” I’ve been starving the entire time we danced but I never interrupted, never said a word. It bothered me I somehow forgot to eat, and my stomach gave a massive growl of protest at that moment as if to remind me how stupid it is. It seems like I should have said something, after all.
For the first time since we entered the square, Dante stops dancing and threads his slender fingers through mine. An older lady nearby makes a sound I can only describe as despair when we walk past, and she even reaches out her hand to me, imploring me to take it. I wrinkle my brow in confusion but before I can ask her anything, Dante is tugging me away from her, away from the dozens of other locals watching us go. So many make the sign of the cross, as if I’m walking into war, or Hell.
“I know I said you’re the devil, but that’s a little unnerving,” I point out, stumbling as I focus on the people behind me rather than my own feet.
“You get used to it eventually.” Dante’s grip is firm on my hand, and I have the urge to try and let go. I don’t, but honestly, I don’t think he’d let me go anyways. Even with that thought in my head, I don’t stop and run away. I let him lead me into whatever the hell he’s focused on.