by Mara White
As he gets close to release, he lifts his chin up and arches his head back. Now it’s his muscles that go hard under the rivulets of water. I might come again just from watching him come. I see the powerful orgasm ripple through his tensed muscles. His chest contracts, and he ejaculates, and at the same time, an unbridled groan springs forth from his lips. I move to him abruptly catching semen on my arm. The fluid is hot and thick as it slides down across my palm. I slam him into the far wall of the shower and kiss his neck and shoulder with a huge grin taking over my face. His still rock hard penis grinds into my belly.
“That was so good it deserved a standing ovation.”
He laughs into my hair and caresses my back. I love that Mozey loves me. It thrills me that he has no shame about masturbating in front of me. When we do finally have sex, I don’t think we’ll have any problem with chemistry.
Chapter 30
Only one night has passed, but this is where we get to: a noon-day press conference in front of the wall that he painted, an emotional declaration to Brisa and an appeal to her parents, and a televised public swabbing of the inside of his cheek.
“Brisa, soy tu hermano. They took you away from us.”
At least the “they” is innocuous. She could have been taken by anybody and sold on the black market. Nameless, faceless baby snatchers—not necessarily her adoptive parents. But it can’t be too long before the machine starts to speculate who “they” were, at least in the name of more spectacular television. The DNA swab was a nice touch, but in order to understand the truth in his declaration, you don’t have to look farther than his face. That’s why the media responded so fast. That’s why Brisa’s parent’s camp contacted Mozey in less than twenty-four hours. The news shows have been giving airtime to a picture that, spliced down the middle, has Mozey filling up one side and Brisa on the other. It doesn’t take a genetic blueprint to see that two siblings placed side by side, were made by the same mother, and more likely than not, have the same father as well. They’re more than separated siblings—they could easily be twins.
When Mozey has conviction about something—he likes to go all out. He doesn’t cut corners or take no for an answer. I learned this early on when my parents were evicted. Mozey on a mission is a force to be reckoned with. I stand in the shadows despite his insistence that I stand by his side. I don’t want to muddle the story, I tell him, or steal any thunder. But Lana has other reasons for remaining in the background.
Reason one: it’s Mozey’s moment. He’s waited his whole life for this. They took Brisa away from him, forcefully denying their bond. This is Mozey putting it back together again. Publicly, emotionally, even scientifically, he’s negating their right to define him and his family. Reason Two: Lana isn’t ready to make a public appearance as Mozey’s former social worker-turned Mozey’s current lover. It’s embarrassing. It still feels seedy. I don’t want to join the ranks of the bad guys until it’s absolutely necessary.
He handles himself so poetically that I can’t help but feel proud. Despite the reporters and the news channel’s desire to sensationalize it, Mozey addresses the situation like he does everything—with grace. This is why he projects not only a maturity, but also an education that’s far beyond his reality. He’s an extraordinary person. But I already knew that.
“I have fifty thousand new Instagram followers in less than a day,” I say to Mozey over coffee in a nearby Sanborns café as I look at my phone. We haven’t gone far from the press tents they’ve erected by the wall. “I don’t even want to ask how many you have. This is all too much. I never would have guessed that finding her would look like this.”
Mozey sips coffee anxiously and rubs my leg under the table. He says, “The real question is how many followers does Alexei have? He must be freaking out.”
“He’s okay. I’ve been texting him, keeping him up to date on this freakshow. He likes being famous by association. As long as nobody bothers him in person—he’ll be okay.”
“Lana, I’m so fucking glad that you’re here with me,” Mozey says with a serious face. He grabs both of my hands in his and says again, “So fucking glad. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Probably get laid. I can’t believe we haven’t been able to have sex. Who knows when it will happen with what we’ve walked into.
“Sorry I didn’t want to pose for any pictures. It’s kind of a feeding frenzy. That stuff sort of scares me.”
“Lana, just warning you. It’s going to come out. They got shots whether you wanted them to or not. It’s only a matter of time until your cover is blown.”
“You make me sound like a spy.”
“They’ll find out who you are, and then they’ll dig deep, put an angle on it, spin it and try to exploit it—by making it into a story even if it doesn’t warrant it.”
“It’s not that big of deal,” I say as I spin one of his silver rings around and around with my thumb. “It’s not like they can fire me from my no job that I don’t even have.” Although, I did do a shit-ton of drugs upon arrival in Mexico. I’m going to have to find a new career. They’ll never let me be a social worker.
Mozey is staring at me with eyes full of compassion. I feel like he wants to communicate something important to me. I can feel the love emanating out of him and seeping into the cracks of the closed off parts of me.
“I want you to know that I’ll always remember each and every sacrifice that you made for me. I’ve never had anyone take such good care of me.”
“You make it sound like you’re gonna die, Mo. Stop being so morose!” I say as I drag my last bite of pancakes through some syrup and bring it to my mouth. “Can we talk about something else? Anything?” But I’ve already lost Mozey to his phone. Something has grabbed his attention, and he puts his hand up to me as he presses a button and puts it to his ear. I’m terrified that maybe the bigger picture here is that I’ve lost Mozey altogether. He’s an instant celebrity, a national hero. His sister is already famous, and he’s about to save her. I’m just a bum kid from Detroit with no job, no savings and not many prospects on my horizon. I’m not artistic, I’m not a genius. I’m not even sexy like he is. Maybe he just wants someone to help him get through the surgery, and then he can start his new life. I’ll go back to Detroit and end up mopping floors with my brother.
He’s off the phone and walking back, his hands in his pockets. He looks down at me slumped in the booth and offers his hand to pull me up.
I look up at Mozey and sigh.
“We fly out in the morning. To Ciudad Juárez, then to Dallas for surgery. They’re sending a private jet. These people have money.”
“Why not tonight?”
“They need a day to expedite my papers. They’ve got the connections to make it happen. Otherwise there’s no way I could go back legally after I’ve already been deported. They’re in deep with Mexican authorities, so apparently they can swing it. Or maybe they knew that you and I needed a night together to make things right.”
This is my first time on a private plane. Benito Juárez, the Mexico City International Airport, seems to hold a disproportionate number of private planes compared to the city’s poor population. I guess when you’re rich in Mexico, you’re richer than rich—you’re untouchable. Mozey walks with confidence, dragging me along by the hand. Maybe he doesn’t see the possibility of ending up dead and bloody in a hotel bathtub. That’s what I see, the visions won’t stop plaguing me. If he waivers about the kidney at all, they’ll just help themselves to it for free and cover up their trail. The trail, in part, being me. Who trusts narcos to be in charge of operations to remove parts from their body?
Our security line is a separate one. Fancy things for fancy people. We walk to the gate and board the plane, no line, no wait.
Brisa is in a hospital bed in Ciudad Juárez, and she’s fading fast. In a way she’s been wai
ting her whole life for Mozey just like he’s been waiting for her, but for very different reasons. I’m sure this is the last kind of reunion he ever expected. In fact, I don’t think Mozey expected a reunion; he looked for Brisa, believing he would only confirm her death.
As soon as the match was confirmed (today, at four in the morning) the Miramontes family took control of our expenses. They saw to it that we ditched my car but a man in a suit showed up at the hotel an hour later to pay me generously, in a cash exchange far exceeding its worth. This morning we were picked up in a limo, but not after being offered complimentary styling and clothing delivered to our hotel, along with fresh chrysanthemums, a decadent breakfast that included champagne. We both declined all of the services. Mozey wears all black, with a beanie and his sliver rings. I’m wearing a vintage flowered dress with tennis shoes. My hair is air-dried; Tommy would kill me. It’s our little way of sticking it to the filthy rich narcos, the media and maybe even to Mexico. This is who we are, you can either take it or leave it.
We have two drivers and a ‘security detail’ who help us maneuver through the crowd outside the hotel. Mozey is calm. But I’m terrified of these people because, hey, I’ve seen the news. I also dealt with emotional fallout and toll the drug war has had on the poor kids who grew up around it. Mozey and Brisa were lucky in a way; the narcos altered their destiny by separating them, but in exchange they lived lives that were relatively unclouded by terror and fear. Brisa because she was on the side of the ones doing the terrorizing, and Mozey because he made it to the States and never had to look behind him.
I’ve been speaking to Alexei on the phone, and he trusts Mo to keep us both safe. I’ve handed over all of my savings information to Lex so my parents can access it because I can’t imagine getting out of this alive. What about the recuperation time? Once they’ve gotten what they need, they’ll pull the foot on the bill, and Mo will just bleed to death while I stand by helplessly and watch.
Our flight attendant looks like a movie star with perky breasts and a white-tooth, blinding smile. I’m nervous about her bending over because her short skirt isn’t going to cover much.
“Algo de beber?” she asks, and I try to smile. I fail unprecedentedly as even my mouth muscles are shaking, and I can barely contain the tears. I squeeze Mozey’s hand like it’s my anchor and taking off in this plane is equivalent to flying away from a safe and normal life.
“Relax, he tells me. We’ll be surrounded by press. There’s no way they’ll snuff us when we’ve already garnered this much media attention.”
He’s right to an extent. Our exodus from Mexico City was a tornado of reporters. People were still gathered at the wall where he painted the mural. Mozey was smart in that he plastered that beautiful thing on Paseo de la Reforma, the most emblematic street in the whole damn country. Rumor is they will remove it intact and house it in a museum. The message was simple, I am Ana María’s sibling. She wasn’t abandoned; she was kidnapped. I will give her my organ.
It was a story board of sorts, laid out like a graphic novel. Mozey’s mom, Valeria, wrapping Brisa carefully to her bosom. The harrowing ride on the monster train, the lack of food and of shelter, freezing when it was raining, Valeria feeding Brisa breast milk. The coyotes, the suffocating truck. The narcos tearing through Valeria’s clothing to get to the child. Mozey in the back of the truck, being held back by a stranger, his eyes frantic, wide as saucers. The panic written on all three of their faces enough to rip your heart out.
Then a message stating he would be a match, that he would have done anything for his little sister then, that he still would today. His signature, his social media information, his first totally public and open stance. He unveiled himself completely for one last chance at saving her.
Sometime last night, I became the very public girlfriend, “the Russian-American novia, who appears more mature,” was one headline I read. So at this point, we’re just waiting for a news source to reveal that I was Mozey’s social worker, supervising his rehabilitation. I’ll be painted as a pariah and blacklisted from working.
“Drink this,” Mozey says, handing me a Coke laced with a generous wedge of lime and the contents of two mini bottles.
“I think it’s too early. Aren’t you having one too?”
He smiles at me like he’s slightly amused.
“Lana, baby. I’m not the one shaking. Besides, I’m supposed to, you know, take it easy on these organs.”
I smile weakly back at him and resist the urge to crawl into his lap. We are surrounded on the aircraft by six escorts provided by the Miramonte’s very own, special security forces. Whatever the fuck that means. They all look like thugs in cheap JC Penny suits to me. They’re hidden behind RayBan sunglasses, fingering their guns and their mobile phones like new toys on Christmas morning.
Laura, our sexy hostess, has returned with a platter laden with caviar, figs and cheese. She’s got a bottle of champagne like we’re celebrating an engagement or a job promotion. Happy Sweet Sixteen! As soon as we harvest all your organs for a sister who you no longer even know, we’ll set your remains on fire and bury you in a shallow grave!
Welcome to Mexico! Big smile and a wink, would you like some more ice in your drink? I decide that she’s one of them and refuse to look her in the eye.
I think Mozey is riding high on finally finding Brisa after a lifetime of looking. Reunification plus the instantaneous fame has got his serotonin levels soaring. He can no longer smell the danger or sense the heavy footsteps of mortality lurking around the corner. I have to be the sane one—watch both of our backs for signs of trouble.
Chapter 31
Last night in the hotel we didn’t make love. We just held each other in the dark and whispered. I told him about how I’d seen the photos of those nine bodies hanging from an overpass in Laredo, that and heard stories of gruesome beheadings, missing girls and narcos paying for your wedding. So that after the ceremony, they could take your new wife, gang rape her, strangle her with her veil and then drown her in the hot tub.
Mozey accused me of being inflammatory and making up stories. I don’t have to make shit up. We had a girl at Pathways who described in horrific detail, her aunt and uncle’s deadly wedding reception in Ciudad Juárez.
It was during this same pillow talk full of fear and excitement that Mozey asked me to marry him. I thought he was joking, and what a bad joke it was, coming straight after my story.
“Ha. Funny, Mo. Are we pretending? Will it be a pretend wedding for the newspapers and magazines or the other kind of papers? The ones you need to get back into the States.” I rolled away from him and crossed my hands over my chest, more hurt than I’d ever been.
Mozey rolled me back and pulled me in close, surrounding me with his chest, curling his body protectively over me.
“Lana, you drive me fucking insane. I can’t imagine a sane life without you.”
He rolled off the bed a little too enthusiastically and hit the floor with a thump.
“Ouch!”
“Will we live here in the Marriot or you’ll just hang in deportation detention, while I chill upstate serving time for conspiracy and child molestation?”
“I thought maybe we could move to Detroit. Be closer to your family. The economy is picking up. Besides, that’s where I applied to art school.”
“You what?” I yelp, crawling across the haphazardly strewn covers to the edge of the bed. All I could see were his legs, his head and torso had disappeared underneath.
“What the hell? Oh, here it is!” Mozey says as he proudly produces a box. He was already on his knees, my head was dangling over the side of the bed above him.
“But we’ve never even had sex,” I whisper through the fog of disbelief.
“Aaaaand, we’re not supposed to. I mean, yet. Didn’t you ever go to church?”
“Yeah. Right.”
The ring was one of a kind, handcrafted by a skilled artisan. A simple band of brushed gold, encrusted with deep, red garnet. I knew immediately that he’d had a hand in designing it.
“We’re supposed to go be reunited with your sister who you haven’t seen in fifteen years. Get your kidney chopped out by some narcos whom she still may want to live with if and when she recovers. You’re the center of a media storm and both of our lives may be in danger. We’ve never had sex because we’re both too chicken shit to fuck up our friendship. And you show up with a ring?”
Mozey smiles warmly, nodding his head. There he goes being amused again with whatever I do or say. He takes my hand and holds it in his.
“Lana, I’m being totally sincere. I want to be with you.”
“I’m glad you think it’s funny because I’m really confused and scared. When the hell did you get that, anyway?” I glare at the ring like it has an ulterior motive.
“At the tianguis en el zócalo,” he says, continuing the smile.
“What?”
“Just kidding—I’ve had it for a while. Last night, when I went out to paint, I felt really fucked up. I was looking for the right spot and then I got to thinking that this past week should have felt like the worst in my life. But because I was with you, it felt like an adventure.”
“So you wanna put a ring on it because it’s all good times? News flash. I’m not always fun.”