Hard Luck

by Sara Ney

  Still, they make me tremble, and I pray to God he doesn’t see it.

  You can’t actually see someone tremble, can you?

  This is ridiculous. True Wallace, get a grip—you’ve had hands on your body before. Hands that were just as big and strong and capable of giving you pleasure.

  And right now, you’re not naked.

  Why is this bothering you?

  Hot and bothered is more like it.

  Distracting.

  Wonderful.

  Sexy.

  Oh god, so, so sexy.

  No one is paying us one bit of attention; no one has come along and told him to get his hands off me. No one says anything because no one gives a shit.

  We’re all having a great time, and nothing is going to ruin it.

  I decide to throw caution to the wind.

  Do what everyone else is doing and enjoy myself. Hell, I’ll do what my brothers do, which is whatever the hell I want.

  So when Mateo steps closer, settling himself against my chair and sliding an arm along my back to curl around my shoulder, I tilt my chin up. Let my fingers rest on the hand that’s settled on my skin.

  “Eres tan sexy.” He leans down and kisses my shoulder, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Quiero besarte todo el cuerpo.”

  I have no idea what those words mean so I ask him to repeat them.

  “Quiero besarte todo el cuerpo.”

  Whatever they are, they sound like heaven. Feel like heaven too, murmured against my skin in the dim light of the ballroom, lights and stars and low music seductively setting the mood.

  “Eres tan sexy.”

  Sexy. That I understood.

  The rest, not so much. “What are you saying?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.” I wish I knew Spanish so I could say it back.

  “I said…” He gets in close. “You’re so sexy.” He kisses the spot on my skin where my shoulder and neck meet in a delicate slope. “I want to kiss you all over your body.”

  I nod.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means…” I swallow, picking up my glass and taking a sip. “I want you to kiss me all over my body.”

  We stare at one another. And if a man’s eyes could burn the clothes off my body, they would be lying in a blazing pile on the ballroom floor.

  “Did you really just say that?” He laughs, and I wonder out loud what’s so funny. “You hate me. You would never let me kiss you.”

  I don’t hate him—what would make him say that?

  “I said what I said,” I say, unflinching, chin tilting up defiantly, daring him to argue with me.

  I wonder if he said it because he wants me to admit out loud that I find him so good-looking he’s beginning to make me nervous. The alcohol I had earlier provides the perfect liquid courage I need to flirt.

  What if I never get another chance?

  What if it’s back to online dating and being hit on by college students and men I have no interest in? Men who are nowhere near as charismatic and charming and handsome as Mateo Espinoza and his rippling biceps and broad shoulders.

  Mateo stares me down, serious expression on his face. He’s debating—what to do and what to say—that much is clear. He looks somber and thoughtful.

  “Do you want to get a bottle of wine and go talk somewhere more private?”

  Translation: let’s get the fuck out of here so I can lick you from head to toe.

  “Sure.”

  Mateo signals for the bartender and orders a bottle and two glasses, carrying it all in one hand when it’s slid across the bar top, taking my hand in the other.

  Elevators.

  We go as high as we can go, needing to swipe the key to access the top floors, barely saying a word as the elevator car rises.

  Fifteen.

  Nineteen.

  Twenty-three.

  My heart races when it finally slows and comes to a full stop, gold shiny doors sliding open to the floor with all the expensive executive suites.

  I follow Mateo to a door midway down the long corridor with its fancy beige carpet, cream-colored walls, and gold door plates. The suite he’s in has double doors and a marble tiled entry.

  He kisses me for the first time when we’re inside, softly pressing his lips against mine before setting the bottle of wine and glasses down. It’s not a passionate kiss, but it’s nice, and it quells my nerves as I follow him farther in.

  Twelve

  Mateo

  Why am I so damn nervous?

  I’ve had women to my place before; I’m not one of those dudes with rules like “no bringing chicks back to bang so they don’t know where I live.”

  So it’s not like my condo is a shrine of virtue or a sacred place. It’s simply somewhere I sleep, hoping that someday, I’ll move out and buy a house with a woman, with a big yard and lots of babies.

  Earlier, I went to my folks’ house to pick up the food I asked mi madre to make, knowing if she delivered it, she would never leave. Telling her the food was for a woman would be a fatal mistake for the evening—if you thought my sisters were bad, they have nothing on my mother.

  Pops? He doesn’t give a shit about my personal life as long as my career is stable and I have a steady job.

  I lay everything out in a spread on the center island in my kitchen, glad Ma cooked everything in white ceramic bowls and not disposable aluminum pans, as per usual.

  It looks nice and smells delicious.

  Enchiladas dripping with rojo (red) mole sauce, a small dish of barbacoa with tortillas on the side, guacamole, chips, sour cream. Some Spanish rice. A dozen churros that were still warm from the oven when I ran in to grab everything.

  I pluck one from the pile and stuff the end in my mouth as there’s a knock on my door, and I swallow hard, feeling guilty that I’m already eating.

  Goddamn, this churro es fantástico!

  I wipe my mouth with the cuff of my long-sleeved shirt before pulling open the door, glancing down to make sure my shirt is tucked into my jeans.

  Half of it is, half of it isn’t.

  Shit.

  Too late.

  True Wallace is standing on my stoop looking reluctant and anxious, holding a white cardboard box I can only assume is from a bakery of some kind.

  I reach over to take it off her hands at the same time I say hello, kissing her on the cheek too because why not.

  This is a date, isn’t it?

  “Is this the equivalent of a man bringing a woman flowers?” I ask, holding the box as she brushes past me, shucking her winter jacket at the same time she glances around my place.

  It’s your average city condo—more of a loft, really—open concept and mostly cold. I’m a guy without a family, so what do I care about warmth and decorating and the place feeling homey.

  Oddly I feel self-conscious of the fact that my place is super dude-like, your stereotypical bachelor pad, and I wonder if she’s going to judge me for not being more mature.

  Not that she is—she lives with her brother, for crying out loud.

  Still, I feel like a man playing pretend house with his big kid couch and his big kid kitchen, all the while feeling like I don’t know what I’m doing.

  True walks to the dining room slash kitchen table and looks down at the spread, humming with pleasure.

  “Wow, Mateo, this looks amazing.”

  She looks amazing.

  A bit more put together than the night we went for pizza, True has on jeans and a light pink button-down shirt that looks silky and soft. Her long hair is down, wavy. It’s dark and glossy, and I speculate about my chance of being able to touch it at any point this evening.

  “Are we eating, like—right now?”

  God I hope so. I’m starving. “Only if you want.”

  “I could eat…it is six o’clock. Usually I’ve had dinner by four—no joke.”

  I pull out a chair so she can take a seat, ever the gentleman, and offer h
er something to drink from the bar.

  She glances up at me, doe eyes bright. “Water is great, thank you.”

  “One water, coming right up!” With a flourish, I stroll to the kitchen, search for a glass with no water spots, fill it with ice and water from the purifier. Pour a second one for myself, because who wants to drink alone at a dinner party?

  I serve her dinner, spooning food onto a white, round plate before settling into a chair myself.

  “So how has it been living with your brother? Is it weird?”

  “It’s not the worst. I thought it would be…” She shifts in her seat. “I thought he would be in my business more than he has been, but it’s been alright. Or maybe he’s just too busy to butt in like he usually does.”

  “I cannot imagine having any of my sisters live with me. Not only do I not have the space, each and every one of them is obnoxious—as you probably gathered.”

  As you probably gathered?

  Who says that!

  I want to facepalm myself for sounding like such a tool.

  “I liked your sisters. They’re funny.”

  Funny-looking, I want to say, but I realize it would sound childish. “Yeah, they’re funny alright.”

  “What was it like having all those sisters growing up? I only had brothers, and they were hardly around. Both of them knew pretty early on they wanted to be athletes when they grew up, so I was kind of left in the dust.”

  “Well.” I wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “I played with lots of Barbies.”

  True chokes on her enchiladas, sauce dripping from her lips as she sputters. “That is not what I was expecting you to say.”

  “Barbies, My Little Pony, and what else…let me think. We played quinceañera.”

  “What’s quinceañera? I mean, I think I know what it is, but I don’t have any experience with one.” She’s stuffing rice in her mouth by the forkful.

  “It’s basically an elaborate birthday party, a celebration when a girl turns fifteen, but my sisters liked to pretend they were throwing them for funsies, or just to make my life a living hell. They’d dress me up and I’d have to pretend to escort them to the living room, and they’d sing and dance. Kind of like a pretend wedding, but louder.” I think for a second. “Oh, and they put me in dresses sometimes, too. The older ones didn’t give a shit about my masculinity.”

  True laughs. “Better than having too much of it, like my brother Tripp. He used to refuse to cry because he thought it wasn’t masculine—I can’t imagine being in a relationship with him. Chandler sure has her work cut out for her.”

  “Is she around a lot?”

  “Not really. They spend a lot of time at her place since she actually lives in the city and he’s at the stadium or wherever the team practices. Molly takes care of his dog most of the time, and now me, since I’m there.”

  “Remind me again who Molly is?” I feel like she’s mentioned her before.

  “The neighbor girl. She’s taken it upon herself to be indispensable. I think we’re all kind of excited for the day she gets her driver’s license so she can run Tripp’s errands. No lie, if her parents don’t get her a car, I swear my brother will.”

  “Dang, I wish I had a Molly.”

  True is spooning barbacoa onto her plate now, inhaling the fumes and rolling her eyes back. Heaven. “Maybe if you lived in a house, you’d have a Molly. Condos are tough—I lived in one too and never knew another soul in the building.”

  “It sucks, but it’s also nice. Everyone here gives me my privacy.” I pause. “Except my sisters, who drop by unexpectedly whenever they feel like it.”

  I crane my head to look at the door, expecting there to be a knock. Man would I be pissed—but not surprised.

  “So what next? Where do you go after you move out of Tripp’s place?”

  True seems to freeze, setting down her fork. Uses the napkin to dab at her mouth and sits back in her chair.

  “Well. That’s a good question. Um.” Her palms run up and down the legs of her jeans, like they’re sweaty and she needs to dry them off. “So. Originally I was going to look for an apartment because um, I travel so much—used to travel so much,” she amends. “But I think I’m going to have to rethink those plans.”

  “Why?”

  True swallows hard. “Um.”

  That’s the third time she’s said ‘um,’ which has me staring at her curiously—she has something to say but can’t seem to spit it out.

  I wait silently.

  “So, yeah. I…will probably look for a house with…a yard. Or, I don’t know, something a little more…” Another pronounced swallow. “Kid-friendly.”

  Kid-friendly.

  Nice, she must be ready for a serious relationship if she’s thinking that far ahead, planning for a family. Kids. The proverbial house with the white picket fence in a nice neighborhood. One dog, perhaps a cat.

  Wait, no.

  No to the cat.

  I don’t need one eating me in my sleep, or sitting on my face and suffocating me.

  “A house around where your brothers are?”

  More hesitating. “I guess that depends.”

  She’s being cryptic, and if she’s waiting for me to read her mind, she’s going to be waiting a long time.

  But for now, I’ll play along and ask the questions she’s guiding me to ask.

  “Depends on what?”

  “You.”

  I stop eating and look up, pausing with the fork halfway to my mouth. “Is this a proposal?”

  I mean, I’m all for commitment, but True and I haven’t even been on a real date. We banged once at her brother’s wedding, she ghosted me, and—

  The gears in my brain start to turn.

  Clicking.

  Eyes stray down the front of her button-down shirt. Up again.

  Banged at her brother’s wedding.

  Ghosted me.

  House that’s kid-friendly.

  Ghosted me.

  Banged one time, how long ago. How long ago was it, Mateo?

  Think dude, think!

  Let’s see, the wedding was in late fall—before or after Halloween? Shit, I barely remember. We were done for the season, so it would have been November? No—because Tripp would have been in season, right? Fuck, I’m terrible at math.

  Eight weeks?

  Twelve?

  “Why aren’t you saying anything?” True asks softly.

  “I just did.” My stomach is in knots. “I said, Is this a proposal?”

  She looks as ill as I suddenly feel. “Ha. No.”

  I wish she would just say what I know she came here to say, or maybe I’m so fucking wrong, but every instinct inside me tells me I’m right. What the hell do you know about women, idiot? You’ve never had a girlfriend that was a decent human being.

  You’re being paranoid, bro.

  She isn’t being weird and she doesn’t look sick and she’s not about to tell you she’s pregnant.

  She’s not.

  She isn’t.

  Your mother would fucking kill you.

  I remember all the lectures I’ve heard over the past ten years about wearing condoms and making sure the girls I slept with were on birth control, but still always wear a condom and don’t be stupid, this is your future. It’s not just the woman’s responsibility to be…responsible.

  Wear a condom, wear a condom, wear a condom.

  I did, didn’t I?

  I can’t for the life of me remember.

  Had to have worn one, had to have; I’d been drinking, but I wasn’t drunk.

  Where would a condom have come from, though? It’s not like I’d planned to bang anyone that night…

  True Wallace is not…she can’t be.

  The rice I downed earlier comes halfway back up my throat, and if she has anything to say, now would be the time.

  “So you’re thinking of buying a house.” I’m desperate to keep this conversation moving along, evidently at a snail’s pace. “That s
ounds cool.”

  “Mateo.” Her voice is low and soft, and if it were a motion, she’d be resting her hand on top of mine to quiet me.

  “True.”

  “That night we slept together at my brother’s wedding—”

  I rise from the table, knocking back the chair, fingers plowing through my hair. “I knew it. I knew that’s what you were going to say, oh my god, my mother is going to kill me.” And sure, I wish I were handling this better but HOLY FUCK I got a girl pregnant. A girl I’m not married to or engaged to and what the hell do I tell my family, oh my god.

  What is my publicist going to say when he finds out?

  Fuck.

  The media.

  Fuck the media.

  True is watching me pace, and if she wasn’t sitting there I’d put on my running shoes and start sprinting around the block, adrenaline coursing through my body.

  This is not how I thought I’d react when I found out I was going to be a father—but then again, these aren’t exactly the circumstances I dreamed up for myself. Yes, I’ve dreamed about it like most dudes who come from big families and want kids of their own have done.

  Of course I have.

  But not like this.

  Jesus Christ, we haven’t been out once where she could get dressed up and put on a nice outfit and makeup and do her hair.

  I’m a bastard. This is my fault.

  Shit.

  “Mateo, please sit down.”

  Breathe, dude, in and out, out and in. Paper bag—someone get me a paper bag, I think I’m having a panic attack.

  “¿Cómo pasó esto? Somos más inteligentes que esto,” I blurt out. How did this happen? We’re smarter than this.

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I’m sorry.” True nervously peers up at me, face bright red from blushing.

  It’s then that I remember who I am and plop myself back into my chair, the plate of food I was gorging on abandoned. It will probably never get eaten.

  “Am I wrong?” I ask her.

  Her head gives a tentative little shake. “No, you’re not wrong.”

  And it might be the worst question in the fucking world to ask a woman, but I have to know. I have to say it.

  “Is it…” Mine?

  True’s eyes get wide before narrowing. “Yes.” Asshole.