His tight embrace and stroking hands over my back give me leave to let go. I’m suddenly eight years old again and my mother’s dead. I didn’t want to come to dance class but Papá made me. Then at the end he disappeared, and I was all alone except for this sweet, tender boy who found me weeping in the locker room, gathered me in his arms, and held me close. He was there for me when no one else was, even at that age.
I cling to him until I have nothing left. I don’t want to let go, but he grips my shoulders and holds me back, peering down into my face. “Sweetness, you’re going to be okay. Let’s get you cleaned up, all right? I’m going to get you undressed.”
He squats down and grips my heel, urging me to lift my foot. I lurch a little, then brace my hands on his shoulders as I register that he’s trying to take off my boot. For a second, I’m confused, but I follow his lead because my brain doesn’t have the capacity to make decisions of any sort, and it feels safe letting him make them for me.
Deep down, I know there are too many decisions I’ll have to make very soon, but right now, I’m content to just do what he wants. He gets my other boot off, followed by my thin socks, and tosses them in the corner of the shower. Then he stands and works on the buttons of my blouse. I stand numb and silent, arms hanging at my sides as he peels the shirt off me. It lands in a sodden heap on top of my boots. He tugs at the button of my jeans.
The tickle of the zipper over my pelvis wakes me up to a new awareness. It’s the opposite of safe but just as certain an escape. The hot water pounds against my back as his strong fingers tug and peel my jeans down my legs. His short hair glistens with moisture, and his faded black T-shirt is soaked through, adhering to his muscled shoulders and back.
I stare at his left arm as it flexes. The water flowing off it accents the inconsistent texture beneath the ink that hides his scars like a second skin. The scars extend all the way to his shoulder, the dusky point of one jutting out of his collar at his neck like some foreign creature has taken up residence beneath his skin and is slowly spreading, infecting him from the inside out. Something about it makes me feel a kinship to him I never did before, a bone-deep understanding of what it is to feel the need to hide our deepest, most damaged pieces.
He deposits my jeans on the pile with my other wet things as he stands, then reaches for a bottle on the ledge. When he turns, I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, letting it fall to my feet.
His gaze slips down to my breasts and he stills, jaw flexing. His strong throat ripples as he swallows, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Celeste . . .”
Before he can object, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, my tongue driving desperately between his lips. A rough groan escapes him and his arms slip around me, holding me tight against his hard body. His wet jeans do nothing to obscure how aroused he is, the sensation of that bulge awakening an acute throb of need between my own legs. His hands glide down my back, one landing on my ass, squeezing as the other shifts between us and he cups my breast, thumb gliding across my hard nipple. I gasp at the pleasure, breaking the kiss and meeting his eyes. “Please.”
His gray eyes are molten with desire, his body tight with tension, every muscle beneath my hands hard with restraint. I want him to break the way I’m broken, to give in and fall into desperate oblivion with me, escape the grief that awaits us outside that door.
He glances at the door, and I know I’ve lost him. Whatever passes through his mind then makes him shut down with a shake of his head. He closes his eyes and steps away, bending over to pick up the shampoo bottle he dropped.
He holds it out to me, eyes downcast. “I called your father. He’s sending someone named Amon to take care of the cars and Manny.”
It’s as if a switch flips, and that cold sensation floods my insides again. This time it doesn’t commandeer my limbs, but it obliterates whatever desire I have, leaving behind nothing but shame at what I just tried to do.
I take the shampoo and turn away, busying myself with lathering up my hair and avoiding looking at him as he exits the shower.
“Is Papá coming here?” I ask, spitting water and cutting my eyes to the door. Maddox is wrestling with his shoes and jeans, disrobing down to his wet boxers. He leaves his shirt on and wraps a towel around his waist.
“Not if you call him back. I told him all I know—whatever the twins shared. Leo’s still out cold, but the doctor is on his way to check him out. I think your father has questions only you can answer though. Like what the fuck you were doing meeting with a man like Amador in the middle of a goddamn gun deal.”
I freeze and stare at his back. He turns and looks at me over his shoulder, then away again, shaking his head.
“He knew my mother,” I say as if that’s a sufficient excuse. I can’t argue with him though. The meeting was stupid, even Amador said as much before he left. Perhaps Papá was right; we do stupid, reckless things when love is involved. But not even the death of a loved one will
