Synopsis:
Some say love is deadly. Some say love is beautiful. I say it is both.
Faith Watters spent her junior year traveling the world, studying in exquisite places, before returning to Oviedo High School. From the outside her life is picture-perfect. Captain of the dance team. Popular. Happy. Too bad it’s all a lie.
It will haunt me. It will claim me. It will shatter me. And I don't care.
Eighteen-year-old Diego Alvarez hates his new life in the States, but staying in Cuba is not an option. Covered in tattoos and scars, Diego doesn’t stand a chance of fitting in. Nor does he want to. His only concern is staying hidden from his past—a past, which if it were to surface, would cost him everything. Including his life.
At Oviedo High School, it seems that Faith Watters and Diego Alvarez do not belong together. But fate is as tricky as it is lovely. Freedom with no restraint is what they long for. What they get is something different entirely.
Love—it will ruin you and save you, both.
Faith Watters spent her junior year traveling the world, studying in exquisite places, before returning to Oviedo High School. From the outside her life is picture-perfect. Captain of the dance team. Popular. Happy. Too bad it’s all a lie.
It will haunt me. It will claim me. It will shatter me. And I don't care.
Eighteen-year-old Diego Alvarez hates his new life in the States, but staying in Cuba is not an option. Covered in tattoos and scars, Diego doesn’t stand a chance of fitting in. Nor does he want to. His only concern is staying hidden from his past—a past, which if it were to surface, would cost him everything. Including his life.
At Oviedo High School, it seems that Faith Watters and Diego Alvarez do not belong together. But fate is as tricky as it is lovely. Freedom with no restraint is what they long for. What they get is something different entirely.
Love—it will ruin you and save you, both.
Excerpt:
1
Faith
My closet is a place of secrets.
This is where I
change into Her, the girl everybody knows as me. Searching through hanger after
hanger of neatly pressed clothes, I find the outfit I’m looking for. A black
knee-length pleated skirt, a loose-fitting white top, and two-inch wedge shoes.
Looking good at school is a must. Not that I do it for me. It’s more for my
dad’s reputation. I have to play the part.
I am stuffed into
a borrowed frame. One that fits too tightly. One that couldn’t possibly capture
the real me.
“Faith,”
my stepmom calls. “Are you joining us for breakfast?”
There
is no time. “No,” I reply, my voice carrying downstairs.
I
quickly dress for school, catching my reflection in the closet door mirror.
Waking sun shines off my hair, highlighting a few strands brighter than the
rest. Everybody has a favorite body part. Mine is my hair, which is the
fiery-brown of autumn leaves. My best friend, Melissa, swears my eyes are my
best asset. Ivy-green, deep-set,
haunting. Like they go on forever.
Speaking
of Melissa, her horn blares outside. Beep,
beep, pause, beep. That’s our
code. I race downstairs, passing my dad, stepmom, and little sister on the way
out.
“Wait,” Dad says.
I sigh. “Yes,
Dad?”
He glances at my
outfit, pausing at my shoes. If it were up to Dad, I would wear turtleneck
shirts and dress pants with lace-up boots forever. The perfect ensemble, it
seems. As it is, I dress conservatively to protect his image. I’m eighteen.
You’d think he’d stop cringing every time he saw me in anything that showed the
least bit of skin.
“Hug,” he says,
waving me over.
I hug him. Place a
kiss on my five-year-old sister’s jelly-covered cheek. Then, grab a napkin to
wipe the sticky jelly from my lips.
“Bye, Gracie,” I
say to her. “See you after school.”
She waves a small
hand at me and smiles.
“Take
this.” Susan, my stepmom, hands me a bagel even though I already declined
breakfast. It’s poppy seed. I’m allergic to poppy seed.
As
usual, I don’t put up a fight. My frame feels especially uncomfortable at the
moment. It’s always the same thing. I learned early on that it’s easier to go
with the flow than to be different. Different is bad. Standing out attracts
attention, something I try to avoid at all costs. Unfortunately, being the
dance captain makes that more difficult.
“Have
to go,” I say, shoving the bagel in my bag.
The screen door
swings shut behind me.
Melissa
waits in my driveway. We live in a modest, yellow-paneled house in Oviedo,
Florida. The majority of the people here are middle class. We fit in well.
“What’s
up?” Melissa smiles. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah,
well, you try waking up late and still looking as good as I do,” I joke.
Melissa
whips her blond hair into a ponytail and puts her red Camaro in reverse,
careful not to hit my Jeep on the way out. I have my own car, but since Melissa
lives three doors down, we have a deal where we alternate driving to school.
She takes the first month; I take the second, and so on. Saves gas.
“You
look smokin’,” Melissa says, lighting a cigarette.
I
roll my eyes.
“Liar.”
She’s always hated
the way I dress.
Melissa
laughs. “Okay, true, the clothes need to go. But your hair and makeup are
flawless. And no matter what you wear, you still look beautiful.”
“Thanks,
you too,” I say, eyeing her tight jeans and sequined top. Melissa is
effortlessly beautiful with her sun-freckled face and athletic build.
“Prediction,”
Melissa begins. This is something we have done since ninth grade: predict three
things that will happen during the year. “Tracy Ram will try to overthrow you
as dance captain, once again, but you’ll keep your spot, of course, ’cause you
rock. You’ll quit dressing like an eighty-year-old and finally wear what you
want to wear instead of what society dictates is appropriate for a pastor’s
daughter. And you’ll come to your senses and dump Jason Magg for a hot new
boy.”
Melissa
always predicts that I’ll dump Jason, has done since Jason and I began dating
freshman year. It’s not that she doesn’t like him. It’s just that she thinks my
life is too bland, like the taste of celery. What’s the point, she figures.
“First of all, I
do not dress like the elderly,” I say. “And second, I don’t know what you have
against Jason. He treats me nicely. It’s not like he’s a jerk.”
“It’s
not like he’s exciting, either,” Melissa says.
She’s right. What
I have with Jason is comfortable, nice even, but excitement left a long time
ago.
“Prediction,” I
say, turning to Melissa. “You will not be able to quit bugging me about dumping
Jason, even though last year you swore you would. Despite your doubts, you will pass senior calculus. And you’re
going to win homecoming.”
Melissa shakes her
head. “No way. Homecoming is all you, girl.”
I groan. “But I
don’t want to win.”
Melissa laughs.
“Tracy Ram would have a heart attack if she ever heard you say that.”
“Great,” I say.
“Let her win homecoming.”
We grin. Melissa
and I have been friends since kindergarten. Memories come to me suddenly. I’m
in elementary school, and it’s sleepover night at Melissa’s. In my overnight
bag, I carry a small stuffed bunny, my steadfast companion since forever.
People would laugh if they knew, me carrying around a stuffed baby toy, but
Melissa never tells. Fast forward to middle school. The braces on Melissa’s
teeth are still so new that the silver catches the light from the fluorescent
fixtures when she smiles. The headgear is huge, cumbersome, and no one lets her
forget it. But I relentlessly defend my friend. She’s so beautiful, can’t they
see? Sometimes I leave flowers stolen from a neighbor’s rose bush at her locker
when no one is looking. That way people will know that she is loved. High
school. Melissa and me, same as always.
“What do you want
to bet?” Melissa asks.
Whoever gets the
most predictions right wins.
“Hmm,” I say. “If
I win, you have to quit smoking.”
Melissa almost
chokes. “Pulling out the big guns, are we? Okay, then. If I win, you have to
break up with Jason.”
“Deal,” I say,
knowing that she won’t win. She never does.
Melissa purses her
lips and gives me the stink eye. She knows I have a better chance.
“Faith, I will
find a way to break you out of your mold,” she says.
I laugh, partially
because of the determination in my friend’s eyes, but mostly because of the
absurdity of her statement. Everybody knows that girls like me never break
free.
Diego
“Diego, vamonos.”
I
can’t help the frustrated sigh that escapes my lips, hurled at mi padre, my dad, like a gust of wind that threatens to flatten our house of
cards. It’s my fault. I should have built something stronger with the cards I
was dealt. But I didn’t. I didn’t know how.
“Go away,” I say.
“Vete.”
I’m not planning
to attend school today.
In fact, I didn’t
plan to be in the States at all.
“Vamonos. Let’s go,” mi padre repeats in his heavily accented voice, yanking me off of
the couch. “You will not miss senior year.”
He
has this new thing where we have to speak English as much as possible now that
we live in the States. I almost wish I weren’t fluent. Several trips to
Florida, and I am.
With
a grimace, I pass him, reluctantly moving toward my room. It feels like my feet
are sinking, like I’m walking over sticky sand instead of thick, dirty carpet.
How did I get stuck in this place?
I open my dresser
drawer and pull out faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and my Smith & Wesson.
“No,”
mi padre says, grabbing the gun.
I
take a step toward him, challenging. He does not back down.
“This is why we
left,” he says.
Hypocrite. Under
his bed is a similar gun, waiting. Just in case. But he’s also the one who
taught me how to fight. I’m bigger than he is, but he has more experience. And
the scars to prove it.
Not that I haven’t
been in countless fights myself.
“Fine,”
I say through clenched teeth, and turn toward the bathroom.
The
hot water heater goes out after five minutes. The tiny two-bedroom
apartment—this hole we now call home—is the only thing mi padre could afford. It’s not much, but it’s inexpensive. That’s
all that matters. The plain white walls remind me of an asylum. Feels like I’m
going crazy already.
Our jobs keep us
afloat. They’re our life vests, our only chance of survival in a sea of
ravenous sharks. Mi padre found a job
with a lawn crew a couple weeks ago. Not many people would hire him with his
scarred face and tattooed body. A restaurant offered me work part-time. Two
shifts as a cook, one as a busboy. They promised a free meal every night that I
worked. Couldn’t pass that up.
“Don’t
be late for school or work,” mi padre
says as I step out of the house.
School’s only ten
minutes away. I walk, staring at the graffiti-covered sidewalk that stretches
in front of me like a ribbed canvas. Latinos roam the block. It didn’t take moving
to the States for me to know that’s how it is. The gringos, white people, live in nice houses and drive cars to school
while the rest of the world waits for a piece of their leftovers. I’m trying
not to think about how screwed up it all is when a Latina walks up to me.
“Hola,” she says. “¿Hablas inglés?”
“Yeah, I speak English,” I
answer, though I’m not sure why she asks since both of us speak Spanish.
“I’m Lola.” She smiles, sexy
brown eyes big and wide. She reminds me of a girl I knew back home. Just the
thought, the image of home, makes my guts clench.
“What’s your name?” she purrs.
“Lola,” a Latino calls from
across the street. She ignores him. He calls again. When she doesn’t come, he
approaches us.
One look tells me he’s angry.
He has a cocky stance and a shaved head.
“Am I interrupting something?”
he snaps.
What’s this guy’s problem?
“Yep,” Lola says, turning her
back on him. “My ex,” she explains, brushing a strand of curly hair out of her
face.
Perfecto. Just what I need. I didn’t even do anything. Not that I’m going
to explain.
“She’s mine,” the
guy says, staring me down. “¿Entiendes,
amigo?”
“I’m
not your friend,” I say, gritting my teeth. “And you do not want to mess with
me.”
Lola
is smiling. I wonder if she enjoys the attention. Probably. I’ve met too many
girls like her. She fits the type.
“You
don’t know who you’re messing with,”
he says, stepping closer.
A
few guys come out of nowhere, closing in on me. Blue and white bandanas hang
from their pockets like a bad-luck charm. I know what the colors signify. Mara
Salvatrucha 13 Gang, or MS-13.
I turn to Lola.
Watch her smile.
This
is all part of the game. What I can’t figure out is if the guy really is her ex
and she doesn’t care that she could be getting me killed, or if he sent her to
see how tough I am, to help decide whether he wants to recruit me.
I
turn to walk away, but someone blocks my path.
“Going somewhere?”
another gang-banger asks.
This
whole time I’ve wondered if I’d end up fighting at school. I hadn’t thought about
the fact that I may never make it in the first place. I silently curse mi padre for hiding my gun. He wouldn’t
get rid of it completely, though.
“What
do you want?” I ask.
The
original guy laughs, looks me up and down. The number 67 is tattooed behind his
right ear in bold black numbers. It only takes me a second to figure out the
meaning. Six plus seven equals thirteen.
“What are those
markings?” he asks, eyeing my tattoos.
“Nothing,”
I lie.
If
they wanted to fight me, they would’ve done it already. This is a recruit.
“Where
you from?” he asks.
I
don’t answer. Members of MS-13 stretch around the globe like fingers. They can
easily check my past. I’m not gonna give them a head start.
“Swallow
your tongue?” one of the guys asks.
I’m
trying to figure out if I can win a fight against the five guys who surround
me. I look for weak spots, scars, old injuries. I look for bulges that might be
weapons. I’m a good fighter. I think I can take them. But at the same time,
fighting will guarantee me a follow-up visit from MS-13.
Just
then, someone speaks behind us. “Is there a problem?” a police officer asks
from the safety of his car.
Everyone
backs away from me.
“Nope,” one of the
gangbangers answers. “We were just leaving.”
“See
you around,” 67 says, throwing an arm around Lola.
I
turn my back and walk the last block to school. The police officer trails
slowly behind, like a hungry dog sniffing for scraps. He leaves as I enter the
double doors.
I
think about what my dad said. Moving here
will give you a brighter future.
His words sit
heavily on my mind, like humidity on every pore of my skin. His intentions are
good, but he’s wrong. So far, moving here has done nothing but remind me of my
past.
3
Faith
Those are the
first words I speak to the new Cuban guy in the front office. He grimaces.
He’ll be a tough one. I can handle it, though. He’s not the first.
I can’t help but
notice that he looks a lot like a model from the neck up—eyes the color of oak,
strong bone structure. Everywhere else, he looks a lot like a criminal.
Chiseled, scarred body … I wonder for a second about the meaning behind the
tattoos scratched into his arms.
One thing’s clear.
He’s dangerous.
And he’s
beautiful.
“I’ll show you to
your classes,” I announce.
I’m one of the
peer helpers at our school. It’s not my favorite thing to do, but it counts as
a class. Basically I spend the first two days with new students, introducing
them around and answering their questions. Some parents with kids new to the
school voluntarily sign their students up, but it’s only mandatory for the
international students, of which we have a lot. Mostly Latinos.
This
Cuban guy towers over me. I’m five six. Not tall. Not short. Just average.
Average is good.
This guy’s not
average. Not even a little bit. He must be over six feet.
I
glance up at him, kind of like I do when I’m searching for the moon in a sea of
darkness.
“Looks like you
have math first. I’ll walk you there,” I offer.
“No
thanks, chica. I can handle it.”
“It’s
no problem,” I say, leading the way.
He
tries to snatch his schedule from my hands, but I move too fast.
“Why
don’t we start with your name?” I suggest.
I
already know his name. Plus some. Diego Alvarez. Eighteen years old. Moved from
Cuba two weeks ago. Only child. No previous school records. I read it in his
bio. I want to hear him say it.
“You
got some kinda control issues or somethin’?” he asks harshly, voice slightly
accented.
“You
got some kind of social issues or somethin’?” I fire back, holding my stance. I
won’t let him intimidate me, though I’ll admit, he’s hot. Too bad he has a
nasty attitude.
The
side of his lip twitches. “No. I just don’t mix with your type,” he answers.
“My
type?”
“That’s
what I said.”
“You
don’t even know my type.” No one does. Well, except Melissa.
He
chuckles humorlessly. “Sure I do. Head cheerleader? Date the football player?
Daddy’s little girl who gets everything she wants?” He leans closer to whisper.
“Probably a virgin.”
My
cheeks burn hot. “I’m not a cheerleader,” I say through clamped teeth.
“Whatever,”
he says. “Are you gonna give me my schedule or not?”
“Not,”
I answer. “But you can feel free to follow me to your first class.”
He
steps in front of me, intimately close. “Listen, chica, nobody tells me what to do.”
I
shrug. “Fine, suit yourself. It’s your life. But if you want to attend this
school, it’s mandatory for me to show you to your classes for two days.”
His
eyes narrow. “Who says I want to attend this school?”
I
take the last step toward him, closing the gap between us. When we were little,
Melissa and I used to collect glass bottles. Whenever we accumulated twenty,
we’d break them on the concrete. When the glass shattered, the slivered pieces
made a breathtaking prism of light.
I cut myself on
the glass by accident once. It was painful, but worth it. The beauty was worth
it. It’s funny how the bottle was never as beautiful as when it was broken.
You will not shatter me, I silently tell
Diego. Somebody already did.
“If you don’t want
to be here, then don’t come back,” I say.
A
taunting smile spreads across his face. My first thought is that he has nice
teeth, but then I scold myself for thinking about him like that.
“My
name is Diego,” he says, like he’s letting me in on some kind of secret.
“Well,
Diego,” I say, “better hurry. Class starts in two minutes.” I step around him
to lead the way.
While we walk to
math, I feel Diego’s eyes on me. I don’t know what it is about him. All the
other confident students had nothing on me, and I swear I’ve heard it all, but
he seems different. He shines. In a dark way. When he looks at me, I get a
tingly sensation, like I’m being zapped by electricity.
It doesn’t matter.
He’s rude. And besides, I have a wonderful boyfriend. Jason. Think about Jason.
“Quit staring at
me,” I say, glancing at him.
He laughs, and
strands of black hair fall into his eyes. I imagine it’s a little like looking
at the world through charred silk.
“Why? Does it make
you uncomfortable?”
He’s messing with
me to get under my skin, like a pesky little splinter.
It’s working.
“Yes,” I answer.
In his white
shirt, Diego’s skin is dark. Perpetually tanned by heritage.
I keep Diego’s
schedule out of his reach. He inches closer, no doubt to grab it and run. I try
to concentrate on the newly painted beige walls and tiled floors. Every few
feet hangs a plaque about achievement or school clubs or tutoring programs.
When we come to
the door, Diego rests an arm on the wall and leans toward me.
“I have a
proposition for you,” he says in a sultry voice.
It’s hard to seem
unaffected.
“I don’t do
propositions,” I say dismissively.
He grins, his
mouth arching up like the curl of a wave.
“But you haven’t
even heard me out,” he says.
“Don’t need to.”
He ignores my
comment. “What do you say we forget about this thing where I follow you around
like a little dog? And when the guidance counselor asks, I will say you were
superlative.”
“Big word,” I
mumble. This guy did not do well on his entry exams, but he says things like superlative? What’s with that?
He glares at me; I
sigh.
“You know, it
wouldn’t kill you to drop the tough-guy act for two days. You’ll be rid of me
soon.”
I turn to leave
but Diego grabs my arm gently. My breath catches.
“It’s not an act,”
he says, jaw hard.
I wave him away
nonchalantly, like his touch didn’t just do all kinds of crazy things to my
body—things that make me want to forget about the warning blaring in my mind.
I need to stay
away from him.
I need to forget
him.
Will you touch me again please?
I walk away. He
watches me go.
“By the way,” I
say as I flick a look over my shoulder at his hardened face, “I see right
through you.”
4
Diego
A sweet smell hits
my nostrils as I pass the fruit section. It smells like my peer helper, and I’m
reminded of my disgust for her. She thinks she knows me, but she knows nothing.
She’s a snob, trying to prove something. They’re all the same.
Girls
like her don’t know what it’s like to struggle, really struggle.
She’s probably
never gone so hungry her stomach knots. Never roamed the streets wondering if
she’ll have a safe place to sleep. With a face and body like hers, she’s
probably never had to work for anything in her life. The people she represents,
the life she lives, it’s all fake.
Javier, my cousin,
warned me about her. She’s one of the Big Five, the ones who think they rule
this school. Even with her perfect boyfriend and flawless life, she isn’t
fooling me.
I hear Javier
before I see him. “Diego, aquí.”
Through the crowd,
I spot my cousin sitting with a group of Latinos. With his six-foot,
two-hundred-pound frame, he’s hard to miss. I approach him. One of his friends
mumbles something in Spanish about how tall I am.
“Hey, what can I
say? They make ’em big in mi familia,”
Javier says, laughing.
Truth backhands
me. I realize now that I never actually thought I would see Javier again. After
… after … no. I shove the thoughts away. Not here.
Not here.
“What’s up, ’cuz?”
Javier says.
“Nada.” I force a smile, though my relief
is real. It’s good to see family.
“¡Siéntate!”
Javier says.
I sit. Sitting
is usually an indulgence for those who can afford to relax. I pretend for a
moment that I’m one of them. My cousin takes a minute to introduce his friends.
“Diego, this
is Ramon, Esteban, Juan, Rodolfo, and Luis.”
Ramon and
Esteban, with their slight overbites and similar features, must be brothers.
Juan has a large head for his small frame; he’s covered in tattoos. Rodolfo has
a smile full of white teeth and a dimple on the left side of his cheek. What
happened to the other dimple? It’s as though God had an asymmetrical look in
mind when He created him. Next to my cousin, Luis is the biggest. He has lots
of freckles, splattered on his face like paint, seeping into his skin.
“Welcome to los
Estados Unidos,” Juan says, biting into his burger.
“Gracias,” I
reply.
My stomach
growls, an animal hungry to live. Javier notices.
“Come with
me.” He motions for me to follow him through the crowd.
As we walk to
the lunch line, I spot my peer helper at a table, surrounded by her friends.
There’s one of her kind at every school. The girl everyone hates to love and
loves to hate. She’s probably been stabbed in the back countless times. Not
that she would know, since everyone acts fake to her face. Her friends remind
me of worker bees, buzzing for the queen’s attention. I wonder if she knows
that the workers eventually kill the queen.
“When you get to
the front, show them your student ID,” Javier says.
The guidance
counselor already explained that I get one free lunch a day because of our low
income. As we pass the food selections, I cannot believe the prices.
“Are they for
real?” I ask. “Six dollars for chicken and fries?”
I have an image of
Faith Watters taking out her designer wallet and easily paying for one of the
pretentious lunches.
“Yep. Gringos,” Javier says, eyes hardening.
He remembers what it was like in Cuba, the struggle.
Just by looking at
the lunchroom crowd, it’s clear who the haves and have-nots are. Surprisingly,
though, there are more Latinos than I expected.
I grab a burger
and make my way to the register. As I pull out my ID, football players in
letterman jackets glance my way. Part of me wishes I had it easy like them:
popular, at ease, able to pay for things.
I shouldn’t want
to be like them.
I don’t want to be
like them.
Yes, I do.
Some days.
The bigger part of
me knows that a life like that will never happen for someone like me. It’s just
the way things are.
I grab a water bottle
and head back to the table with Javier. Do people here know that most of the
world doesn’t get water from a bottle, but from a stream or river or muddy
ground?
“So, you fittin’
in well?” Javier asks.
“Yep.” For the
most part. No one has singled me out for being new.
“Latinos blend
around here. One of the good things about Florida,” he says.
We pass a
beautiful girl on the way back to our seat. I take a moment to look. She
smiles.
“That’s Isabella,”
Javier explains. “Sexy, but taken.”
“Too bad,” I say.
I’m not looking
for a girlfriend, but it would be nice to have a little fun. I’m almost at the
table when someone steps in front of me.
“What’s your
problem?” my peer helper asks, one of her friends in tow.
Momentarily
shocked by her boldness, I quickly regain my hard stance. Just like earlier,
she doesn’t seem fazed by me. She’s either tougher than I thought, or she puts
on a great front.
“I don’t know what
you mean,” I reply. I try to feign confusion, but a smile creeps through.
“Oh, you think
this is funny?” she asks, hands on her hips. For a second, she looks kind of
beautiful, eyes hard and old. Wisps of hair fall out of her ponytail and around
her face like angel feathers.
“A little.” I
grin.
She huffs. “You
weren’t there to meet me after your classes this morning. If I report you, you
could lose your chance to attend this school.”
Is she threatening
me? “Like I said, I already have a mamá.
I don’t answer to you.”
I hand my tray to
Javier. He sets it on the table so I can deal with her.
“You’re being
difficult,” she says.
“So are you.”
What is your weakness? is what I want to
ask.
She doesn’t back
down. “I’ll be there before the end
of your next class. Don’t even think about ditching me again.”
I have to, don’t you see?
“I’m serious,” she
says.
This girl is
asking for it. I glance at her blond friend, who’s eyeing Javier, not paying us
any attention. I wish my peer helper was as easily distracted.
Being tough does
not scare Faith Watters. Time to change tactics. I relax and flash a grin.
“Mami, why don’t I help you loosen up a
little?”
She blinks, but
doesn’t show any outward evidence that my words have affected her. I move
close, very close. When I look down at her, she doesn’t look away.
Her eyes remind me
of stained glass, bright and cutting.
“We could have a
good time, you and me,” I say, mischief punctuating my voice.
“I don’t think
so,” she says coldly.
I will not let her
upstage me. I give her a long, slow onceover. She dresses older than she is,
like she doesn’t belong in high school. I wonder what makes her so uptight.
What are you hiding, chica?
I usually don’t
have to try with girls. It’s one of the very few advantages life has thrown my
way.
“Oh, come on. You
might like Latino if you tried it,” I say, voice low. The guys behind me laugh,
egging me on.
“When you’re done
with him, I’m available, mamacita,”
Juan says. “I don’t mind leftovers.”
She sneers. Good.
That’s progress.
“Let me take you
out,” I say.
I’m not really
going to take her anywhere. I just want to make a crack in her icy shield.
Why do you have a shield, anyway?
“Why?” she asks
suspiciously.
Because I know it annoys you when someone
else has control. “Because it would be fun,” I say, bending close to her
face. “And I can promise you one thing.”
She looks cautious.
It’s a look I know
well.
“What?” she asks.
That one night with me will relax you.
Girls like her
love bad boys, whether they admit it or not. I imagine it’s similar to visiting
a haunted mansion. Exciting, at first. One foot slips through the door, then
the next. Heart hammers. Blood races. It’s a rush. A fix. Never knowing what’s
around the next corner, through the closed door, beyond the shadows. Trying to
find a way out. Not really wanting to leave. Wondering how close a person can
come to danger before something bad happens. Looking for the moonlight at the
end of the tunnel, an exit.
Sometimes there is no light at the end of
the tunnel.
I can show her
excitement like she’ll never experience with that boyfriend of hers.
But I don’t say
any of those things. Instead I let my lips brush her ear lobe as I answer.
“That you will
leave satisfied.”

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