by Amarie Avant
“Girl, junior high school is sink or swim. I was your instructor.”
Yeah right. In junior high, I swam—nothing graceful, the 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. It’s filled with neatly stacked photography textbooks.
“Sí! 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 to stop 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. Unfortunately, she was disappointed. But I lucked out, working for an international advertisement company, ‘On 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.
And 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 off 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 bought 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.
Chapter Three
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, blonde 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 on 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. “Sí.” When I turn on the news, the world stops. I’m stuck in a trance. Mass media rattle on about the women they’re calling trinkets and the hype for . . . El Santo.
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 a 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 from my jaw. As she jars it around, I don’t so much as flinch.
“You were saying, bonita?”
“Chula? Bonita? I’m not an insecure piece of ass!”
“Not in the slightest, you’re a businesswoman.”
“I am.” Her shoulders square.
I only made this assessment because her hands are soft, but not heiress soft. I follow her through the upstairs portion of my house. Her one heel clops on the custom-made Madrid tile. In her haste to find the other heel, the pretty woman misses the staircase to the left.
“Not that hallway,” I speak up, voice steel.
“Thanks for the assistance! The sooner I get out of here and away from you, the better. And guess what, asshole!” I lean against the Spanish ceramic handrail as she saunters back toward me. “I’ll tell every Latina in a thousand-mile radius the sex . . . the sex . . .”
“The sex?” I coax her response, my palm at her face. Intuitively, she nudges into my caress, dark orbs swimming in pure lust.
The Cubana groans. “Best I ever had, grrrr, fuck!”
More Spanish divides her thought, as she reaches up to slap my chest. Without a tell, I’ve caught her wrist, stopping her attempt. Women. Nothing they can do will ever hurt me.
The furious woman wrestles her wrists away from me. She bares shiny white teeth as she threatens, “Still, I’ll coach myself. Tell myself until I’m able to tell all my primas, every woman caught in your snare, that the sex was the worst!”
I press my mouth against hers, tongue dipping inside for a delicious taste. My hand clutches her throat. Her heartbeat drums against my palm. I kiss her until the beat amplifies, squeezing harder. “Didn’t your mami ever tell you, it’s not good to lie.”
“Oh, yesssss!” She moans into my mouth.
Women.
Malleable.
Putty.
Easily broken. Still dominating her throat, the Cubana descends to her knees. The dose of craving burning in my veins dies out. This was no challenge at all.
There are two Dominic Ángel Alvarezes. Maybe more.
There’s the immigration attorney who wheedles through a person’s convictions. Learns why a potential client has stars in their eyes for the United States of America. Depending on the reason, I help them. If their intentions are bad, I’m not the attorney for them.
Image is everything for El Santo.
About eight or nine years ago, before the string of murders, I was dubbed El Santo. It was my first case, a heartbreaking case. A young mami in need of asylum only had to speak with
authorities about a Cartel Capos. Though not physically abused, the threat of her children as mules bought her silence.
Through trust and patience, I gave her a voice. She gave me more clients. Her story dismantled one of the most extensive drug operations in Miami.
Then there’s the Cuban lover. I did not give myself this name. But the perks resolve my aggression. The pounding in pussy. The domination. The breaking . . .
In a royal blue suit made of South American vicuña, I look the part. Some ask why I dress so well given my occupation, but I’m in contact with many of my clients’ children.
I was them once, growing up on pastelitos. Though filet mignon melts like butter, I still miss a good croqueta. I was un niño pobre, a poor kid, whose mami gripped my cheeks and chastised my grades. Though illiterate, she beat education into me with a cup towel. Mami was always in the kitchen during our chats. Then she’d pepper kisses across my cheeks and call me her good son.
She was the reason I’m seated in my very own office in Little Havana. And the reason I dress well, so those kids can visualize who they can become.
The door bursts open. I look at the runner who’s bringing in my paperwork. Alverez Immigration Firm has a full staff to cater to the community’s needs. I can afford private investigators, and use them at will, but the kid was like me as a child. He kept his palms in his jeans, not expecting a handout. So, I’ve created this very job for him.
“What happened to knocking, Yasiel? Where is my—”
“I’m late. Right here, boss,” Yasiel says, handing over the papers.
I hide a smile. “Well, set the alarm fifteen minutes earlier.”
His light brown face goes to the ceiling, and he sighs. “If I wake up any earlier, it’ll be yesterday. I’ll catch the bus to—”
“School.”
“I didn’t mean that bus.”
The edges of my mouth turn down. His papi is a farmer, up at the crack of dawn. His mami is a housekeeper for a home a few blocks from mine. Her employer asks for ten times the amount of work. Now that his mami has the proper documents to work legally, loyalty must keep her there.
He is the image of me as a kid. I would have rather helped my mami and papi when they were forced to return to Cuba. While I was in high school, I had a full-time job. I sent money to them. They sent it straight back. One time, Mami sent me a cup towel and her shoe—to remind me of her wrath.
“School, Yasielito. You’re all your mami talks about. Keep it like that.”
Yasiel brings my breakfast, and I threaten him almost every morning to focus on graduating.
“Okay!” He hefts his backpack on his shoulder. “School, sí. Don’t know why, though.”
“You like my suits?” I cock my head.
Yasiel spins around, picks up his skateboard, but not before I see half a smile.
At the door to my office, he stops and glances down the hallway then turns back around. “Señor Lopez is here. Don’t need to hear his crying. That’s why I’m going to school, Dom.”
I shake my head. “Tell him to come inside. You thought you had the last word?”
“First, if I want the last word, I take it. Forget Señor Lopez. He walked in here, learned you were Cubano. First thing outta his mouth is we’re a bunch of communists, cigar-smoking—”
“I’ve caught you stealing cigars before, Yasiel.” I shift around in the leather chair.
Rolling his eyes, Yasiel continues the list. “Rafters, guayabera wearing—”
“Aye, guayabera shirts don’t make me, I make them, Yasielito. Last I recall, you had to have the mint green one I wore. I bought you the same on your birthday a few months ago. You no like them, now?”
“I do.” Yasiel stomps out of the room. By now, Señor Lopez has walked the length of the tiny office. He stands in the hall opposite my door, fisting a bandana in his hands.
Yasiel hardly glances at Señor Lopez on his way out. The older man’s weather-beaten face casts downward. Shit, he overheard Yasiel’s rant. “I was rude when we first met.”
“You were.” I nod. “The niño remembers everything. Come, sit with me, Señor Lopez.”
The older man lets out a huff. “If I were you, I’d charge me—”
“Sit. Let me tell you why I do what I do. I understand your frustration more than you think.”
“A man like you?” He clicks his tongue. “That suit costs more than the rancher I worked for refused to pay us all. Now, I’m out of a job.”
I nod in agreement. Bad shit happens in the world to the best of us. I have the power to rectify that.
Chapter Four
Aria
Last week, I dodged a bullet, offering to feed myself to the wolves today. Now, I’m obligated to leave home. With a hard-shell rollaway of photography equipment, I meander through the apartment lobby. The doorman glances me up and down. “Miss Jones . . .”
“Yup, past my bedtime. Thank you.” In a yellow tea dress, which plumes around my thick thighs, I glide through the open door. The sky is a plethora of soft blues, lilacs, and peach. I hesitate in my wedge sandals. I could paint this view, but I’ll hear it till the end of time if Roslyn’s cousin’s wedding has fuzzy mementos.
“Damn, I’ll have to park miles away when I return. This wedding better have a sucky photographer,” I mutter, opening the door to my Nissan Leaf. The space is one of the perks of not leaving home much, and when I do, it’s midday. I always return before the streetlights come on.
After arriving in self-parking, I’ve lugged my rollaway inside the side entrance of the grand lobby.
Vacationers and locals zip across the area. Around the perimeter are chic stores, an opulent lounge, and a line for the concierge. Faux breasts and ass in cheap to designer bikinis, to suits and skirts, flit about.
“Aria!” Roslyn gushes, jumping up and down near the corridor leading to the conference rooms. Her arms are wide open.
An attractive Latino strides confidently past the valet’s sliding glass doors. Few men can pull off his suit, which is a mesmerizing shade of blue. The material is tailored over bulks of muscles. The opening of his linen shirt reveals a gold, chiseled chest. Heat races over my body as a rare fantasy flashes before my eyes. Thick brows, granite jaw, full lips, intimidatingly handsome. Satan was too.
I’m not the only woman hypnotized by him. Mouths drop, and dyed hair whips around. He removes his sunglasses, revealing a gaze so intense, I don’t know whether to freeze or tuck-and-roll out of view.
Then it happens.
Nothing, in particular, trips me up. Stumbling a few steps, I drop the handle to my expensive photography case. I kneel. My fingers feel the ground, and my eyes shamefully rove over him. Let’s face it; I’m a ghost anyway. I can gawk.
The most attractive Spanish man—scratch that—human on the planet paces by me. His dark green eyes burn through Roslyn as she stares at me, jumping up and down.
“You’re wearing white? To a wedding?” I ask as Roslyn runs over, extending a hand to help me up. I sidestep her attempt at a hug. “Took you long enough. Did you enjoy boobie-bouncing to an audience?”
Roslyn chuckles, saying, “Dame un beso,” in the annoying voice only she has.
“No, I will not give you a kiss,” I growl. “You’re wearing white?”
“Off-white.”
“White to a wedding,” I repeat, still flustered by the Cubano. Then it hits me, Roslyn lied. Hand on hip, I call her out. “For your favorite cousin?”
She mirrors my stance. “Did I say so, Ari’?”
“Hell, yes!” I snap.
“Should’ve asked for references. Besides, did you see who was staring at me?”
Second glances are not a habit of mine, but I almost look back—the desire to burns through my core.
“You don’t know who that is?” Roslyn rolls her eyes.
“Nope. I’m still stuck on your white—”
“Get over the white, chica. You marry before turning thirty-five, I’ll wear wh
atever the hell you’d like. After the fact, forget off-white, I’m donning a wedding dress.”
I grip the handle of my rollaway. “Alright, who was he?”
“Dominic Ángel Alvarez. Forget the Latin lover cliché. He is the Cubano Dios!”
“He’s not.” I gulp.
“He is. He’s perfect. He saves my people, his people, any immigrant from returning to wretched lives. I mean, a few of his cases were on Telemundo. But with the women, let me tell you what I’ve heard.”
My sister may have never lived long enough for first love. So, marriage, children, romance? Not for me. So, I tune out Roslyn. She names every synonym, food included, about the attorney’s member as we walk toward the venue.
The wedding ceremony and reception were all held in the same room to save on costs. I’ve seen it done before, but with a wedding party the size of Roslyn’s family, a few toes were crushed, mine included. Roslyn left with her latest victim before the bride and groom drank the customary café con leche. Her family constantly offered me a seat, but I focused on capturing every second of the high school sweethearts’ wedding.
My stomach rumbles as I trek toward the now, quiet, empty lobby. Music calls me from a bar. The type of blues Gramps listens to while a pipe hangs from the tip of his lips. I stop at the concierge and drop off my luggage so that I can get a bite to eat.
The host welcomes me into a smoky room, a cigar lounge. I’d backpedal and flee home, but the first table to my right catches my eye. The couple shares a juicy filet mignon.
Suddenly, the host stops and slides out a chair at a table in the center of the room.
My skin flushes as I murmur, “Eh, I like to watch.”
His baby blues become a raging ocean of lust. Upon opening my mouth to reconfigure my statement, he winks. “Say no more.”
Following, I lift my head to the ceiling and silently condemn myself. God, my hermit lifestyle kind of sucks right now! At the furthest area of the dining room, cherrywood walls surround each white-linen table. The effect creates an aura of exclusivity.
