The elevator doors whisk open. My hand clamps on Roslyn’s red lips. “I’m sorry, but you have the biggest mouth.” I lead her toward my hallway. Once there, I let her go and start toward my art room.
“You’re a guest in your own home, who has overstayed her welcome.”
“Ros, cut it out. My lease is for an entire year.”
“Oh, did I mention you pay enough to have my familia’s, familia here?” Roslyn stalks toward the door, whisking it open. “Demand respect. Like I demanded you to be my friend in middle school.”
Her hips sashay into the neat room. A few empty canvases are around the perimeter. Still life photos hang from the walls. I close the door . “I wasn’t some unwanted puppy or anything.”
“Girl, junior high school is sink or swim. I was your instructor.”
Yeah right. In junior high, I swam. Nothing graceful—doggy paddle. Grades were paramount. Even when I met Roslyn, I placed my education first.
“So, what’s this nightclub you’re visiting this evening? You need numbers?” I lean against my standing desk, neatly stacked photography textbooks.
“Si! With you at my side, the nightclub promoter will pay me well. Your tits aren’t sitting up like inflatable—”
I smack her hand down.
“Your curves are—”
“Again, I’m not exploiting my ass, Roslyn. You’re twenty-seven, still pulling the same moves like back in college.”
I bite my tongue from further sounding like a prude or someone’s damn momma. Roslyn might be my oldest friend, but I was acquainted with guilt longer. I didn’t want to hurt her. Roslyn hustles for her livelihood, her Creative Writing degree collecting dust. I’m lucky. I’ve been able to put my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in art to work.
Miranda had every background check under the sun completed when I moved in. I assume it was because I didn’t have a normal nine to five. Hell, she didn’t either. Perhaps she expected to see movement, attending galas with my art adorning walls. But I lucked out, working for an international advertisement company, ‘In Demand.’ My older cousin owned a small boutique ad firm in Los Angeles. Now, she’s married to a Brit, whose wealth elevated her business. It’s all about who you know.
Who I know is the reason I can afford this apartment and live like a hermit. I go out twice a week. Once to fulfill On Demands visual obligations. The other because Roslyn doesn’t think I thrive in the confines of four walls. But there are so many more walls here.
“Well, we all can’t have your talent, Ari’. Speaking of talents . . . my cousin’s wedding is—”
“I’m not interested.”
Roslyn plucks an eight by ten photo from the desk of a butterfly in flight. Light, shadows, and movement separate this image from amateur work.
Roslyn gushes, “Magnificent, Ari’! They don’t understand the value of a photographer. One of my primos has a cheap camera from ages ago. He’s the photographer. My familia has pulled together for this wedding, skimping at the worst time. Do it for my madre! Do this For my favorite prima!”
“I’m . . .” I search my brain of a good lie. “Photography isn’t my medium, Ros. I paint.”
I hold up my hands with dashes of color across my brown skin and nails. “I photograph because . . .” It made a good minor at NYU, helped keep me busy.
“Then paint a picture of them at the altar. Viva, Ari’!” She shakes my shoulders.
“When is the wedding?” I groan.
“Next week.”
Bingo. “Alright. Netflix today. Wedding next week?” I cock a brow. Roslyn purses her lips. See, I leave my home twice a week. Next week it will be for work and a wedding. One plus one is two.
Dominic
My jaw is granite as I watch the massive television in my bedroom. Gorgeous faces slide along the bottom of the screen. The number paramount. The report indicates the serial killer, El Santo, has escalated.
Arms wrap around me from behind, blond hair tickling my cheek. Soft lips trail my jawline, stopping to nip at my earlobe. “Should I be afraid, Dom?”
“Why?” I inquire, unable to detach my eyes from the mass hysteria on the scene.
“Because every single one of those hotties looks like someone you have taken to bed.” The blonde unravels from me.
With one last look at the television, I press a button. The screen ascends into the ceiling, leaving in its stead investment art. Passionless crap that only appeals to the other half.
I smile at the lovely Cubana. The morning ocean breeze from the terrace teases the silk teddy clinging to her curves. She’s beautiful enough to devour to the last drop.
“I don’t have a type, chula.”
Her nose wrinkles. “If you weren’t so cute, I’d be offended you called me cute. I’m—”
“Strikingly beautiful.” I cock a brow, scenting her sex. A mere lift of my eyebrow always does the trick.
“You forgot my name, didn’t you?”
I drag a hand over my head. “Si.” When I turn on the news, the world stops. I’m stuck in a trance. Mass media craze about the women they’re calling trinkets and the hype for . . . El Santos.
She struts around the bedroom, fluid movements punctuated in determination. The meat of her ass shows as she reaches down to find one red bottom heel here and a slinky dress there.
“I can’t believe it.” She alternates from English to Spanish. “My madre said, ‘don’t date a Cuban.’ My abuelita said the same thing, then—”
“Then what?” Leaning against the doorframe, I eye her curves. Ready to dissect every inch of her beauty.
“Then my abuelita saw you on the fucking news, Dominic! From Miami to Havana, shit, to Mexico, to South America. You’re the Latin with the heart of gold. The Savior.”
“A saint?” I lick my lips.
“That too!” Her dyed honey hair flips around as she shimmies into the dress. “If it weren’t for my second cousin who entered this country illegally to see her mami take her dying breath, I would . . . I would.”
Her tiny hand poises into a fist, inches
