by Alexis James
My hand lifts, fingers moving softly over the six simple words, causing her to shiver at my touch and shift quickly out of reach. Silently cursing my stupidity, I mutter, “Sorry.”
She offers up another shrug and once more reaches for her drink, peering at me over the rim. “Do you have any ink?” When I shake my head no, she asks, “Why not?”
“Never found anything I wanted to put permanently on my body, I suppose.” My eyes lift to hers. “When did you get yours?”
That pain I think I might have imagined before skirts through her eyes once more, lingers there for a long moment before it wafts away. “When I was eighteen.”
There’s a much bigger story there, though not one she’s going to tell me anytime soon … if ever. This further adds to the mystery of this beautiful woman. Someone untouchable, unreachable. Someone I’ll probably spend more time wondering about than actually getting to know. Oddly enough, there’s a weird, uncomfortable pain that sets up shop in my chest, something I’ve never felt before and something I’m not happy about feeling at all. I don’t do emotions, and I sure as hell don’t do pain. I do laughter and flirting and inappropriate remarks. I do sex with strangers, sex with women I hardly know, sex simply because it’s available. I don’t do … this … the uncertainty, the weird stalking, and all the silent wondering for hours on end. I never have before, and I need to put a halt to the whole damn thing right now if I know what’s good for me.
“Here we go,” Mia says, placing a huge bowl of homemade guacamole and an overflowing basket of chips onto the coffee table. Once Cruz is settled next to her, she starts to chatter again, putting an end to all the weirdness between me and Amita, and stopping—for now at least—all my inner debating.
I am able to relax and enjoy myself, though I can’t say the same for Amita. She’s quieter than she’s ever been around me, and if I had to guess I’d think she’s dwelling on whatever pain she hides so well. My immediate reaction is to blame the hurt on Vic, dickhead that he is, but something in her expression tells me it’s more than that—more than simply some guy she’s chosen to spend her life with.
Her change of mood doesn’t escape Mia, who spends a few moments exchanging concerned looks with her friend before turning her dark gaze on me and silently threatening me with my life. Cruz, my now ex-brother, follows suit, narrowing his eyes in warning.
Fucking great.
I consider leaving, but the stubborn asshole in me stays put, not willing to give in to silent threats. The last thing I want to do is to leave here feeling guilty for something I didn’t even do.
So I do what good-guy Marco does best: I suddenly become the life of the party. Launching into some story about a crazy night a few weeks ago, I leave out all the real points of interest that include me and a variety of naked women. I do have some class.
Thankfully, my raucous story does what I intended, and soon our entire group is laughing and chomping on Mia’s oh so tasty guacamole. Amita is still ignoring me and sitting as far away as possible. Her eyes do occasionally meet mine, which is really all I could hope for.
Christ … what the fuck am I doing?
Hoping … wishing … imagining … wondering. These are things I don’t do. I do right now, this moment, without thinking or planning or plotting. I let the moment happen, never consider what can happen. I blame my brother. He went from a hard-ass, arrogant prick to nothing but a squishy ball of love, all because one woman strolled into his life and batted her eyes at him.
Okay, in all fairness to Mia I doubt she batted her eyes. More like she stumbled over her words and blushed all the way to her toes. But she has changed my brother, and even I will admit it’s for the better. Though I will also admit I have no intention of any woman ever doing that to me. I repeat: No. Intention. Ever.
“Would you guys like to stay for dinner?” Mia asks, and while Amita and I are tripping over ourselves, making excuses, she waves her hand around, stands over us, and shakes her head. “Shut up. You’re both staying. ”
My ex-ex-brother can only chuckle and lean back against the couch, looking up at her with admiration and a good dose of lust. “Querida, I love it when you get tough.”
She offers him her hand and a broad grin. “Come help me get the food ready.”
Once again, Amita and I begin falling over each other, offering assistance and moving with the duo into the kitchen. It’s amusing to be a part of this school-aged awkwardness that’s suddenly come over both of us. She must realize how ridiculous we’re acting because she turns to me and starts to laugh.
Damn, why the hell should a laugh make me—and yes, my dick—twitch?
Cruz turns the music up loud, his usual Spanish guitar favorites that set the mood while we put together the meal of grilled chicken salad and warm bread. The ladies set the table while we man the barbeque, and once everything is ready, we settle at the large dining table with glasses of crisp white wine to accompany the food.
I’m not a big wine drinker, but I’m an easy guy—or so I’ve been told—and I can go with the flow. As the meal progresses, and the conversation turns lively as the girls share a story of their first year in college, the most terrifying thought drifts through my head: I could get used to this.
Damn it to hell, I cannot be thinking things like this. Tonight is a random fluke, just a few friends hanging out because that’s how it happened to come together. Certainly nothing I can rely on, or even want to rely on. Amita and I have our own lives and as easy as this afternoon and evening have been, except for that one brief strained moment, there is no way anything will ever come of it. Not that I want it to, though I will admit I wouldn’t exactly be brokenhearted if she told Vic to take a hike.
Mia, however, throws a giant wrench in my plan to keep this random fluke on the down low, when she asks, “Marco, would you mind dropping Amita off at home when you head into the city?”
Immediately, I’m on edge; my R-rated brain goes to all those places it has no right going to. “Uh, where’s your car?” My question is directed at Amita, though I’m looking everywhere but at her.
“It’s a piece of crap that Mia insists will not make the trip out here, like it’s three thousand miles away or something.” She tosses her bestie a wide smile. “She insists on driving me, which is dumb.”
Chuckling, I inquire, “What kind of a piece of crap? Your basic clunker or a shit-stained tin can on its last leg?”
Amita laughs and reaches for her wine glass. “Oh, the shit-stained tin can for sure.”
“I worry about your safety,” Mia defends.
“I get it, babe, no worries. I can drive her home.” Although, just the idea of her and me in the confined space of my car leaves me breathing uneasily.
By the time we take our leave, and I escort her to my car, I’ve done enough internal talking to myself to have my shit together. This is nothing more than one friend doing another friend a favor. Not that we’re exactly at the point of being friends, not yet anyway.
“Nice ride,” Amita murmurs as the engine comes to life, my good buddy Al crooning in the background.
I shoot her a killer grin and reply, “It’s no tin can.” Like my condo, this beauty of a car cost me a small fortune. Since I mostly bank or invest my very healthy earnings, I don’t feel the least bit of guilt about indulging once in a while. I suppose I could have chosen a more tailored down version, saved money on the rims, the leather, the Bose stereo, but I’m not exactly the type of guy to cut corners just because it might seem like a smart idea at the time.
“I’ll say,” she says, stroking her hand over the supple black leather seat. For a hot minute I imagine her hand stroking something else and predictably, my body has the appropriate (or rather inappropriate) response. The twitching is history though; I’m now working toward being fully hard, much to my horror and disgust with myself.
Shifting into gear, I roar out of the driveway and down the street toward the causeway that leads us into the city. Al’s voice fills th
e awkward silence as we drive, and my beautiful companion stares out the window lost in thought. Who knows? Maybe she’s using it to avoid speaking to me. Being this close, I can smell the hint of her perfume, an intoxicating mix of coconut and honey mixed with the lingering scent of sweat from her workout. It does wild things to my senses. Not reacting takes a monumental effort on my part, especially when my body suddenly leaps to life … again. Jesus, at this rate, I’ll never make it home before needing to get myself off. Rolling my eyes at myself, I downshift and change lanes as we enter Miami.
“I’m on tenth,” she murmurs, glancing at me briefly. I offer up a nod and turn the car in that direction, moving through the city at a snail’s pace. Miami is alive with people and music and life on this winter night, though you’d never know it’s actually winter by looking around. That’s the great thing about living here: it’s summertime year round. Even on this first week of February, people are dressed like its July: shorts and tank tops, sundresses and sandals. I will admit it’s cooler than I’d prefer, but it’s still better than living up north where it snows for five months out of the year.
“Turn here,” Amita states, rattling off the street address of her apartment. She lives in a basic residential area, which is to say it’s not the slums and it’s not the ritzy area by the beach where I live. It’s a working-class neighborhood with some decent houses, some not so decent houses, and the token apartment buildings on every block.
She points to the right, and I guide the car slowly into the parking lot, angling it sideways to avoid scraping the underside. A quick glance around the lot, and I find one open spot next to a beat-up, red Dodge Dart. Instinct tells me the beater belongs to my sexy companion, though imagining her behind the wheel of that beast takes monumental effort on my part.
“Your shit-stained tin can?” I smirk, nodding my head toward the red monstrosity.
She laughs and nods. “The one and only.” Her door is flung open before I can do the gentlemanly thing and open it for her, and she quickly steps out, slinging her large leather handbag over one shoulder. “Thanks for the lift. See ya around.”
I toss one of my Moran smiles her way, drawling, “See ya, sweet cheeks.” Predictably, my eyes drift directly to said cheeks. Damn. So, so fine.
Amita laughs again. “Bye, hot stuff.”
I watch her sashay across the lot and around the corner, never once turning around to wave or to send me one of her shit-eating grins. With a heavy sigh, I shift the car into reverse and scan the lot, wondering which vehicle belongs to good ol’ Vic. He probably drives the dark green Ford Taurus. Though, on second thought, I doubt someone his size could fit in that four-door sedan. No, he probably drives the souped-up Toyota Tundra, raised too far off the ground to be considered normal. I can imagine him lifting Amita into that monster of a vehicle, but quickly shove that thought aside. Chances are, Miss Independence gets her own self up and inside the cab without any help.
Cursing under my breath, I ease the car out of the parking lot and back toward the beach. Spending any amount of time contemplating her life is a waste of my time. Sure, I enjoy hanging out with her when we’re forced to, but other than that, her life and what she does with it is none of my business.
There’s something about Valentine’s Day that has never sat well with me. Maybe it’s all the forced romance—the flowers and chocolates and I-love-yous being handed out like food stamps in a welfare line. Bad analogy, I know, but every time this day rolls around, I get this sick feeling in my stomach that serves as a reminder as to how quick and fleeting love really is. Or at least the love I’ve experienced in the past four years.
I have my doubts about my ability to really, truly love. Sure, I care about Victor, a lot actually. But love, real love, feels like something that’s just out of my reach, certain to remain there for eternity. The truth is that I’ve really only loved one person my entire life. My mom. Losing her at eighteen did a whole lot in convincing me that real love is unattainable.
Mia is probably the only person I love almost to the same extent as I did my mother. She’s the sister I’ve never had, the only real family I have left now. I can tell her anything and trust her with my life. Even though I’ve lost my shit time and time again, she’s always there, lending a shoulder to cry on, an eager ear to listen, a warm embrace to remind me that blood never defines family, love does.
Me and Victor, well, I suppose at one time it was love. The flirty, tingly love you feel at the beginning of any relationship. Sadly, that quickly wore off and while I do feel a certain amount of responsibility toward him and our coupling, I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re wildly in love. Sure, we utter the words occasionally, but as most things are with the two of us, they are without much emotion.
So when I walk into my office Valentine’s Day morning and find a bouquet of roses perched on the edge of the desk, a sinking feeling of guilt washes over me. Big time. Have I completely misjudged him? Or is it just me who can’t seem to wrap my head around the love thing?
“Good morning, Amita,” my boss Lori says in greeting. She’s thumbing through the stack of mail, her long, manicured nails a deep shade of red. I love working for her, although at times the job itself is dull and boring. My dreams of one day being in charge of the entire business office of this posh hotel seem far off, considering Lori will probably work here until they lower her into the ground. If I have to work somewhere, I suppose working in a beautifully decorated office alongside a boss who treats me as her equal isn’t a half-bad gig.
“Morning.” Taking my seat, I shove my bag under the desk and glance once again at the roses. “Those for me?”
Lori nods. “Sure are.”
Digging through the blooms, I find the small envelope with my name scrawled across the front and the weird guilty feeling worsens considerably. I pry it open with my nail and extract the card, reading the message he’s inked there:
Happy V-Day, Mita. Love ya.
Ugh. Makes me want to toss the damn roses in the trash. Between the abbreviation and the half-assed attempt to express affection, the guilt has subsided and I’m left with a considerable feeling of emptiness.
“From Victor I presume?” I offer her a nod and shove the stupid card in my desk drawer. “You okay there, my friend?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The last thing I want is to discuss my non-love life with my boss. She may be a friend to me, but she’s not the type of person I’d ever confide in, which leaves me pining for a convo with my bestie.
I wait until Lori is sequestered in her office then pull out my phone and shoot off a text to Mia.
You up for lunch today?
She responds a minute later.
Sure. You okay?
The thing about Mia is that I swear she sometimes has this weird ESP thing, almost like she knows without my saying so that I need to talk. Even though I have no idea how I’d put into words all the chaos ratcheting through my body, just being with her will do me a lot of good.
I’m fine. I’ll see you at 1.
The morning goes by swiftly, thank God. A flurry of paperwork and emails and phone calls keep my heartache and guilt at bay. I do have enough good sense about me to shoot Victor a quick text thanking him for the flowers, which as usual he doesn’t return.
The building where The Moran Group is located is two blocks south of my hotel, within convenient walking distance to my girl any time I need her, or any time she needs me, whichever the case may be. It’s not convenient, however, when one is teetering on four inch heels; the truth is that I’ve done my share of walking in less than desirable shoes many, many times. Being a tad on the short side does have its advantages, but I’ve learned through the years that wearing heels gives me a certain amount of power I wouldn’t have otherwise had I been wearing flats. Plus, there’s the added bonus that heels make my legs and ass look amazing.
After suffering the two blocks, and traversing the spacious lobby, I step into the elevator and punch the button for the t
hirtieth floor. Soft strains of guitar waft through the large, enclosed space as we race upwards, and I find myself chuckling at Cruz’s attention to detail even within the confines of the elevator.
The doors slide open and I step into a much smaller, yet equally classy lobby. The space is filled with white marble floors, taupe colored walls, and large plants. Vivid paintings hang on the wall, adding life and light in an otherwise sterile environment, and not for the first time do I envy my friend for getting to work here every day.
Mia’s desk is vacant, so I take the seat next to it, drop my bag on the floor, and sit back and wait. Chances are she’s behind Cruz’s closed office door, getting in a quick afternoon delight. I would if I worked here, though my delight would be with a certain other Moran brother.
Grinding those wayward thoughts to an immediate halt, I cross one leg over the other and tap my foot to the music in my head. I take a full inventory of the space, the clutter on top of her desk, the pictures of her and Cruz perched proudly on the edge. My girl is one lucky bitch. She’s found the gold mine of men: fucking hot as hell, sex on legs, and a damn decent man to boot.
“Hello, Miss Morales,” comes the low drawl behind me. Speaking of fucking hot as hell and sex on legs, Cruz’s brother has loads of both and then some.
I turn to face Marco, drifting my eyes up his suited body to the handsome face at the top. “Hello, Mr. Moran.”
He leans against the opposite wall, hands shoved deep within his pockets. “And how are you this fine Valentine’s Day?”
Grimacing, I mutter, “I’m fine. But don’t remind what today is.”
Frowning, he asks, “Really? Why not? I thought for sure Vic would wine and dine you like the smashing fellow he is.”