by Tara West
“No,” Andrés gently scolds. “You don’t know how to use it yet.” He smiles and pats the boy on the head. “You can wait until tomorrow. Go back to the party. It’s rude to leave your friends.”
Michael’s lower lip drops and his eyes water.
“Michael,” Andrés leans over and whispers to him, “I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”
The boy nods and dashes through the door.
The woman doesn’t say good-bye as she closes the screen and slams another heavy door behind it.
Andrés and I don’t say a word as we climb back into his truck and make the long drive back to our hotel.
* * *
After our awkward trip, we eat a late lunch at a barbeque joint beside the river. Andrés picks at his food, and even though the warm, buttery bread melts in my mouth, and the savory, smoky pork falls off the rib bones, I don’t eat each much, either. Instead, I take in the sights. I smile and wave at a brightly painted gondola of tourists as they float past our table. A mariachi band is serenading someone having a birthday a few tables down. It’s beyond hot outside, and I am almost tempted to jump into the murky water. Luckily, a breeze is picking up, making the weather more bearable.
After lunch, we stroll hand-in-hand down a winding pathway. We come to a courtyard at the end of the river, ensconced by beautiful foliage and flowers. A four-story glass building abuts the end of the river, and pan flute music fills the courtyard, the sound echoing off the walls of the building and filling my heart and soul with beauty. We are standing along a bridge, and I am entranced. My fingers itch for my paints, but I fear I won’t be able to capture the magic of this place. Still, I pull out my phone and snap several photos. A nearby couple asks if they’d like them to take our picture, and Andrés holds me tight for the shot.
We wander some more, until we find ourselves in our room. Andrés says he needs to use the bathroom, and I waste no time settling back in front of my painting on the balcony. It doesn’t take me long to find my rhythm. I feel inspiration take over as I will my hand to do what my muse commands. I’m just adding the finishing touches when Andrés comes up behind me.
“You’re so good at what you do,” he says, a touch of sadness in his voice. “I feel like we’re holding you back making you paint boats and trucks. Your work should be in galleries.”
I know Andrés is still upset over the incident today. I suspect whatever has caused this woman to hate Andrés is far more complex than just him showing up unexpected to a birthday party.
“Maybe one day,” I say, setting my brush in the can of water beside the easel, “but I love working for your uncle, and I still have to get my degree, anyway.” Then I add, hesitantly, because we still haven’t discussed my future working arrangements. “Do you think your uncle will let me work part-time in the fall?”
Andrés laughs as he leans against the railing. “I think he’ll do just about anything to keep you working for us.”
“So what are your plans?” Funny, because I don’t flinch after I ask him. It’s almost like I don’t care anymore if he wants to work for his uncle for the rest of his life, because as each days passes, my mom’s opinion of who I date matters less and less.
“Tio’s giving me a few shops to manage when he retires,” Andrés says as he casts his gaze out on the river. “I need to go back to school and take a few more business courses.”
“You went to college?” My mouth falls open, and then I quickly clamp it shut.
I mentally berate myself for showing my surprise.
He looks at me from beneath his lashes, and I see the faintest smile tug the corners of his lips. He’s probably thinking I’m some stuck up college snot.
He casts his gaze back over the water. “I went to community college before I dropped out and joined the Army.”
Now curiosity has gotten the best of me. “Why’d you drop out?”
He stiffens, and I know he feels uncomfortable talking about it. “I was getting into trouble.” His voice drops. I have to strain to hear him. “My uncle said it was either join the military or he’d cut me off.”
A knot twists in my gut. I knew he was too good to be true. “What kind of trouble?” I ask with trepidation, knowing I may not want to hear the answer.
His eyes cloud over with memories. “Drinking, drugs, you know.”
My hands start to shake, and I instinctively grab my brush, needing something to hold on to. I like Andrés, but we can’t get serious if he’s a user. I can’t watch someone else I care about go down that path.
“Yeah, I know.” I squeeze my brush so tight, I fear it may snap in two. “I’m having that problem with Karri.”
Andrés steps toward me until we are merely a breath apart. He gently pries the brush from my hands and places it on the easel. “I’m clean now.” His breath is warm on my cheek. “I only had those beers when we went dancing.”
He tilts my chin up until I’m looking deeply into his penetrating gaze. He does not blink, and something about the softness of his smile makes me want to trust him.
“I believe you,” I finally say on an exhale.
And then he captures my mouth in the most exquisite kiss ever. I moan as I lean against him. He runs his hands the length of my spine and settles them on the small of my back before finally moving lower. I groan when he presses me into the rock hard erection beneath his denim.
He lifts me into his strong arms and carries me to the bed. He takes his time undressing me, favoring every inch of my skin with delicate kisses. But the way he cups each of my breasts in his hands and suckles my nipples is nearly my undoing. I arch against him and cry out. “Please, Andrés. Come in me.”
He chuckles against my chest before lavishing kisses across my collar bone. “Patience, mija.”
He finds my sensitive cleft and strokes, before he dips one, and then two fingers inside me. He continues to tease my cleft with the pad of his thumb. When he starts suckling my nipple again, I come undone. I barely have time to cry out when the orgasm tears through me. I clench the sheets and arch my back as my core pulsates around his fingers. His hand stills for only a moment, and he switches to my other nipple and begins to stroke me again. It doesn’t take him long to build me toward that second climax.
I whimper when he pulls out of me, just as I am bracing myself for another orgasm. But he’s only gone for a few seconds, before he’s slipping on a condom and sliding deep into me.
He covers my body with his and whispers into my ear, “So wet. So tight.”
And then he’s tunneling into me, with slow, deliberate thrusts. My hands claw his ass as he moves with agonizing slowness. I’m pressing against him, thrashing beneath his body, begging him to go faster. Harder.
“Patience,” he says again, kissing my temple. “Relax.”
I reluctantly give in and relax, because I think if I do what he says, he’ll reward me by thrusting harder. But he doesn’t. I groan as he continues to slowly, deliberately, slide in and out of me. But then he starts butting his length against my womb, and the pleasure ripples through me so strongly, I feel powerless to do anything but match each thrust while clutching his shoulders.
Again, my orgasm is building, surging. He’s kissing my lips, and I wrap his face in my hands and kiss him back, groaning into his mouth as the first wave consumes me. He grunts, and then thrusts deeper, jarring me and causing more and more waves of pleasure to wash over me. He deepens the kiss and groans as he throbs deep inside me. I wrap my legs tightly around him as he presses deeper into my womb and then stills.
He rolls onto his side and pulls me with him, showering my neck and face with kisses. This moment is so powerful, so beautiful, I’m sad to see it end. And now I understand why Andrés told me to slow down. He didn’t just want to have sex. He wanted to make love. The realization hits me hard and squeezes my chest.
What started out as one night of random sex with a total stranger has turned into something more, and now I’m thinking Andrés might actually be
“the one.” Funny, because I should be jumping out of bed and racing for the nearest exit, but I’m not. I smooth my hand down the small patch of hair on his chest and wrap my arm around his waist. I kiss his collarbone and neck before snuggling against him.
He kisses the top of my head before murmuring against my ear. “We hit a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. I blacked out, and when I came to, James was on top of me. He was shredded. I was in shock. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t do anything. The medics said he died on impact. There was nothing I could do. But I was the driver. It was my fault.” His voice cracks and he pulls away, lying on his back with his arm draped over his eyes.
I freeze because I don’t know what to say. Andrés lost his best friend. I can’t imagine losing Karri or Grace. I know Andrés blames himself for something beyond his control, and my heart clenches when I hear him sniffling.
I roll onto my stomach and come up on my elbows. He’s shaking as he wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“It wasn’t your fault, Andrés,” I say, but then I feel stupid. I’m sure he’s heard that at least a hundred times.
“Letty thinks it was my fault. That’s why she hates me,” he says.
I assume Letty is Michael’s mother and James’s widow.
He sits up and looks at me with watery eyes. I want to launch myself into his arms and kiss away his pain.
“Look.” He points to a small, jagged scar on his calf. “A piece of shrapnel hit me here. That’s it. My only injury.”
I trace my finger along the scar, and lean over and kiss it, lingering on his wound for a long moment. Then I sit up and lock gazes with him. He’s no longer crying, but his eyes are red-rimmed and his features are hard, making his face look like a mask of stone.
“James is dead because of me,” he says in a voice tight with emotion. “Now his sons will grow up without a father. It should have been me. I didn’t have anyone to live for.”
Wet heat stings the backs of my eyes. I crawl over him and settle myself in his lap. I reach out and stroke the side of his face before planting a kiss on his cheek. “You do now,” I whisper against his mouth.
* * *
The next day we take Michael to the park. I watch with admiration as Andrés patiently teaches the little boy how to operate the remote control. When we return him to his mother, a little over an hour later, she’s scowling at us again from behind the screen door. She shuts the door in Andrés’s face without even a “thank you” or a “good-bye.”
Andrés turns to me and shrugs, but I can tell he’s upset as he trudges back to his truck without a word. It’s entirely unfair of her to treat Andrés like this. I’m tempted to bang on that screen door and give her a piece of my mind, but I remind myself this woman is grieving. I’ve never known the feeling of losing a loved one, so I don’t feel I have the right to judge her. Still, I hope she comes to realize Andrés isn’t to blame for her husband’s death.
I remember Andrés telling me he made a promise to his best friend, and I realize the significance of that promise. Before James died, Andrés had promised his friend he’d look after his kids if anything happened to him. Letty was making it nearly impossible for Andrés to fulfill his vow, but he wasn’t giving up.
I have to admire that about Andrés. He honors his promises. I think of the other men in my life, like my father or Jackson. They would have turned around and gotten back in the truck when they realized they weren’t welcome, or worse, they probably wouldn’t have shown up at all.
As Andrés hits the accelerator and we drive down 35 back to Austin, I reach over and rest my hand on his. He turns his palm up and laces his fingers through mine. We sit in silence for the rest of the trip, and I keep thinking how lucky I am to have found this amazing man.
* * *
Andrés can’t stop thinking how lucky he is to have found this amazing woman as her words from last night replay in his mind.
You do now, she told him when he said he had no one to come home to.
He keeps telling himself this thing they have together might not last, but even after he’s revealed his inner demons, she’s still beside him, her hand entwined with his. He has to be the luckiest man in the world. And yet, even as he thinks it, a wave of shame overcomes him.
James wasn’t lucky. Andrés’s best friend had a bright future ahead of him after he got out of the Army. Like, Christina, he was an amazing artist. Andrés already had a job lined up for James at Tio’s shop.
But James is dead now, while Andrés is fortunate enough to go on living. Why Andrés? What has he done to deserve life? What has he done to deserve Christina?
But when she lays her head on his shoulder and snuggles up against his arm, despair and grief are replaced by longing and hope. Maybe he does deserve this. Either way, he isn’t about to give her up. She means too much to him.
Chapter Nineteen
I do not want to go home, but I am out of clean clothes, plus I need to refuel art supplies. Andrés says I can paint in his kitchen, and I really want to try my hand at that beautiful courtyard on The Riverwalk.
I pull in front of the house and heave a frustrated groan. Mom’s car is parked in the circular driveway. Great.
I notice Marta’s little station wagon is also parked in the drive. Marta is our Mexican housekeeper. Her choppy English bothers Mother, so she usually makes up some excuse like having a migraine, and keeps to her room while Marta cleans. If I’m lucky, I can slip in quietly without being seen or heard by my mother, grab what I need, and be back out the door before she knows I’m there.
No such luck.
The Spitting Cobra is waiting for me when I walk into the foyer. She must have some kind of guilt trip radar I’m unaware of.
“Oh, how nice of you to stop by,” she hisses.
I roll my eyes and walk past her, practically flying up the stairs in an effort to escape her venom. But, since my mother loves a good fight, I can feel her serpentine tongue lapping at my heels as she follows me to my room.
She eyes me through slitted lids as I pack my bag with clean clothes. “Where are you going?”
“To Andrés’s house,” I answer curtly.
“No, you’re not.” She comes over and tosses my bag to the floor. “If you absolutely must date minorities, then stick to Asians.” She wags a manicured finger in my face. “They are far more ambitious.”
She stuns me into silence. I gape at her for a long moment. Is this woman for real?
But she’s not fazed by my reaction. “I met some Asians at the country club today,” she rambles on in a haughty tone. “Very nice people, and they have a single son who’s not bad looking for an Asian. They made their fortune in fast food. Can you believe it? They own those little Noodle Express restaurants. It’s a nationwide chain. Anyway, they’ve invited us to their dinner party tonight.” She arches a penciled brow and twists her plump lips in a scowl. “Are you listening to me?”
I eye her with disdain. “Unfortunately.”
“Darling, if you want to have sex with a Mexican laborer, then by all means enjoy yourself, but you’re seeing this boy far too often. Imagine what my friends will say if they think you two are a couple.” She turns up her nose and makes a face of disgust, as if she’s just eaten something sour.
“Mom.” I groan while looking her dead in the eye. “We are a couple.”
Her face turns bright red, and I back away, waiting for The Cobra to strike.
“I don’t believe it.” She throws up her hands. “You would really throw away the chance to marry into one of the richest families in Texas for a poor, dumb, Mexican?”
I know she emphasizes the word “dumb” to hurt me.
“Just because he’s a poor Mexican, doesn’t make him stupid,” I growl.
I hear the sound of a woman clearing her throat and spin around. Marta is behind me, clutching a scrub brush in one hand and a bucket in the other. The heavy-set woman’s usually tanned cheeks are flushed a bright pink.
&
nbsp; “What do you want?” Mother snaps.
“I’m finished cleaning downstairs,” Marta says in firm tone with only a slight accent.
“Fine.” Mom waves her away. “Get busy on the rest.”
Marta narrows her eyes at Mother. “I don’t think so, señora.” She drops the brush and bucket on the padded carpet, sloshing grey, soapy water everywhere, and then stomps off.
“Marta? Where are you going?” Mother shrieks as she pushes past me and races after her. “My bathrooms need to be cleaned! I’ve got soap scum in my shower!”
I seize the moment to pull my phone out of my purse and fire off a text to Grace. Is that apartment still available?
She responds right away. Yep.
Relief floods through me. I have to get out of this house. Could you please hold it for me? I can put down the deposit today.
I’ll go tell the manager right now, she answers.
Mom is back, stomping into my room so hard, I swear she’s going to break an ankle in those flimsy heels. “Now look at what you’ve done! Who’s going to scrub my toilets?”
I look at her coolly. Even though the anger welling up inside me is threatening to split my skull in two, I will not let this snake know she unnerves me. “I’m moving out.”
Her eyes bulge. “What?”
I turn back to my packing. “I can’t live here anymore.”
“You think it’s going to be easy on your own, but it’s not.” She laughs. “Do you think you can pay the bills painting cars?”
I’m so aggravated now, I’m seeing red, but I don’t show it as I turn and flash a slow and deliberate smile. “I made almost four thousand dollars last week. I’m not a math major, but I’m pretty sure that’s a six-figure yearly income.”
She folds her arms across her chest and taps her chin with her finger. “Jackson will be making seven figures.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t give a damn what Jackson makes.”
“Fine, move out!” She waves wildly at the big, ugly, four-poster bed. “But you can’t take the bed!”