Everything around me looks like a more provincial version of the hills of Malibu or Santa Monica, with fewer houses dotting the cliffs and hillsides. It almost feels like some idyllic island getaway, the kind people disappear to in order to escape modern life.
We walk for what seems like forever. At least it’s enough to dry me off, helping rid me of most of the sand that stubbornly stuck to the damp parts of me. Now, the Mediterranean sun is beginning to wear on me, especially in these thick clothes.
In the middle of hiking up a particularly steep hill, I’m almost tempted to break my silence by asking him just how much longer we’ll be walking.
That’s when he finally turns to head up a short walkway to a medium-sized apartment building. I breathe a sigh of relief, already imagining the cool interior and glass of water I plan on gesturing my way into getting from him.
When he pulls out his keys to unlock the front entrance, I pay closer attention to the surroundings. The building reminds me of some of the apartments in Los Angeles, stucco walls, open walkways, slightly aged or retro, depending on your level of sentimentality.
For some reason, it doesn’t fit the man I’m with.
I don’t even know much about him, which is why I find it odd that I can make that assessment. He’s young and casually dressed, which meshes perfectly in this setting. But he also owns a boat. And he just happens to have both a gun and a pair of handcuffs.
Maybe this is a friend’s apartment? Or maybe this is just some second home away from home where he bums around? Or maybe…
I close my eyes and exhale as we walk up the second set of stairs, unable to puzzle this out any further. I’m probably suffering from heatstroke or dehydration or malnourishment or something.
I don’t care who the hell he is. I just want a cool place to rest, take a shower, drink some water, and maybe nibble on some food.
When he opens the door to his unit, my curiosity is piqued again. I follow him inside…and that’s when I freeze, my heart stopping cold with fear.
Chapter Eleven Enrique
I sense her stop behind me as I enter the apartment.
When I turn around, I see the look on her face as she stands there, not two feet past the threshold. I twist back around, wondering what she finds so intimidating about the place.
There’s nothing to be afraid of.
That’s when it hits me. There’s nothing here. I have a small table with one chair, a small, obviously used sofa. In the only bedroom, there’s a mattress on a box spring.
I certainly don’t typically invite company back to this place. The apartment is sparse by design, meant to be a safe haven should the storm of my life catch up with me.
For the occasional one-night-stand—which Ibiza makes so easily available—I end up either going back to their place or just booking a hotel room for the night. Sometimes right there on the beach late at night if the mood strikes us.
As such, the apartment pretty much looks like the hideout of a criminal, perhaps a temporary holding spot for a kidnapped victim.
Which it technically is.
“Make yourself at home,” I say in a slightly mocking voice as I walk around her to shut the door before she gets any ideas about fleeing.
She flinches as the door clicks behind her, and she makes sure to take two steps away from me as I pass back around to head to the refrigerator. I always make sure this is at least stocked with the essentials of bottled water. There are nonperishables in some of the cabinets. Otherwise, I typically just head into town to eat.
I grab two bottles of water and walk one over to her.
“Don’t drink from the faucet. It tastes like seawater,” I say as I hold the bottle out.
She gives it a suspicious look before snatching it away.
So that’s what it’s going to be like, then. I suppose I can understand her suspicions.
I walk over to the couch and fall down, feeling my exhaustion set in. Patently ignoring her, I open my bottle and take several long gulps. When I’m done, she’s still standing by the door, though she has opened the bottle to take a few sips.
“You might as well rest. I know you’re probably more tired than I am.”
She frowns at me, then makes a cautious trek to the one chair at the small table. She sits down so erect and proper it’s amusing. She’s obviously had the same Catholic education that I have.
Which does nothing to diminish her sex appeal.
If anything, it only makes it worse.
I almost regret asking her to leave the veil back on the boat.
Any traces of my Catholic guilt evaporated a long time ago, leaving nothing but the salty residue of a thirst for atonement from certain guilty parties. Thus, the thought of convincing a bride of Christ—even one who is obviously in a fake marriage of convenience—to defy her vows does nothing but excite that impure part of me most men are tainted by.
I wonder if she’s still a virgin.
“Can I at least get a name, seeing as you’ve so willingly taken advantage of my hospitality?”
She simply stares at me with an expression so dull it borders on patronizing.
I laugh. So much for that.
“Fair enough, I’ll go first. Ricardo.”
As though I’d be stupid enough to give my real name.
I haven’t forgotten my original name—my Christian name, if you will. Thus, I’ve always used a variation that is similar to Eric, especially when committing one sin or another.
I give her an expectant look and get nothing but a hint of a sneer in return.
“Fine, you’ll just force me to make up one.”
The look of indifference she gives me causes me to smirk.
“Bueno, Diabla, it is.”
She blinks and
