“Oh, the Adonis belt. Tilt your hips toward us, Rafa.” I moved in increments until he was happy, but not before he placed a hand on my hip and guided me into position. “Head down, just a little. You’ll be gazing at her.”
“Amanda, let me see your waist.” Now that he was in the zone he’d talked about on the phone, Piraña had all but forgotten about Amada’s sense of modesty, and surprisingly, so had she.
“Yes,” he said, measuring her with his hands. “You’re tiny. Rafa will be completely visible behind you.” His eyes scanned me again. “I’d raise his leg, but I can’t bring myself to spoil such a perfect silhouette. We’ll make sure your pelvis is flat on the lounge, and then we can get more creative with the position of your torso.” He took her hand in his. “I have to feature those long, slim fingers somehow,” he added, almost to himself.
“Hang on,” said Piraña, dashing to the other side of the studio. In a moment he was back with a velvet bolster pillow that he tucked carefully between my ribs and the seat cushion. “Put your other hand in front of you. Can you hold that position a little while now?” Piraña asked, backing away. “Say something if your arm starts to hurt.” He sped over to his easel, eager to begin work. “Come over here with me,” he said to Amada, tugging at her elbow. “Let me show you how I do the sketch.”
I listened to Piraña and Amada talk about lines and shading for a few minutes, but when they switched to English my mind began to wander. The sound of Spanish guitar streaming through the speakers had devolved from powerful, almost frantic strumming to a slow, seductive tempo, and combined with the intoxicating balminess of the air in the studio and the distant song of Amada’s voice, I felt myself drift off into an altered state somewhere along the continuum of consciousness and slumber.
“Dr. De Leon?”
A young woman’s voice came from above me somewhere, sweet and familiar, but not Amada’s. I opened my eyes to find that she and Piraña were still across the room at the easel, but now between us stood Filomena, a vision in blue. The last time I’d seen her was in my dream on the yacht when I’d danced with her at the Hotel Nacional, but tonight she appeared before me here in a traditional flamenco gown, her upswept jet-black hair adorned with an ivory comb and a luscious white blossom.
Always the coquette, Filomena snapped the Spanish abanico in front of her face and peeked through, giggling like a schoolgirl. Her red lips pursed, partially obscured by the intricate lace design of the fan. Having died a virgin at the age of twenty-one, she was forever young, playful, and curious, and the harmless crush she’d had on me in life extended now into death. She was the only muerta I’d met so far, but I couldn’t imagine her ever not being my favorite. Filomena was kind and gentle, a starry-eyed young ballerina in life who now in death was eternally in love with love.
“Oh, forgive me, but I couldn’t stay away.” She peeked over the top of the fan and stole another glance at me, then fanned herself. “You and your lover are divine together. If only I’d found the same for myself when I was alive. No matter,” she said, “I have so many now, and they’re all heavenly. I’ve been seeing the captain of a ship that went down in the Atlantic a hundred years ago. The stories he tells!”
“I’m so happy you’ve come to visit, Filomena,” I said, charmed by her as ever. “I’m posing for a portrait, so I can’t move right now. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” she giggled, “but you really should be immortalized in marble. Pity.” Unable to control her characteristic joie de vivre, she elevated one arm high in the air and stomped the ball of the opposite foot on the floor in the signature flamenco dance style. The sole of her heavy black shoe made a loud clack I was sure would attract Amada’s attention, but it didn’t. “Stay right there,” she said, extending an arm toward me. “I’ll dance for you tonight!”
Filomena snapped her fan closed, dropped her chin and elongated her spine, alternately moving her arms up and down, then gave a sudden, dramatic twirl, the fall of ruffles at the bottom of her dress kicking upward with each step. Now in position, she dragged one foot across the floor as her lithe dancers’ body began to circle the chaise in tune with the rhythm of the Spanish guitar, clapping her hands occasionally between ornate footwork and dance combinations. She was a whirling dervish of blue, tapping and stomping all over the room, even behind Amada and Piraña, who were too absorbed in his sketch to notice. The core of her movement seemed to be her long, elegant neck, a distinguishing feature of so many classically trained dancers. A ballerina through and through, there was no dance style Filomena couldn’t execute with the utmost beauty and precision, her exuberance and mastery a sheer joy to behold.
Giddy from her performance, Filomena approached me again as the long guitar piece came to a close. I expected her to be out of breath, but she was as steady as a wall of ice, bodily concerns apparently a long-forgotten nuisance of the past. With impeccably perfect posture and grace, she sat straight up at the foot of the chaise and clasped her hands around her knees.
“Dr. De Leon, he’s angry. He’s in a dark, disgusting cellar right now consulting a priest named Grégoire. There’s blood everywhere. It feels . . .” She closed her eyes, a shudder rolling across her body, followed by a deep sigh. “Maybe you should give him what he wants.”
“I can’t, Filomena. Alex has his whole life ahead of him.” There was no question she meant Achille, a man who so strongly believed in the dark power of Voodoo that no living thing would be spared if he thought it would yield what he wanted.
“He wants her, too.” She glanced in Amada’s direction, who was now looking straight through Filomena at me.
“Impossible. I’ll die first.” Filomena’s eyes flashed with concern, then approval.
“I adore your passion, but you may suffer a fate worse than death. There are many kinds of prisons.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I have too many responsibilities to think only of myself.”
“I have to go.” She stood up abruptly, listening to something in the distance as if being called away. “If you insist on protecting everyone but yourself, keep the Orishas happy. They’re the only ones who can intervene on your behalf, but they’ll demand a great sacrifice. If you refuse, you’ll lose everything, do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, reaching out to her. “But I want to give you a gift as well. What is it you would like?”
“The ballerina fountain is beautiful, Dr. De Leon. It makes my heart sing because you had it made just for me.” She smiled sheepishly, then gestured toward Amada again before she began to disappear into the ether. “Your passion for life and love is what makes you special. Protect it no matter what the cost.”
“Rafa, wake up, handsome.” I felt a woman’s delicate fingertips trace the bridge of my nose. Kneeling beside me was my queen, the woman of all my fantasies incarnate, perfection in the flesh.
“My American girl,” I said. Mi americanita.
“What?” she laughed. “You’ve never called me that before. Why are you smiling?” Leaning in to kiss me, I thought I’d lose my mind. I fought every instinct to pull her onto the chaise with me, under me, to dive deep inside her. The more feminine and fragile she looked, the more I wanted to ravish her in every way imaginable.
“When are you going to join me on the couch?” I patted the empty place beside me, wishing she’d fill it. I’d find a way to enjoy her no matter who was watching.
“He says now,” she answered, rising. She’d changed into a thick white terrycloth robe while I’d been occupied with Filomena. Used to seeing her in translucent, satiny fabrics, I shifted my position slightly and sat up on instinct, curious about what she was wearing.
“I know,” she laughed. “It’s so puffy.”
“Rafa, now’s the time for a break,” said Piraña, handing me the towel I’d used earlier. “Another hour in the same position after this. Get up and have some water, whatever you need.”
Ten minutes later, after I’d resumed the
same exact pose on the chaise, Amada turned her back to Piraña and let the robe fall to the floor. I took Amada’s hand and guided her to the spot reserved for her beside me, where she sat down then stretched out on her back.
“It’s very difficult not to kiss you,” I said in her ear, as she adjusted herself on the chaise. Still feeling shy, she suppressed a little smile.
“Gorgeous,” said Piraña, clapping his hands. “Amanda, in a second you’ll forget I’m even here.” He came close to both of us and first adjusted her hair so that it fanned across the bolster pillow, allowing a few locks to cascade down the side. Tilting her face up toward me, he grimaced in apology. “I know it’s not the most comfortable, but it looks better.” Now that she was on her back, our eyes locked, the only thing left to decide was the placement of our hands. Piraña stepped away, made an assessment, then came back.
“A couple of things. First, Amanda, tilt your hip up just a bit so that you’re not so flat.” She followed his direction, but he wasn’t satisfied. “More, otherwise you’ll look like you’re asleep.”
“Good. Now the hands.” He placed the back of Amada’s left hand, the one closest to me, on my abdomen and arranged her fingers, then took the other arm and raised it above her head so that it casually draped over the back. My left hand remained in the same position above us while the right rested on her waist.
“I’m not sure I like it there, Rafa,” said Piraña, walking around the couch. It blocks the view of your body that she wants, and it makes her look bigger than she is. May I move his hand around a little, Amada?”
“Of course,” she said. I could tell she was finally relaxing, focused less on being undressed than getting the result she wanted. Piraña shifted my hand to her rib cage, carefully adjusting my fingers. “This is sexy, but you can still put it in your sitting room. If you move it up two inches, like this, it draws the eye to your breast. That goes in the bedroom. Your call.”
“Let’s leave it there,” said Amada. As Piraña busied himself with his tools and his music, Amada and I snuck in a quick kiss that could have very easily turned into more if we both hadn’t been on our best behavior. It felt intensely erotic to be frozen in a position of anticipation.
“Beautiful,” said Piraña. “Give me another hour to get the first layer, and then I can finish the next two on my own. If you need a break or are uncomfortable in any way, please let me know, guys.”
“How long before we can have the painting?” asked Amada, without moving a muscle.
“A couple of weeks. I’m fast in this phase, but I tend to take a longer with the details. And the paint has to dry completely before I can deliver it . . .” Piraña’s voice trailed off as the sounds of Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 filled the studio, his creative mind taking over as Amada and I talked about anything and everything, especially all the different ways she was going to thank me for putting my reservations aside so that she could have her painting.
Back at Amada’s palatial mansion on Biscayne Bay, I checked in with the guards at the front gate and parked the car in the circle drive in front of the house. I’d only been living there a few weeks and my heart still stopped every time the gates parted to reveal the Mediterranean palace Amada and her brother Kieran had called home their entire lives. What struck me most about the house wasn’t its sheer size, or the ocean and yacht in the backyard, or even the endless marble that ran from one end of the house to the other. It was, of all things, a comparatively small detail: how well-lit the entire estate was at night. The Havana of my youth had been so dark, every centavo of electricity hoarded and rationed. Amada’s house was always bright as the sun, every granite paver, every immaculate blade of grass illuminated even during the darkest hours of night. What would she think of the city I called home for so long, a decomposing cadaver, a soul rendered immobile and buried under decades of dirty concrete and virulent tears.
I dropped the keys to her Ferrari in the crystal bowl by the front door and followed her up the stairs, wordlessly, the tension between us thick. At the landing I couldn’t hold back any longer and grabbed her by the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Rafa—”
“Quiet,” I said in her ear from behind. “Not in the mood for talking.”
I directed her ahead of me, letting her feel the power in my hands at the small of her back, my masculine energy at a head. I’d have to be careful tonight because it would be too easy to lose control. Our bedroom at the end of the west corridor was awash in ambient light set by a computer-controlled timer that adjusted itself according to time and season, a space so warm and inviting it could have been a womb. I never failed to notice the damned lights on everywhere, at all times, an indulgence she wouldn’t go without for even one hour. Amada had never known anything but utter decadence. How could I teach her what it was like to want and not have, but more importantly, why did I feel the need to do so? This surely was a flaw within myself that I did not understand. Yet.
Barely in the room, I spun her around by the waist, ready to pounce. Oh, she would be so delicious tonight. I ran my hands up and down her body rougher than I normally would, hungry, wanting to devour her like a cream filled pastry dripping with honey. Goddamn this woman and her power over me.
“I won’t be quiet.” Her eyes flashed in the light, sparkling like two rare emeralds under glass. “I have something to say to you.”
“Oh do you?” I asked, bringing her mouth to mine. “That’s sweet, but I think you should wait until you’re underneath me.” I kissed her hard and fast, enjoying how she clutched the lapels of my jacket for balance as I swept her toward the bed.
“Sweet?” Amada pulled away from my kiss. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“I’m talking to my future wife, Dr. Amada De Leon, who I know is soaking wet for me no matter how much she pretends not to be.” I steadied her by the back of her neck, then dragged two fingers along the curve of her ass and brought them between us, dipping between her legs. “See?” Her eyes rolled back as she lay her head on my shoulder, her grip on me now desperate. “Don’t be silly, mamita. You’ve been wanting to ride me since I laid myself out for you like a buffet tonight.”
“Rafa, I can’t think,” she moaned.
“That’s the idea.” I whispered seductively into her ear again, but this time she didn’t like it, and something changed.
“Clearly. You lied to me,” she said, her tone severe.
“What are you talking about? I’ve never lied to you.” I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my fingers, then tossed it on one of the many ornate tables in the room. She fixed her skirt and stared at me, her mouth a hard line.
“Piraña is gay.” Oh, fuck. She was pissed. “I saw the photographs of him and his boyfriend on the way out of his studio. You knew, didn’t you?”
“Um,” I stalled. “Is it really any of our business? Should I have sent you a memo?” I shoved my hands in my pockets and adopted the defensive stance every man in trouble with his wife knows well.
“Typical,” she said, gliding around the side of the bed, away from me. “You and your macho shit. I should have known you could never stomach it.”
I’d gravely miscalculated the situation with Piraña. She was more than angry, she was furious, and it wasn’t the first time she’d accused me of macho shit, whatever that meant. As I tried to decide whether to apologize or continue defending myself, she snapped at me again.
“You only decided to give me the painting after you found out he wouldn’t be attracted to me. That’s why you changed your mind, not because you set aside your own feelings out of respect for my wishes. How many times did you let me thank you tonight?” I watched her body erupt into a chorus of curves as she half-turned toward me, hand on her hip. “Admit it or I swear you will not lay a finger on me for the next hundred years, Rafa!”
“Alright. I admit it, but you’re not parading around naked in front of a straight man on my watch, Amada. It would feel like I was intentionall
y putting you in a vulnerable or dangerous position.” I chucked off my jacket and went to the picture window. Amada’s yacht, the Coy Mistress, was parked at the back of the property on Biscayne Bay, glamorous, resplendent, an impossible fantasy for most, like her.
“You made me look so dumb,” she said softly, sitting on the bed, her back to me. “I hate feeling that way. And no matter what I am to you, it’s still my body, Rafa. If I feel like being naked in Times Square, I’ll do it. I don’t need your permission for anything.”
“Yes, you’re right, but if anything happened to you, if any harm came to you, especially because of something I did, I would die,” I said over my shoulder. “I really think I would. I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just begging you to consider my feelings. I know I don’t own you.”
“All along you knew he wasn’t thinking of me that way and you kept it to yourself. Do you like seeing me nervous?”
“You were excited, not nervous.” I sighed, watching the waves of the ocean lap against the hull of the yacht. “You’re the one that wanted the painting, not me. We could have been clothed, or it could have just been me undressed. It’s not like I wanted you in that position at all, because I didn’t. I just thought if you really were going to keep insisting we do it, then maybe you wanted some kind of experience, too, and that was a safe way to have it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Turn around and look at me. What experience?” I did as she asked, but stayed a safe distance away by the window, arms crossed.
“Well, we’re certainly never having a threesome, so that’s as close as it’s ever going to get.”
“Oh, thanks for letting me know, boss. By the way, was Piraña aware of this sexual tension you were planning? Are you sure he appreciated that while he was trying to work?”
The Santero Page 4