Last night had been totally out of control. By the time they got to his door, it was already late, and they were both tired, but he’d invited her inside anyway. To his surprise, she accepted. They started talking about music, and although he’d never had a girl in his room before, let alone a really hot one with a knockout body, he felt comfortable with her. Which had been cool, because he’d always been tongue-tied around her before.
It was the bane of his existence. He had a 4.0 GPA. All of his classes were college prep, advanced placement, or honors. But when he tried to talk to girls, his brain shut off and his mouth went numb.
Cursing himself, and his sister for interrupting the most exciting moment of his life, he continued walking, even though he knew Angel didn’t want him, and that he would probably never drum up the nerve to talk to her again.
Like most of the houses on Calle Remolino, hers was quiet and dark. The Martinezes used to have a dog, a mangy old shepherd mix with a menacing bark and a mouthful of sharp teeth, but when he died, they hadn’t replaced him. Angel’s dad had a hard enough time feeding his kids.
Feeling like a stalker, and a fool, he walked along the side of the house, wondering which bedroom was hers, hoping Fernando wouldn’t come out with a loaded shotgun. He was about to turn around and head home when he noticed the muted glow from the kitchen window.
He stepped forward, drawn to the light.
Angel was inside, standing at the sink, her back to him. Apron strings were tied loosely around her waist, and her ponytail, sooty black in the fluorescent light, was curled over one shoulder. She was washing dishes.
He froze, struck by a powerful recollection of another time he’d spied on her without her knowing.
Her brother, Juan Carlos, was a year younger than Dylan, and he’d always been an enterprising little bastard. Right now he was in juvenile hall for selling an assortment of drugs out of his locker at Palomar High. When Dylan was thirteen, he’d paid Juan Carlos five bucks for the opportunity to watch Angel take a shower.
His gut clenched with guilt and longing, because he remembered the incident in achingly vivid detail.
After pocketing the cash, Juan Carlos had taken him to his dad’s workshop, a small outbuilding next to the main house. The bathroom window was visible through the shop’s dusty windowpane. Juan Carlos instructed him to stand on the worktable, and from that vantage point, Dylan could see into the shower stall.
A few minutes later, Angel had come in, taken off her robe, and stood under the shower spray in her bare naked glory.
He was floored by the sight. He’d looked at dirty magazines before, of course, but this was different. She was real. While he stared, transfixed, she’d turned and let the water cascade down her slender back. By the time she started shampooing her hair, he was painfully aroused. With his eyes peeled and his mouth slack, he’d watched soapy rivulets course down her belly and into the dark triangle between her thighs.
Juan Carlos must have decided upon seeing Dylan’s reaction that pimping out a peep show of his sister was wrong because he let out a feral growl and tackled him. They landed in a heap of arms and legs on the shop’s dirt floor, and Dylan, too stunned to fight back, didn’t even begin to defend himself until Juan Carlos bloodied his nose.
“It was your idea,” he protested when Juan Carlos let up on him.
Dylan groaned and stayed where he was on the floor, unable to move, unable to think. Incredibly, the furious attack hadn’t eased the pressure in his groin.
Walking was difficult, for the clutch of desire refused to release him. Blood was dripping from his nose but he hardly felt it. He couldn’t see anything but wet skin. He couldn’t think of anything but hot sex.
He got as far away as he could manage, into the copse of trees near his house, and jerked open the fly of his pants. A couple of awkward strokes and he was convulsing with pleasure, sinking to his knees and gasping for air. It was kind of like dying, he supposed. And so compelling an act… that when he’d recovered well enough to catch his breath, he immediately chose to die again.
Now, four years later, he was an expert in self-gratification. But he still felt awkward around Angel Martinez, the sight of her still made him breathless, and the prospect of seeing her naked again still had the power to bring him to his knees.
Angel finished drying the dishes and hung up her apron with an exhausted yawn. She hadn’t slept at all last night, and Saturdays were always rough. The amount of housework this family generated was astronomical.
Rubbing her tired eyes, she left the kitchen via the back door and rounded the side of the house, anticipating nothing more adventurous than a full night’s sleep.
Her thoughts scattered as a man came out of no where, clamping his arm around her waist and securing his hand over her mouth. Her first instinct was to scream, but she couldn’t draw breath. When she tasted the salty skin of his palm, she bit down hard, sinking her nails into his forearm and kicking out with her legs at the same time.
“Ow!” he said, releasing her.
Angel whirled around, to see Dylan Phillips standing in the shadows.
“Sorry,” he said with a wince, cradling his injured palm. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was afraid you would see me and scream.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
When he made no reply, she realized he’d had no intention of approaching her back door. He’d been hanging around in the dark, spying on her.
For a genius, he acted pretty dumb sometimes.
“Come on,” she said, walking toward her bedroom door. Last year, when she turned eighteen, her dad had converted his dusty old workshop into a studio for her. It still didn’t have electricity, but it boasted other luxurious amenities, such as a private bathroom with running water and a door that locked.
Inside, she lit the kerosene lamp before she turned to face him.
“Is this your room now?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
She scanned the contents of her bedroom, wondering if he was being sarcastic. The place was sparsely furnished, cramped, and rustic, but it was hers. Her jail. Her only sanctuary. “Is your hand bleeding?” she asked, dragging her gaze back to him.
Frowning, he rubbed a thumb over the wound on his palm. “Nah. You didn’t break the skin. I think it’ll bruise, though. It hurts like a mother.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it was my fault. I didn’t mean to remind you of what happened last night.” Even in the meager light, she noticed the flush that stole over his cheekbones. “At the Graveyard, I mean. Not in my room.”
He wasn’t smooth, but he was chivalrous. He’d proven that much the night before. “Why did you come here?” she asked, annoyed with herself for finding him so appealing.
“You forgot to take the CD when you left.” Shrugging out of his backpack, he rummaged around for it. “Here.”
She took the disc from him reluctantly. Before last night, she’d never have considered hooking up with him. He’d always been her little brother’s friend, the skinny kid whose hair stuck up all over the place, the nerdy boy next door.
Since Angel had dropped out of high school, he’d changed. He’d grown about six inches taller, for one. He was still skinny, but now he had a lot of lean muscle under those baggy clothes. He was still nerdy, with his thrift store T-shirts and serious blue eyes, but these days he made quirky look hot. His hair still stuck up in the middle, but even that flaw worked in his favor. He had this new punk rock haircut, short on the sides and spiky on top.
The biggest difference was in his demeanor. He’d always been mischievous, and he’d often been angry. Now that he’d matured, he’d learned how to guard his emotions more effectively, but he was still troubled.
He fairly smoldered with pent-up rage.
With his edgy new look, pretty blue eyes, and fuck-you attitude, Dylan Phillips wasn’t just hot. He was dangerous.
