Zaccaro

by Amarie Avant

  "Stop." I punch him softly. The three of us head out the front of the Flour Shoppe. Jamie punches in the key code inside the entryway as I shift weight, standing beneath a royal-blue and purple sky as the sun has just disappeared.

  Flour Shoppe is located a few doors down from Nook and smack dab in the middle of the Los Angeles Art Walk. There's never parking in the front. None of the meters have a nanosecond to breathe. There’s paid parking in the rear, but I expect to see Tino's Audi breaking a "loading zone only" law. Not even one of Chu's drivers, that should also be waiting for Jamie, is there. There is no one in the loading zone. There's nobody strolling down the street at all.

  "If there's a friggen zombie pandemic, Evan, I give you my permission to release me from your command."

  From behind, Evan kisses me softly on the neck. "I do not accept your kind gesture."

  "Well, I would like to accept your ride. Where the hell is your car?"

  “We are walking,” Evan replies.

  "Jamie." I turn away, as he ushers the keys into his pocket. "Where's Chu? Can you all drop me off at home?"

  "You live two blocks up the street," Jamie replies, laughing as if my statement is the most preposterous thing.

  Tight lipped, I point to my ankles. And then I make the explosion gesture with my hands near my bowling ball of a belly.

  "What's going on?" Evan asks.

  "Inside joke," Jamie barely gets the words out for laughing.

  After clearing his throat, my best friend adds, "Look, let's head toward your home. If my chauffeur arrives before we make it, I'll give you a ride and Evan can walk the rest of the way all on his lonesome. That work?"

  "Perfect. I hope Evan has to walk —"

  "It's not far, and if I walk, you walk," Evan cuts in.

  We begin the long stretch, of two blocks. Jamie chatters about his pending trip, and I’m content holding Evan’s hand as I pretend to listen. Really, my mind is on the hordes of people inside of some of the galleries on both sides of the street. I’m wondering if they’re having an event, and they all have to squeeze in the respective artsy rooms at dusk.

  A few yards away, vibrant chalk on the asphalt in the middle of the street captivates my attention.

  There once was a boy ...

  He lost a love so great ...

  I huff. "Blah, that sucks."

  "Huh?" Jamie says, Evan arches and eyebrow.

  I point to the ground. "Someone painted on the street: There once was a boy, he lost a love so great—Evan, you sensor some of my poetic music so I'm just gonna stop looking down!" I know I just caught an attitude but I blame it on the hormones and these friggen ankles.

  “Oh, look,” Jamie cuts in, “it says, and then he met a tart."

  "A tart?" The scrawled font is beautiful, but the words are… my mouth twists. A tart... Evan called me a friggen tart when we first met. He was too polite to call me a bitch, at least that's how I took it.

  "She knew not what love was," a man says from off in the distance. As he speaks, a couple steps into the street. The woman has on a flowing dress, yellow, the same color I wore when Evan came into my life. The man is big and strong. They're spirit dancers: holding, clinging, pushing and pulling. There's a tug and a war. All caused by the tart. The woman. Me.

  A crowd is meandering from the various art venues, and even Nook.

  "The both of us are not apt when it comes to art. So, I asked a few artists on the block and they asked a few more who apparently asked a few more. Everyone is here to see just how much I love you, Reese," Evan says. He drops to one knee.

  “Ohhh…” I moan, speechless beyond repair while Evan digs into his pocket.

  The Flour Shoppe box in my hand slips from my palm, fingers and tips. The ribbon unravels and a half-dozen cannoli fall out. My grandfather’s cannoli. I hadn’t made the dessert in eight months, I hadn’t set eyes on him in just as long. We were to meet him this evening for dinner.

  My eyes blur and I can't even make out Evan’s face. Or the sea of smiling people.

  "I haven't had a single cannoli since my granddaughter last made them, and she drops ‘em," Sal says. My grandfather is behind me! He’s here!

  I can hardly breathe, rubbing the back of my hand over my eyes.

  There's an antique ring in Evan’s hand.

  "Is this... is this my grandmother’s ring?"

  "I gave my blessing, doll," Sal says.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Something compels me to hurdle myself at Evan.

  My arms fly around his shoulders. I hold tight to my Superman.

  The End.

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  About the Author

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  Turn the page to check out my new romantic thriller, Diablo Inside. This story includes feisty heroine, Aria Jones, and a sexy Cuban who will leave you speechless in more ways than you can think!

  48

  LeAnna Aria Jones

  Raw fear licks the nape of my neck. With each breath, I drown in the past. An Ice Cream truck’s melody, laughter, the Oldies, family reunion music, funneled through my ears. I hesitated, watching my younger sister clasp the hand of a stranger whose smile outshined the Texas sun. They were going for chocolate sundaes and coming right back . . .

  I warn myself to touch something, return to reality. My clammy palms press against the cold, veiny-marble countertop. ReAnna and her abductor disappear; rich opulence returns.

  “Aria, don’t let the past screw with your head,” I tell myself. Massive slate-gray walls and custom everything surround me. The kitchen sliding glass door, frames a breathtaking view of Miami Beach by day, is veiled in nightfall.

  The top floor of a sky-rise luxury apartment is where I call home. It’s the only dwelling on this level. My poor, rich roommate—emphasis on either term—has never worked a day in her life. When Miranda’s funds decreased, she sought a roomy. But countless Cosmopolitans, couture dresses, and posh lounges are her religion on a Saturday night.

  Adrenaline courses through my veins, heightening my senses, particularly, my hearing. I catch the faint footsteps somewhere in the otherwise secluded apartment. I call out, “Hello?”

  So, if someone responds to the greeting, you’re screwed, Aria.

  Fisting a chef knife, I add a tentative threat: “I have a . . . gun!”

  My fingers drag across my tresses, tangling in thick roots, desperate for of a touch-up.

  Faint steps echo out. I stammer, “Miranda, if that’s you . . .” You will see the side of me I hide from everyone else.

  Barefoot on chilly, opulent limestone, I navigate through the vast expanse of the home. I stop in the hallway, which leads to my side. Miranda kept the balcony wrapping around the north, east, and south side of the building. While I possess a lone terrace, perfect for early mornings in my art room. Light bleeds from that very door.

  Jutting the knife downward, I snatch open the door, hoping to catch Messy Miranda. She’s so worried about my ability to pay rent. I’ve caught her snooping around my area since signing the lease a half year ago.

  “Miran—” My gaze collides with olive-green gems. A case of anxiety whisks me to my first obsession. No amount of therapy ever remedied the guilt. Older siblings have an unwritten obligation. I failed ReAnna.

  During some flashbacks, I lose sight of ReAnna and her abductor in the commotion of a hot summer’s day. Or I freeze. The ending never changes. ReAnna’s never to be seen or heard from again.

  Touch reality or faint. My seesawing vision slows as my fingers clash against the ornate, glossy doorframe. Exuding false confidence, I demand, “How did you get in here?”

/>   Despite my past, I’m not crazy. Miranda draws imaginary lines and counts beans. Her fixation on division made me anal, too. This is my haven. Miranda has hers. And the attractive Cuban dominating my art room doesn’t belong here.

  He’s thick. A dangerous kind of thick that can bulldoze straight through me. Taller than my musings from afar—I’ve “stalked” him from a distance this entire time. A leather jacket outlines his imposing shoulders and biceps, tapering down to a narrow waist. Dark-wash denim encases muscular legs and a scrumptious ass. I know, I’ve seen that ass from afar. He’s the entire package, every physical attribute on any woman’s list. The sight of him heats up the adrenaline already coursing through me.

  His face is flawless deception: angelic, devilish, and sends goosebumps flying over my arms. Summer-kissed skin, and a sharp jaw. Stubble accentuates a beautiful, hostile mouth. The Cuban has ruined the lives of women with that mouth. He’s the perfect predator.

  “I said ‘how did you get in here?’ ” Never mind the delirious question of how, as opposed to why, I’m astonished I can utter a single word.

  At my standing desk, the Cuban picks up a photo. The image captures an attractive vessel. Him. He flicks the photo of himself toward me. It dashes at my feet. Then another and another.

  My first obsession fucked my mind over—ReAnna’s disappearance.

  My second fixation is piling up at my feet.

  Photos glide across the floor. All of him. The camera lens worshiped his angles: his face, his chiseled chest. The Cuban god. If he plans on flinging all the photos to me, it will take him forever.

  “Those are my personal property,” I grit out.

  The Cuban pulls on a rolled cigarette. A sweet, musky scent snakes from captivating lips as he plucks another photo. He flicks it into my general direction.

  “They are mine!”

  “Are they, LeAnna? Or shall I call you, Aria?” His warm, alluring tone puts top-shelf whiskey to shame. In quick strides, he walks with heavy booted steps over renderings of his face. He stops in front of a canvas painting, which had taken an entire week to create from another photo. The Cuban snatches it from the easel, staring at the creation of himself. My panties percolate at the sound of a low, angered growl building in his throat.

  Bold brushstrokes match his swagger. I’d spent more money on gold and mocha pallets to paint him in these past months than I had in my entire undergrad at NYU. There are a thousand renditions of his photos into my favorite medium—paint—in this room. So, if he plans to pick them all over, that’ll take forever too.

  I don’t mind forever, as long as he doesn’t murder me.

  My hips widen as he takes another drag from his handmade cigarette. Then, without a word, he shoves his fist into the center of the framed canvas. “This your property, Aria, si?”

  “You need to leave—”

  “Or what, Aria?” His Latin accent plays my name sensual, slow. I’m painfully aware of how enthralling the devil is. Though his stance is threatening, I remind myself not to . . . fear him. Never mind the natural reaction, desire.

  Focusing on the painting, he lights one side with his cigarette. Cinders curl into an insignificant flame. Letting the scrap fall, the Cuban crushes the furious little spark with his boot.

  “We should tell the authorities how you stalked me. Took photos, painted me without consent, si!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I snarl.

  He taps 9-1-1 into his cellphone. He poises his finger over the call button, and my jaw clamps. “Let’s do this, Mami. You say I’m breaking and entering.” His chuckle is a low rumble in his colossal chest. “This room depicts something else altogether.”

  Flushed with heat, I level my gaze on the notorious killer. “You’re the stalker. Murd—” My voice breaks. He’s a murderer who collects beautiful women.

  As he inhales his cigarette, smoke clouds the magnificent structure of his face. “Aria, you’re gorgeous, deranged. Not a compelling combination. This will end bad for you.”

  “You’re a sick fuck, Dominic Angel Alvarez. You know my name? I know you!” I grit out, finding the voice that abandoned me when ReAnna vanished. “You’re—”

  My body is planted against the wall. Hunter green eyes glare down at me. “What were you saying? Repeat yourself, Aria!”

  “Kill me,” I threaten. “More paintings of you are here. More photos than you can conceive of finding after disposing of my body.”

  “Kill you?” Dominic calls me crazy beautiful, serenading me with an imaginary Spanish guitar. The backs of his knuckles run like soothing leather across my cheek.

  When I tremble, he stops murmuring sweet words in my ear. He rubs his index and thumb finger together. “You’re crying, Aria. Look at those big brown eyes, so surprised. You weren’t aware?”

  He knots his fingers into my hair, baring my throat and vulnerable pulse to his lips. More Spanish words float from his devious mouth. He presses his mouth along my cheek. I become attune to my tears. This is how the other women die, so caught up in the rapture of him; they lose themselves.

  As I’ve said, I know these things.

  I’ve watched, waiting for Dominic to break another pretty soul—because I’d pounce before he consumed her.

  His gaze dances over mine, spearing me against the wall further. “You begging me to tear you apart, Aria?”

  “No,” I whimper.

  “You’re crying. I have yet to rip you to shreds. Should I break you, chula?”

  My heart shutters to a stop. There was one thing in this world I obsessed over before the sight of Dominic Angel Alvarez. The disappearance of ReAnna.

  For the rest of my life, I’ll obsess over her. Had I not breathed life prior to her, would the shame claw so deep? It’s too late for questions, too late to save my twin. Now, I’ve vowed to rescue Dominic’s women.

  “Mami, should I show you what happens to bad girls, si?”

  “Try me!” I cling to convictions I never knew I had. This second obsession of mine won’t extend as long as the first one. Justice will be served with my death. Aside from the photos and sketches, I have notes, a virtual journal set on a timer. The media calls him El Santos. El Diablo’s more appropriate. Dominic’s balls are in a vice grip, and he doesn’t know it. Fuck spending another breath on this earth. My life can end now.

  Aria

  Six months ago…

  “Nunaya damn business,” was the first phrase, and only instance, in which I’d heard Gramps cuss. He said it in the heat of the search for ReAnna. People would ask my grandparents if I was the other girl.

  The sister.

  The twin.

  The one who failed ReAnna, their faces read. Though my shrink refuted the statement for years, I’ve silently lived by it. I vow not to be a failure again.

  The night after ReAnna disappeared, anything my mom touched, she beat me with. “The police don’t look too hard for little black girls. It’s your fault we will never see ReAnna again,” she declared.

  On occasion, your fault claws at my ears too.

  My family crumbled a few a weeks into the search. Momma broke first, Dad next. Before the tragedy, he was the kind of dad that you perched your toes on his as you dance, and you’re so young, naïve, you feel like a little princess. Also, you wonder if you’re crushing his toes no matter how much of a giant he looks while wrapping his arms around you.

  Dad promised always to be there. He said I wasn’t to blame. Though not as many times as my therapist drilled in how my actions hadn’t made him an alcoholic.

  My grandparents took me in about a month into the search. But it was years after my grandparents relocated us from San Antonio to Miami that I learned Dad died a drunk.

  Nevertheless, no more, “nunya damn business,” from Gramps. Still, his token cuss word became my life, until now.

  ***

  I stand before the mirror, shoving my face into a smile. It looks psychotic, like the Joker in any movie where he failed at slaying Batman
.

  My roasted almond complexion glows despite days of working in a dark room. The balcony has become my solace since renting this place for less than a month. My only source of vitamin D when I refuse to leave home.

  I push my hair around. The crinkled tresses fall against my cheeks and tickle at the edges of my thick lips, prompting an almost smile.

  My cellphone buzzes in my linen pants. I glance at it. Biting my lip, I contemplate not answering Roslyn, my token friend. This is a social call, and I’m a real-life hermit. I answer with an uncertain, “Hey?”

  “Hey, you? Get your ass down here, Ari’.”

  I huff. We met in junior high. She dropped bits of everyone’s names, including mine, always dragging me to the next pointless introduction.

  I snigger. “I left my house yesterday because of you, no thank you!”

  “So? Your ass is leaving today. Zumba, first. Later, the skirts I’ve selected will show half our ass cheeks at the—”

  I hang up. Seconds later, I wait for her call. We’re pros at tug of war. Roslyn is the woman I wish I could live vicariously through—wish—because she forces me to live. She’s bold enough to breathe life into me once a week.

  The phone screen dims. Oh crap. My new roommate, Miranda, abhors guests. The doorman has strict orders from Miranda, and he also has eyes.

  The Puerto Rican Roslyn is the magic of all Latina and African beauty. I move away from the mirror in my loft bathroom. I pass the Pinterest worthy claw foot tub and through a bedroom that is also dream goals to Pinners.

  The elevator to our apartment is only accessible by us. I stand against a pillar vase, then shuffle away from it. Miranda has her requests. Don’t touch this; don’t even breathe on that.

  I glance across the way to the double doors of the witch’s room. She’s here. Vampires sleep in the daytime and suck . . . certain things . . . come night.

  The elevator doors whisk open. My hand clamps on Roslyn’s red lips. “I’m sorry, but you have the biggest mouth.” I lead her toward my hallway. Once there, I let her go and start toward my art room.