For once, I'm not the outsider.
Chapter 18 The Sweat of Our Transgressions
Maria
Tiny hairs tickle the back of my neck, victims to the fan that's aimed directly at me as I stand before the huge vanity mirror in my grandmother's bathroom. The space is decorated in cool, muted blues, and the warmth of dark wood accents makes me feel like I could stay here forever and fade into the simple décor.
Then my eyes travel the reflection of my own mostly-naked, golden-brown contours and I'm reminded that there's nothing simple about me. I stare at the black and white makeup on my face, the darkness around the eyes, the notches across my lips that make them look like a skeletal grin, and I know this tiny room could never contain me.
Tonight we observe a personal Day of the Dead. Abuela has given all her workers a day of rest and tonight they'll celebrate my brother, whom most of them didn't know. The entire plantation is ripe with the smell of traditional Mexican cuisine and the sounds of classical guitar and singing.
Yet as the sweltering afternoon slips into dusk, I find myself hiding in the comfort of solitude, wearing nothing but a black bra and panties and this haunting face paint. The makeup already feels like a sticky, itchy mask. The silence in my immediate vicinity is both soothing and maddening. It buffers me from the world, and it coaxes my memories and grief to run rampant.
A desperate anger wells suddenly to the surface. I'm on the verge of shoving my face in a sink full of water to rid myself of the reminders of my dead brother when the door behind me opens. I freeze with my hands on the edge of the fancy sink, watching in the mirror as Frederick wanders in, eyes squinted and hair wild.
He has just woken from a little weed nap. I know because I left him passed out on the sofa downstairs after we all four shared a blunt.
His eyes are still sleep swollen and his clothes are crumpled from his sweat. His feet drag to a halt, and rather than showing me surprise, his right eyebrow lifts as his gaze travels the same length over my body then to the makeup. I can tell by the ferocity in our eye contact, he can do nothing against his instant arousal.
He stares for a long and sultry stretch then, without a word, he turns to leave.
Maybe it's the overwhelming pressure of my stress, or maybe it's the flashes of the history between us that wash over me, but I suddenly would rather keep him here with me than let him leave. Maybe it's the heat.
I turn and bridge the gap before he has time to close the door. He faces me when he feels my fingers close around his forearm. Our skin burns against each other and his eyes are full of fire when they meet mine.
I want to speak, but I don't have any words. Good thing. I think the sound of them might shatter the world outside of us. He's the only one who can understand the weight that crushes me, the only one who really knows what must come to be in the days ahead of us. He's fated the same as I.
He's the only one who's like me.
He watches me as if he, too, senses that the atmosphere is too thick for words, and that if he speaks, some sacred spell of protection will break. Or maybe it's that, if we speak, the ghosts will find us here.
Freddy's brow furrows as he searches my soul for – something – I can't begin to guess. For the first time, maybe ever, he seems like he has no idea how to deal with me. He looks like he wants to protect me, and question me, and fuck me. I push the door closed, which immediately traps the tension against us.
The noise of the latch seems to knock him into some decision. He flashes forward, grabs me by the arms and flings me like a whiplash against the door. He buries his face against my throat, leaves a fiery trail down to my collarbone. I can't help but gasp and flush all over.
Yeah, he's the only one who really gets me, the only one on the same level as I am, the one who could always read my desires in my expression. And, strangely, he's the only one who Charlie never threatened to kill if he touched me.
His hands burn into my very being as he covers my body with praise. His fingertips are fire brands, and his lips are pure ecstatic agony. It's been so long since we found the comfort of each other's bodies. Our contact feels like finding the way after having been lost for too many years, and we've been friends for long enough that I understand how he feels about sex. He doesn't seek it, never initiates it, hardly trusts it. He rarely lets anyone close enough to want to fuck them and when he does, it's a process for him to break down his natural armor.
I remember the first time, after poker and a lot of beer, after my brother and Isaiah went the way of sleep, when Freddy and I fucked mercilessly. Then we slept in a pile of drunken bliss, our skin drying against each other, his arm slung around my waist. I remember his anxiety when we woke that way. He barely spoke to me for a week after that.
His touch brings me back to the present as he frees the clasp of my bra with a stunning deftness. I find
