by Amarie Avant
“You’re short $300 on the rent.”
“You’re mistaken. I’ve had autopay set up with my bank for months now.”
“Well,” she smirks her fish-shaped fleshy lips, “I’ve said countless times my organic eggs, raw juices—”
“I don’t steal your food, Miranda.” I gasp. “Count your beans elsewhere.”
“Aria.” She flips her platinum hair. “My kitchen is not a . . . a . . . soup kitchen.”
“Haven’t had any of that either. Unless it was classic chicken noodle soup.” I wink. She complains about the sodium in canned goods. Honestly, I zap all my meals, unaware of my hunger until seismic activity occurs thanks to Dominic.
You’d think I’d lose a little around the thighs. Nope. That’s not in the Jones’ gene pool. It is eat a lot—gain weight. Starve—heave on the pounds. Fat loves me more than my momma ever did.
I rub my paint-coated fingers on my thighs then grab my cellphone out of my pocket. “Let’s go half on a camera for the kitchen. Then we can monitor—”
“Not even.” She stalks away. “No more eating my food!”
Screw her. I consult with Google.
The next morning, Amazon Prime has dropped off a nanny cam, disguised as a cookie jar.
I’m parallel parked across the street from Alvarez Immigration Firm. A leopard scarf covers my unrelaxed hair. A pair of aviators Roslyn left in my car mask my mammoth brows. Yup, I’m every sort of a mess.
It’s early morning in the middle of the week, and music is playing down the block, creating a clashing symphony. All I’ll hear over the ruckus is Dominic’s pretentious ride when he drives by.
My cell phone rings. Reclining the seat, I answer. “You’re up early, Ros. You climbing out of a window?”
“Not funny. How was I to know he was married—”
“The discoloration on his ring finger,” I mutter. My eyes are glued to the law firm.
“Oye, plenty of men have that little line.”
“Ros, if a man has a suntan line indicative of a wedding band, run, girl, run.”
Roslyn snorts. “Aria, I’m not calling you about a man! I need your help.”
You and nine other dead women. “Can we have this discussion another—”
“I need you on the list Friday night. I can’t keep inviting my primas to the nightclub. He wants to see new faces. Uncut breast and ass and hips and lips and―”
“I get it. Natural chicks. No.”
“Aria! How long have—”
“Eighth grade.” A vicious roar comes from Dominic’s Mercedes wagon seconds before it dashes into the parking lot. I duck down, zip back up, and duck down again.
Damn you, Aria! You know it’s him—no need to get a glance in.
Roslyn prattles in the receiver as I slide upward to see over the steering wheel. A soft rap comes at my window, and I jump. The phone falls between my shaking fingers.
A teenager, fourteen, maybe fifteen, holds out a Styrofoam cup and two brown paper bags. My stomach growls at the sight of one of the bags, in particular, seeped in oil. Yum, fried delights. He gestures for me to roll down the window.
I comply, hesitating. “Yes?”
“Dom said he wasn’t sure if you prefer sweet or savory. These are hot and fresh for you, mami.”
My eyes double in size.
“C’mon, take it. Best meal you ever had, that’s a Yasielito promise. But you can call me Yasiel, like the baseball player.”
A shocked, faint curdled sound exits my mouth as I take the kid’s peace offering. I got played by a pubescent high schooler. He did have finesse to his tone. What is he, an El Santo in training? Sociopaths are charming. Yasiel winks, holding up a late-model phone. He backs away, adding, “Got your license plate too, mami.”
“Crap,” I mumble, wishing I could blend into the fabric of my basic-model Leaf.
At each sound of commotion in the Miami Police Department, I’m pulled from my own, little world of contemplation. I shuffle forward a few paces in line, clutching my cross-strap satchel. I know the photos inside are evidence. Time and strategy will appeal to the detective assigned to El Santo. The great seal of the Miami PD is on the wood paneling of the high-countered clerk’s area.
As I step forward again, a kid with Hot Cheetoed red fingers yanks at the back of my hair. His mother mutters another apology. When my stomach gives a furious growl, at least the kid has the decency to hold out a mushy Cheeto. His mom pulls him to her other hip. A clerk behind the counter argues, “no food allowed,” while staring at me.
“We’ve been here for hours,” someone mumbles.
With a lifted eyebrow, I count my small blessings. I didn’t keel over and die after I’d drank the Cuban hot chocolate during the long drive over. Though I only meant to take a sip, the warm chocolate went down smoothly. I also had a few bites of some sort of pastry. Deep-fried anything is a worthy enough death.
At the front of the line, I stammer, “I-I’d like to speak with a detective.”
“Ma’am, may I have a name?” The frowning brunette gestures with her hands.
“Any of the detectives on the, ahem, El Santo case.”
“El Santo?” Her inquiry draws eyes from clear across the room. Typing stops behind her. Beat cops in uniform cease their side discussions.
“Dominic Ángel Alvarez,” I assert.
“What did you say?” A man in jeans and a v-neck walks past her from behind and leans against the counter.
The brunette seems more interested in customer service now, as in, shooing me away to shorten the line. Her voice is monotone. “Ma’am, please, which is it? El Santo or Domin—”
“I’ll handle this one,” the man says.
“Are you a detective?” I arch a brow, glancing between the two.
“Miss.” He cocks his head, a hard smile on his face.
I glance over my shoulder. The relentless line of neck breathing isn’t appealing. But what if he’s unhelpful? I’d hate to restart the process.
“Lemme get you a cup of coffee,” he adds. His skin is a richer, darker shade than mine. Though, he’s clearly of Spanish descent.
I wander toward the wood partition, which separates us common folk from the bad boys. The street-dressed detective slides past the pony door.
“Hey, where are we . . .” I pause as the man holds out his hand.
“Officer Antonio Mejia.”
“I asked for a detect—”
“I know all about you, cariño.”
“No, screw you, and your sickly-sweet nicknames. I’m not your sweetie.”
Officer Mejia grips my arm close to his athletic frame. Smiling profusely, he pulls us outside. “You prefer stalker?”
“Yes!” I gasp, relieved. Antonio gestures to a clump of flower bushes down the cement steps.
“Háblame, por favor,” Antonio says as we move to the side of foot traffic.
“Thank you.” I clutch a hand to my chest, prepared to tell him everything. “Dominic Alverez is El Santo!”
“You’re stalking him.” His teeth bare in a hard smile. “Sí, I read you well, cariño. Though breaking the most notorious case in Miami sounds like any cop’s dream, lemme tell you something, cariño. Don’t slander a good man’s name because he doesn’t want you.”
“He’s a manwhore and a murderer. I have proof.” I sputter on my words, opening my satchel. Apparently, my actions put him in defense-mode. His hand falls to his belt line. A few off-duty officers edge toward us while descending the front steps.
“I got this.” Antonio winks at them, and I cringe. Bastard.
Chapter Eight
Dominic
Aria Marie Jones. LeAnna Marie Lowe Jones. She had her name changed, and one surname dropped. Viewing the art room before me, I mutter, “La perra esta loca!”
Mitch, the private investigator at my firm, had an entire thesis on the lovely Aria. I took the first page. I only needed the contact information. Now, here I am. Tables turned. One look around,
and I know she’s watched me for ages. How the fuck did I allow this?
It’s taken a few days to establish her routine. The other one is out every night. Aria was in the shower when I let myself into her home. She’s like a shark, scenting blood, but mine only. I sense she will come to me. No cops.
This very room is the reason she will come alone. I half expected a thousand cats. I stomp my foot every once in a while. Waiting to draw her in, I find an old, stale hand-rolled cigarette in the leather jacket I haven’t worn in a while. I head over to a box of hotel matches near a cluster of candles by the sliding glass door. I light up my old vice.
“Shit, Dominic, you quit these things.” I inhale deeply. “But this is the sort of woman who can drive any man to smoke.”
Anger burns across my flesh. Aria was never a target of mine. Not my type. At least, her ducking and dodging wouldn’t enthrall me enough to pursue her. The lone mouse is playing a game. I smile at the sound of footsteps.
“How did you get in here?” Her lush voice has underscores of trembling. We will rectify it, intensify it.
“I said, how did you get in here?”
Still focused on the room, I nudge my chin toward the balcony. From my side peripheral, a chef knife is in her hand. She won’t use it. She’s too easily read. I pick up photos of myself, photos she’s taken without my consent, and whisk them in her general direction. With each one, I count how she’ll beg my forgiveness. I’m gonna fucking kill—
“They are mine!”
“Are they, LeAnna? Or shall I call you, Aria.” My gaze glides toward her, and I hitch a breath. Oh, mamacita.
The woman before me is a stark contrast from the cat lady I envisioned. Aria Jones isn’t some little thing I can toss around. She’s bottom-heavy, fat lips on her face and down between those curvy voluptuous thighs. I’ll bite the former and break the fuck out of the latter.
Break, mold, make mine.
After I ruin Aria, I’ll remember every detail of her body the next time I jack off in the shower. Maybe even when I’ve moved on to my next piece of pussy.
The sound of her voice, the curve of her hips, the warmth of her chocolate, innocent eyes—all of her enraptures me. She’s a beguiling challenge.
Strolling over to a painting, I drag from the cigarette. The thought of old habits sends another jolt of venom through my veins. I grab a canvas painting, though my hands itch to fist Aria’s thick strands of hair and yank her around. I shove my fist into the center of the framed canvas. “This your property, Aria, sí?”
“You need to leave—”
“Or what? You call the cops?” I cock a brow. Picking up another painting, I light the paper on fire, then crush it under my boot. The gleam in my gaze warns how she’s next. I taunt her with my phone. “Let’s do this, mami. You say I’m breaking and entering. This room depicts something else altogether.”
Now, I have her attention. Smoke billows across my face as I murmur, “Aria, you’re gorgeous, deranged. Not a compelling combination.”
“You’re a sick fuck, Dominic Ángel Alverez. You know my name. I know you!”
I sneer, “What were you saying? Repeat yourself!”
“Kill me,” she threatens.
Kill her? She wants to die by my hands? My knuckle roams across her soft cheek, the smooth curve of it will be enough to hide the thickness of my cock. Women have shaken, trembled, convulsed beneath my touch.
But not like this.
“Kill you?” I huff, muttering how crazy beautiful she is. My mouth twitches. The sexual pull is undeniable. She’s the type of trouble I could get lost in for a while. I sense her purity while caressing her tears. “You’re crying, Aria. Look at those big brown eyes. You weren’t aware? You weren’t aware that you are crying?”
My lips press against her cheek. Damn, I can almost taste it. How I’ll rip past her slick resistance. “You begging me to tear you apart, Aria?”
“No.”
Then what the fuck do you want? Sex? For me to kill your pussy? I stare at the frustrating woman, recalling why I’m here. She infiltrated my life. I snarl, “You’re crying. I have yet to rip you to shreds. Should I break you, chula? Should I show you what happens to bad girls, sí?”
“Try me!”
I clasp her breast, groaning in astonishment. They’re real. My hands devour her flesh, her hips, her ass.
All real.
My fucking unicorn in a sea of plastic.
Dominic, women have never been your weakness, idiota. They’re for screwing and throwing away. I press my mouth against hers, my tongue soaring straight between those pouted lips. I push her thighs around my waist, my cock ramming the soft, warmth of her. She isn’t my first stalker. Why did Aria wear these stupid cotton pants? I’ve screwed loca women before. They were prepared to fuck.
She’s fresh, new.
“Wh-what are you do . . .” Aria stutters.
“You want me to kill you.” I pepper her neck with kisses. You’re getting a good thrashing. Then I’m going to threaten you to leave me the fuck alone.
When she says the rape word, I stumble back a few paces. “What the fuck are you talking about, lady?”
“Your—El Santo!”
“Wait.” I gesture. “You stalk me. Take photos and paint all these pictures. Now, you’re calling me a saint. I’m no fucking saint, puta. Do you want to fuck or no? First, it would have been me threatening to ruin your life, Aria. You’re playing . . .”
My eyes stare through her. I read her wrong.
Not Saint. Not like my clients after I’ve saved a sweet, old abuelitas from having to return to their native countries.
She’d called me, El Santo.
I gasp. “You think I’m El Santo? Aye Dios, you’re certifiable!”
Chapter Nine
El Santo
How could LeAnna mistake me for the pendejo! Dominic Ángel Alvarez bribed the overnight doorman for entry, leaving a trail. Homicidio es necesario when traces are left behind. The media bequeathed me with such a noble name. I’m obligated to measure up to their hype. No murdering. Not anymore.
I’ve honed my craft, cleansing the women is what I do. I study them for months, sleep in their bed, learn the spectrum of their emotions. I glean their secrets, their disappointments. The worthy ones disappear without a trace, only to resurface purged. Not dead. Purged. Sacrificed—ángeles. No fault in their eyes—though their souls still shine in the depths of their lifeless gazes.
Sitting on the balcony’s cement floor, leading into the art room, I lean my head against the wall. Sí, if someone were to observe me, I’d have to indulge their perceived fears. Send them to the next world. But do not be confused. They may go up or down. My ángeles ascend—I make that happen.
I came here for her, the broken, black girl. I remove a cigarette from my pocket, press it beneath my nose, and breathe in.
“You’re certifiable! You think I’m El Santo?” comes Dominic’s faint, shocked voice from mere feet away.
“Sí, amigo,” I mutter under my breath. “We all make mistakes.”
Aria, the name doesn’t strike me as fitting of such a gorgeous vessel. I will only refer to her as LeAnna. A fond smile plays at my lips at how my new ángel grew a tad hesitant after daring Dominic to kill her.
“Keep being bold, mami. You will not die at his hands.”
I will not allow it. These fingers of mine, and no one else’s, will bless her spirit.
None of the women I touch die; they evolve. The media is a plethora of confusion. Every woman, whom the tips of my finger’s graze, is prepared for the hereafter. Cubana blondes, in particular, are in need of sanctification.
I sniff at my cigarette again. When Dominic lit his cigarette, the scent curled through the ajar glass door, settling me. Now, I’m inquieto. I need to feel something.
The last sweet, soft woman I remolded occurred a week ago. There’s no rest for my weary soul. I select another to bless before rededicating my current ángel. Except,
this is the first instance where I hadn’t predetermined who is the next legacy. Aria Jones stumbled into my life, lurking around Little Havana, watching him.
At the thought of them interacting inside, I place the unlit cigarette in my mouth and arise. Paciencia, El Santo.
Their conversation goes something like this. Him telling LeAnna her meddling needs to stop. He’s an attorney, and he will ruin her. He sounds sexually frustrated and confused.
“You will not, amigo.” I sigh. “I lift her soul from her body tonight. Not you.”
My preciosa LeAnna continues to warn how she’s “on to him.”
Hunger stirs in my bones. I’ll free Aria tonight, but she is different than the others.
She is not an ángel. Thus, the ritual I’ve abided by will be of no use. I weigh the options in my head. Save her and make her an ángel. Murder her, and that’s the end of the meddling chica.
“Dammit,” I tell myself. “At least remove the shell her soul resides in from this place. There’s an aura of incorruptibility around her.”
I scratch the bristles of my jaw in thought. Or . . . leave her recreated body, pinning Dominic as El Santo. She warned the cops. The officer who doubted her earlier will weigh heavily in guilt.
Too many options.
Only one is inevitable, despite my fondness of her quest.
LeAnna will die tonight.
Footsteps grow faint, and I pull the ski mask over my face. I enter the now empty art room. An elevator pings down the hall. LeAnna makes more faint threats. Oh, she’s confident now. A confident woman is beautiful.
I glare across the room. A flush of jealousy rides over me at the sight of paintings and photos.
Why him?
Dominic is the Cuban Lover of Little Havana. My fame obliterates his. My ángeles and I have dominated the news for the past few years. Talk of us has been on the tips of millions of lips. His notoriety is in Miami. My invincibility is mistakenly feared across the nation. The people misconstrue my intentions with mi ángeles.
I slip behind the open door as LeAnna starts back down the corridor.
