by Amarie Avant
I settle onto the plush seat—leather molds to my ass and hips. From my position, standing vases obstruct much of the view of the main dining area. What lovers would call anniversary dinner goals, I’ve dubbed solace.
I smile up at the host. I give him my order: “House red. Rare filet mignon. When I say rare, I mean, complement the wine. Any fixings will do—unless they’re extra. Please don’t charge me for eighteen-dollar mashed potatoes.”
“Oh, I’m not the . . .” The host taps a menu, awkwardly holding onto it instead of placing it before me. “You are a woman after my own heart. I’ll ensure your order is to your liking. Mashed potatoes aren’t quite that much, but since you mentioned them, you must taste them. On the house.”
“That’s quite alright, thank you.” I turn away from his second attempt at a wink. Hell, I’m not exchanging creamy potatoes for my cellphone number.
He’s still standing there as his gaze floats to where mine lands.
Dominic Ángel Alvarez.
There’s nothing angelic about him until I remind myself about the One who fell from grace. Due to each booth’s exclusive nature, half my ass cheek spills over the edge of the seat while I rubberneck. Damn, should’ve taken the second glance earlier. Then Dominic and the blonde turn around. They’re being led right to us!
“Um, yes, mashed potatoes.” I strangle out as the host taps the menu on his hand.
At the table behind me, I hear, “My apologies, Mr. Alvarez, your usual booth was given away after a few hours.”
For the third time, my host winks at me, and then he’s gone. I lean back against my seat, imagining the blonde’s ass. The curve of her figure tells me she’s either Latina or a fan of plastic surgery. Had he arrived earlier for a rendezvous like Roslyn predicted? His companion’s neat hair and fuck-me dress have yet to be ruined.
I bet he wrinkles a dress very, very well.
“No worries,” Dominic replies as champagne pops open. “We’d like to be alone, okay, mami?”
Their hostess struts away. I plaster my entire body to the leather in an attempt to hear more. As they kiss, I moan, eyes snapping shut. What the—? No, conversation. No terms of endearment . . . all carnal heat. It’s far more raw and real than the sex scenes I fast forward through in movies.
Fire swells across my skin. Clasping the linen napkin, I fan myself.
“You are ridiculous, Aria,” I mumble. But moaning prevails. Each sound stokes a new wave of pleasure. Painfully aware of my dilemma, I stuff the napkin into my mouth and stifle the hunger brewing deep down in my core. This chick is faking—her moaning—oh damn. I chew harder. Oh, it’s real, all real.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I block out everything in the world that isn’t them. That isn’t Dominic Alverez.
Electricity bursts across my flesh as he speaks. “You are so juicy, mami, ride my fucking fingers . . . Sí, like that . . . Put your fingers in your pussy, mami, right there, right with mine. You like that.”
I snatch the linen napkin from my mouth and bunch the dress around my hips. Imagining his body against mine, I let my trembling fingers flee toward my sex. No thought, no hesitation. My panties slide over and . . .
Aria, what the- are you doing? I reprimand myself.
“Aye Dios, aye Dios,” the Latina stutters. His mouth must be engulfing hers. The upsurge in her panting instantly dies. It kills me too.
Skin buzzing at the thought of being the focal point of Dominic’s affections, I plunge a finger into my pussy. Our fingers are traveling deep, each thrust an onslaught to my G-spot. His savage growls launch my hips up off the seat, and I fuck myself harder.
Relentlessly hard. Where is that blasted napkin!
“Mami, fuck yourself. Get those tiny little fingers all wet,” he says. My entire body freezes in an attempt to hear his faint, deep voice. “Lick the sugar off your fingertips for me. Massage your pussy . . . now, stroke my cock.”
Body shaking in envy, I pout, speeding up. I’m amazed at the sounds emitting from his thick body.
She slurps.
The beast groans.
My thumb attacks my clitoris, and my fingers fuck viciously.
I succumb to the pleasure building around them, around me. My clit and throbbing labia shatter in an orgasm. Frank Sinatra’s “I’m In Heaven” plays low in the background. In a daze, I vibe to it in a low hum, high off the thought of having Dominic all to myself.
Sometime later, a plate glides to a stop in front of me. Inhaling the flavorful aroma, I lurch into an appropriate position. My hands cling to my thighs beneath the table. The new server offers a knowing grin while apologizing that my wine hadn’t been delivered earlier.
Damn, I came in for a juicy steak, which, now, won’t satiate me. I wipe my hands onto the linen napkin and down the wine. Aftershocks of Dominic’s effect sends a tiny thrill up my spine.
“Alright, Aria. You lived,” I tell myself. The regret of ReAnna not having the same opportunities flits through my mind. I place enough cash on the table to pay for the uneaten food when my ears perk again.
The heat washing over my skin isn’t titillatingly welcome, not like before. Goosebumps of uncertainty and fear devour my flesh as Dominic growls to the woman. “I want to fucking tear you apart.”
Chapter Five
Aria
Midnight merges into daybreak. Dozens of snapshots, from afar, are on the bed before me. I knead the nape of my neck, disappointed that my cell phone camera was my only option after stowing my equipment.
“You can do this, Aria,” I say, sifting through the fuzzy photos. I’d followed El Santo, er, Dominic, and his date to the elevator. Then I slid inside while the doors were closing.
I’d mashed any number, listening to the sounds of them. My rage for El Santo overshadowed the fleeting passion of losing myself to a stranger. When the elevator doors opened, and they, still joined as one, exited, I stared in horror.
Just like you failed ReAnna, you failed her, my conscious whispers. Or what? Tell the blonde the man whose tongue had lodged down her throat was a serial killer with a particular skill set.
I heard El Santo carved designs into their abdomens. Delicate, sacred, saintly designs. At least, an associate of Roslyn’s had thought so. Through the he said, she said, I learned the gossiper was a crime scene cleaner.
I click through the channels, all major outlets, and wait. Wait for . . . the heaping guilt at the sight of the second female I could have saved but didn’t. I’ll never forget the face of Dominic’s date. El Santo had a type—blonde, curvy Cubanas.
“Car chase. Ponzi scheme. Secret Santa in the Summertime.” I mutter the current headlines off the different stations.
With my brain wired for catastrophe, I grab my phone. I overlook the calls and messages from Roslyn to search online. When in doubt, Google.
“Nothing,” I huff.
My cellphone lights up.
My older cousin, and boss, Siobhan, is on the other line, with a London caller id.
“Hey?” I begin. “I thought you were taking summer off.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She issues a breath. “Roslyn called me, complaining about how many attempts to ca—”
“What’s wrong?”
“You, Aria. Grandpa is up in age—”
“What did I do?” My voice grows tiny; guilt is my oldest friend.
“Nothing, I did not mean to infer.”
That I was a burden on our grandparents because my parents gave up on me. “I’m chill; it’s alright.” I wince at how forced nonchalant I sound.
“What I meant is, Roslyn called me instead of Gramps. You know he’s getting up in age this past year.”
“So, why would Ros call you about Gramps?” I mumble, scolding myself for using a photo printer for my cell phone instead of the darkroom. The development of each image is awful.
“No. Ros called about you, not Gramps. Roslyn said she didn’t want to bug Gramps unless . . . You weren’t answering her calls, Aria. Don’t
worry about it.” Her tone softens. “So, you took someone home after the wedding?”
I smile. “Nope.”
“Sheesh, as long as it’s not the one they’re calling El Santo, take a Honda for a spin. Hell, take a Pinto for one measly ride, cousin.”
“Heh. Gram came home with a bright red pinto one year. Gramps said the car wasn’t worth the scraps.”
She laughs a little, and I sense she has more to say. “How about I have Lincoln introduce you to his British friends?”
“Soft no, Siobhan.” Her husband scares me. He doesn’t have the Tom Hardy in literally any movie ever voice. He has the Christian Bale in The Dark Knight voice. No matter how swiftly it’s becoming an epic classic, it’s plain scary.
I muse, “Now that I have you on the phone, I’ve updated a few of the marketing—”
“Oh, hell no. Hard no, Aria! This was a social call, and I hear wonders about you from Jack. That’s all I need. Unless you—”
“Anything.” I gulp. Siobhan has enabled me to be a homebody.
“Want to start visiting the office more? Engage with Jack and the team. I’ll make you VP of—”
“I’m content with my earnings,” I reply, fiddling with the fuzzy photo of Dominic Alvarez.
Siobhan snorts.
Even as a caramel-coated blur, he’s handsome. I flick the photo across my bed into a pile of more of them. Stop fixating on El Santo, I warn myself. Clearing my throat, I reply, “Albeit, I’m not saying I’m paid too much or anything.”
“Girl, I would complain, but when you’re on, you are on. You’re the most reliable person. You have an eye for the product most are incapable of perceiving. Would be nice to hear you’ve motivated others to your level of work. But I’ll let you go, for now, Aria.”
“Love you, cousin.”
“Love you more. Listen, is there something you should tell me? Because you answer on the second ring, Aria, prompt as ever. Are you having an off day?”
“No.” I sigh, staring at the television. Now the channel is displaying the car chase, which was the highlight on the other news station. Had El Santo struck last night, the Lamborghini gleaming in the afternoon sun wouldn’t have the headline.
“Um,” Siobhan’s voice strangles. “You remember Reggie?”
“Sure, your best friend, Regina.” I heave a sigh. Regina and her husband were murdered a few years ago by a stalker who set his sights on Siobhan.
Not delving any further, my cousin wraps up the call. “Stay safe. I’d fight for you, Aria.”
We hang up. Though it’s a breath of fresh air to hear someone would fight for me when my parents refused to, I never fought for ReAnna. Never fought to kill the anxious nerves riding in my stomach as I watched her fade from sight. It’s time to fight for me, for them.
Chapter Six
Dominic
Four months later
Someone’s watching me. The little kitten has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. Standing at the entrance of my home, I read over a threatening letter. The writing is feminine with a faint scent of sweet perfume.
I crush the paper in the palm of my hand. Next, I’ll crush her. Break her down to a pulp and have her for dinner. I slam the front door, stalking across the clay tile, cursing beneath my breath.
At the top of the double staircase, my latest piece of ass starts toward the opposite side of the house—the side nobody ventures into. She backpedals before I can pounce.
“Oh, I thought . . .” The pretty blonde Cubana glances down at me. A faux hip leans against the hand-carved railing. “I thought I heard something, papi.”
“Don’t you worry about all of that.”
“You coming back to . . . You look tense. Come here,” she coaxes.
“Get dressed, mami,” I reply.
“But it’s Saturday morn—”
“Let me cook you breakfast before you go.”
The smile on her face was fading fast until this precise second. “Oh, you’re so sweet, Dominic. Breakfast?”
Of course, she appreciates the offer. She’s also thinking that during our shared meal, she’ll tempt me into letting her stay longer.
Not possible.
I cock my head toward the east side of the house. She watches me intently for a moment before the globe of her ass sashays back to where she came from, my room.
I take a seat on the stiff, designer couch in the lavish living room. The house is vast, and I can’t have her getting confused after dressing on her way down. I’m not worried about her stealing. The piece of tail can by no means hide anything under her skimpy ensemble. But the west side of the second floor is off-limits.
While I wait, I slide my cell phone out of my pants and make a call.
“Antonio, it’s Dominic.” My voice lowers. I can’t see last night’s piece of ass from my position, but under no circumstances will I let her overhear my call.
“What’s up, Dom?”
“I need a favor,” I tell the cop. Usually, the private investigator on the payroll at the firm is the first call when I need a background search. But Antonio’s parents were on asylum from Honduras. I just did my job and hadn’t asked for any favors. When an offer like that is on the table, though, I can’t refuse.
I share how a young lady has followed me jogging, to and from work, and now she knows my address.
“You know her name?”
“No.”
“Damn, did you bone her? Leave her heartbroken?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Got a description? Distinguishing marks?”
“She sits in her car with these huge glasses. She ducks behind bushes, buildings, anything.” I shove a hand through my hair. The stranger’s antics were cute like a toy chihuahua. But even they disappear after barking too much.
“Anything?”
“I think she’s black—no connection to my business. No mutual friends I know of. Nothing to tie her to me . . . besides a threatening letter.”
“What sort of threatening letter?”
I pull out the paper, reading it over. I chuckle. “ ‘I know who you are.’ ”
“I take it, you touched the paper? Anything else?”
“Sí, and nothing else. It’s bullshit. Lots of people are aware of who I am.”
“How can I help you?”
I pause. My intention already played out, and the cop is unaware. Though my mouth curves into a smile, I pretend to be baffled. “I haven’t the slightest idea.” I’ll handle her myself, and if shit goes south, I’ve dropped seeds first.
“Sounds like I still owe you favors. Let’s get together, grab a few beers. Talk about how we can handle this stalker. Unless you want to come into the station to make a formal report.”
“Eh, I have a busy case I need to handle first. You know how these things go, Antonio. She seems to be a young lady, a little confused, a pest more than anything.” Mamacita is escalating, but I’ll handle it my way. “I’ll reach out later.”
“Alright, word to the wise, Dom. Leave the perras locas alone.”
“But the crazy bitches fuck the best.”
He laughs before we hang up.
I called his work cell, which records conversations. This is my concrete proof that, whoever my stalker is, she’s the one in the wrong, for now.
I look up as last night’s flavor descends the steps. I’ll have her for breakfast. By dinnertime, I’ll have gleaned all I must know about my secret admirer and act accordingly.
Chapter Seven
Aria
Unlike nunaya, words such as obsession, fixation, and addiction have intense definitions in a dictionary. For the past few months, ReAnna no longer has a hold on me. Dominic Alvarez has stolen my every waking moment.
Although the woman from four months ago is alive and well, he fucked her for sport. Instincts warned as much. Netflix documentaries on Bundy, Dahmer, and Gacy have become my food. El Santo is brilliant and has cooling-off periods. Now, he’s almost in my grasp. Another w
oman died a few days ago. I’d been out pretty much every night of the week, following El Santo.
That damn Dominic had taken a woman to the nightclub. The very one Roslyn is paid a commission to liven up with pretty girls. He had two on his arms, more striking than the chicks Roslyn wrangled together.
The dead woman fits the description of one of the ladies he set his sights on. Before she died, she’d polished off his cock. I’d tried to follow him as he took her home that night. My Nissan was no match to his Mercedes G-Wagon when he’d opened the engine up on the interstate at two o’clock in the morning.
I have images of her, his seed slamming down her throat, masking her face, crowning her hair. The media has yet to release the victim’s identity. The second they do, got em.
My fixation on catching El Santo crashes as rose-gold liquid spills onto my pants. Even the sky reveres Dominic. The setting sun had created a magnificent shade of pink the other evening when I took a photo of him jogging.
“Crap.” The picture I’m painting from slips to the ground. The canvas topples off the easel. A flurry of golds, mochas, and brown hues seeps into my thighs. I rub at the mess, letting the colorful liquid slosh down and onto the old linen beneath my feet.
“You better not be—” Miranda stops a few feet from marching into the room. She notices the precautions I’ve taken. “My limestone floors are—”
“Very precious, I know.” I kneel to pick up the canvas.
“This room becomes creepier by the second.” Her accusations slide through one ear and out the other.
I’m lost in his darkly green eyes for a second before contemplating the entire piece. Growling, I swipe a paintbrush of the darkest shade of brown across the illustration. This isn’t art! It’s crap.
“Ahem.” Miranda clears her throat.
“Yeah.” I shrug, forced out of my musings again.
