DIABLO INSIDE

by Amarie Avant

  “Sí, loca, out of your mind.” His fingers tangle around mine as if he’s not letting me go anytime soon.

  I let him have this small bit of control. “Yes, muy loca. Go back to your life.” I think the rest, saving people and screwing women for sport. “Ahem, I’ll go back to mine.”

  I untangle myself again. This time, Dominic’s magic hands don’t stop me from using a learned defense mechanism. Ever since I failed ReAnna, all I do is run away from living.

  Chapter Fifteen

  El Santo

  The other night, I’d waited for Aria to exit the shower. Half of me was torn by the thought of murder. The beautiful creature had no light behind her eyes. Though, darkness didn’t reside there either. She’d sat in the shower crying. Curious, I respected her by not completing the unthinkable while she was in a heap on the floor.

  I’m not that fucking cabrón from the movie who went knife-loco on a woman in the shower.

  While restlessly waiting to delight in her blood, I’d found the photograph of the mariposa. The transparent-winged insects were the singular reason I spared Ms. Jones’ life. I considered keeping it as a small token at the time. But the picture bound us forever. Still enthralled by the photo, a vivid image of it passes before my eyes as I settle onto one of the sofas at the foot of her bed.

  I silently place my boots onto the coffee table. Darkness surrounds us as I drop my head and glance over at her sleeping frame. The image is embedded in my memory—as is her body.

  Streams of water clung to her pretty brown skin the night she cried.

  For me.

  Not Dominic.

  LeAnna made the mistake of placing him parallel to me. I’ve pardoned her and decided no more ángeles until this all-consuming craving for LeAnna passes. Our lives are tethered, emotions parallel. She’d descended to the floor of the shower to cry.

  “If you only knew,” I mumble. Through the thick of night, my eyes adjust to the soft rise and fall of her breast. A thin cotton shirt lays smooth against her. My leather-clad hands curl into fists at the thought of touching her, telling her how she found me. How her connection to butterflies is mine too.

  Standing up, I reach behind me, fist my knife. Sí, it’s a paranoia of mine as if the blade will miraculously get up and walk away one day. My boots move soundlessly over the limestone floor. I round the bed, perk my ears.

  “Tell me your secrets, LeAnna.” I frame her face with my hand, my palms a second away from touching her. Between us, the warmth is new.

  With my ángeles, heat is always fleeting. They grow cold too soon. Once saved, it’s impossible to heat them back up.

  I continue to frame her face. I want to taste her, hold her in my arms, while she says my name.

  Not El Santo—

  Because with LeAnna, I will bring her back to life, anchor her here, and never let her go. She has to know me for me.

  “I need you to stop searching for the man they call a killer. I’m not him. Not with regard to you, LeAnna.” I pause. The hunger to stare at her for hours almost seizes me.

  If I let the craving rule, I will have to take her from here. I sigh. We’re not quite yet at the point where removing LeAnna from her surroundings is plausible. Seeking patience, I listen to the faint sound of her breathing.

  I smile down at her, whispering, “For you, I’m capable of so much more than El Santo. Por favor, my LeAnna, do not continue to seek out the killer they have made me out to be. Find me—for me. Not El Santo. Because if you do, I will snatch your pretty little heart out.”

  My mouth hovers over her forehead. I can’t kiss her yet. My impatience would be her downfall were I to claim her now. So, I’ll be patient. Soon, my gutsy LeAnna Jones will resist Dominic and know me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dominic

  “Aria’s controlling my every waking moment—that’s her name.” I heave a sigh, running a hand over the back of my neck. “Can you believe that I mentioned Mami to her? It was nothing profound. Just how Mami always reprimanded us when saying goodbye.”

  I pause, offering Dario a chance to slide into the conversation. His olive-green eyes hardly blink.

  Since being in a wheelchair, days will pass without Dario uttering a single word. His legs lay awkwardly in the leather chair. We’re in the barber’s room of my home. He’s in the same damn windbreaker he wore yesterday.

  With a stainless-steel bowl in my hands, I mop shaving cream on his face. I start to unzip his windbreaker, and he swats a hand at me.

  “Dario,” I grit. “The only words you said to me today were to ask for a shave. Take off the jacket. It’s a muy caliente October, hermano. This is ridiculous.”

  When he doesn’t reply, I mutter in Spanish. In some areas of life, my twin consents to being enabled. In others, the idiota is ornery.

  “Aye, I’m considering reaching out to Carlotta for you. How would you like having her work for you again?”

  Dario shoots me a quick glare, and I slap the frothy lather across his chin.

  “Carlotta is muy bella y sofisticad.” I try to remind him how the live-in nurse brought the passion back to his eyes.

  He says nothing as I grip the straight razor.

  I add, “Remember when Carlotta was around, you had some slight feeling in your left leg?”

  He blinks.

  I smile to stop the tension in my jaw. Where is the passion behind your eyes, hermano? “You haven’t seen Carlotta in, what? Three years? I’ll give her a call, sí?”

  Silence is my answer.

  My hands weave into my brother’s hair. I clasp the back of his neck. “Talk to me, por favor!”

  Again, another blink. It’s enough to make a man go mad. We had always been a close family, even with our parents forced to return to Cuba.

  Then one day, Dario and I stopped finishing each other’s sentences. He left the soccer team in high school for a computer science club.

  I could play soccer all weekend and meet a new girl every night, then skim a textbook to pass a class. Dario had to study. He had to bust his ass, but it paid off, way off. He was brilliant. Now, he’s a ghost of his former self.

  I hold the razor blade up, and he slaps my hand down.

  “What the fuck, Dario?”

  He growls, “Go, Dominic.”

  “I work all day into the night. If not reviewing documents, I’m out with one woman or another. This is one day in two weeks. You wanna shave your face?” I rub a hand over my growing whiskers. “You’re the clean-shaven one, Dario. What do you want to do? Looks like you’re losing weight again. I’m not fucking having it. So, I’ll call Carlotta, okay?”

  He snatches the hand towel off the armrest and rubs the cream from his face.

  I fold the straight razor, tossing it into the bucket. “Okay, let it grow a little. But if you think I’m going to allow you to have a bum beard and lose all that weight again, you’re mistaken.”

  He starts to lift onto his forearms, but the distance from the barber seat to his wheelchair is too far. I start toward him, and his fist flies.

  I catch the punch in my hand, squeezing it. “Mami’s looking down at us. She hates what she sees, hermano!”

  The debriefing in my lap slides down onto the silk bedspread. I run my hands across my face. Stacks of paperwork are what I’ve taken to bed on this Friday night. Work instead of sex is new to me. Don’t get me wrong, I fuck at night, then escort the lovely woman out the door on the same night. Occasionally, day breaks first. But I’m up early the next day, work out, work always.

  Not tonight.

  I’ve found accommodations for the Colombiana while I wait for the DA to remove his head from his ass. My client may not be legal, but asylum from her country isn’t all she’s worth. With the Colombian cartel’s antics reported to the police, the DA needs to get moving.

  I’ve reviewed new cases and documents in an attempt to keep my mind rolling, not in contemplation of Aria.

  A few hours later, I’ve tucked away
every assignment, and I’m wide awake. On the terrace, I glance across the pitch-black ocean. It’s late, but not too late for my pastime. I flip through my cellphone of numbers. Women’s names flash by. Sighing, I glance north. A few miles up the coast, Aria has the same view.

  Is she asleep? Focusing on a new medium? The talented beauty has captivated my mind for the last couple of days, and I told the firm’s PI, Mitch, to keep an eye on her. The only person she’s to stalk is me.

  “You have her number,” I tell myself, though Mitch is also the reason for this.

  Leaning my forearms against the railing, I dial her up, prepared for a busy signal or voicemail. Two rings later, and I’m standing to my full height as she says hello.

  “Aria, Dom here.”

  “I never gave you my number, Mr. Alverez.”

  I smile, appreciating the version of her on the phone. All the confidence I crave to teach her while tangled in the sheets seems to infuse in her spirit. Chuckling softly, I reply, “True. But I’ve got a tip for you. I’m on the balcony of my bedroom. You took photos of me leaving my home, so I take it you still know your way over.”

  “Why would I,” she pauses to clear her throat, “come over?”

  “Photos, of course. Of me on the balcony. I can undress too.”

  “I’ve seen you undressed, Mr. Alverez.”

  “Then call me Dom or Dominic. Unless you didn’t like what you saw.”

  Silence passes.

  “Yello.” My accent thickens.

  I celebrate Aria’s soft laughter with a cocky grin. She quips, “I’m not stroking your ego, Dominic.”

  You’ll be stroking my dick soon. I’m going to cum so hard once I snare you. I toss her banter back. “You just did—your voice calling my name, damn. Say my name again. That’s an order, Aria.”

  “G-good,” she stutters. Entering my bedroom, I take pleasure in how I’ll be the reason for her confidence glow. “Goodb—goodnight, Mr. Alverez.”

  As suspected, the call disconnects. But Aria became everything I ever desired in the few seconds it took me to get under her skin. She’s thinking about me, and as promised the second I laid eyes on her, I will choke the fuck out of my cock. I slide open the top drawer of my nightstand and settle onto the edge of the bed. I predict Aria’s luscious lips are tensed now. Her big browns are shaded in thought of how she stumbled over her words. With a lengthy stroke of my manhood, I envisage me ordering her to slide her legs wide. She’s tighter than I’ve ever had, but I’ll drink the nectar in her core, get her wetter than she ever thought fathomable.

  I groan. My strokes increase in pace, my fist firm, tightening again. The depth of her is enough to strangle me, and I beckon her breast to my face—tongue flicking out to tease the chocolate peaks. I lie back, my hips lifting, thrusting harder. I’m gripping her hips, breasts bouncing, ass spilling all over.

  Fuck. I tense. Aria’s begging me to stop battering her wet walls so harshly. But I can’t stop. I ejaculate hard. Her cries echo in my ears, breasts panting beneath me. I growl, and the strokes pick up. Instead of spilling all over my fists and fingers, my seed dives deep into her shuttering pussy.

  I whisper, “I’m not touching another fucking woman. Not until I satiate this craving.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aria

  A few days had passed before Dominic called me out of the blue. Now, another week has gone by. Even with Miranda arguing over another flower delivery, goosebumps flutter across my flesh at the thought of him.

  For seven whole days, a dozen flawless red stem roses have arrived. My eyes roll away from my roommate’s snooty text message about today’s arrival. I glance into the lens of my camera to take a shot of fruit for an organic smoothie campaign. The On Demand client has a chain of healthy smoothie bars up and down the Florida coast. Once upon a time, still-life was my everything. There’s something to be said about taking a photo of an inanimate object.

  No condemning eyes to continually remind of guilt.

  No sneered attitudes from roommates who clash.

  And sexy banter? Hell no.

  But I haven’t had a still focal point, not since visiting the mariposa sanctuary for another assignment a few months back. On Demand had created commercials for the company while I illustrated the sanctuary’s brochure.

  I took a million photos of butterflies.

  Feeling a set of eyes on me, I look up. Outside of the picturesque window is a bicycle lane. Joggers, runners, and cyclists continue along. Bouncing tits and muscles abound at a volleyball game a little farther down.

  “How’s it going?”

  My shoulders jump.

  “I’m so sorry,” says the owner, whose strawberry blonde hair matches her bubbly demeanor.

  “No worries. Just thinking too hard.” I offer a soft smile.

  “Good. I have something for that.” She holds up a cup of peach-colored slush.

  “Thanks. I seriously need to add my Yelp review.” I take the cup. “Last time, I was calm as a cucumber after the other drink. Can I say that? Is that too cliché?”

  She chuckles. “I was calm, too, after you helped me wheedle down a thousand potential models for my brand. The photo of the couple with the freckles, priceless.”

  The redhead is prepared to continue chattering when my cellphone rings. “I’ll let you get to that.”

  I smile as she walks away, answering Roslyn on the last ring.

  “Ari’, you’re coming out with me tonight. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  Snorting, I reply, “You answer a question for me, then I say yes, deal?”

  “Sí . . . er, no. What’s the question first? How many tries do I get?”

  “One.” I chortle.

  “I’m your bestie. I’m familia. Let’s call it ten chances.”

  “Girl, whatever. Since you’ve dated so many . . .” Men in general. “Cubans. What’s the significance of butterflies to the culture?”

  “Do I get a lifeline or something?”

  “Take all the lifelines you need. Get me an answer.” Again, I feel like I’m being watched. I glance across the trendy dining area of the bar. It’s all wood beams, and coal and gray finishes. Humongous floor-to-ceiling windows offer anyone outside all-access.

  Roslyn seems to be fiddling with her phone while placing me on speaker. Upbeat music plays in the background. She has to be at the nightclub discussing the numbers for tonight. Then she mutters, “Sleepy Orange, White-Angled Sulphur, Cuban Kite . . .”

  “Swallowtail,” I mutter with her. “Damn, Ros. You’re no help.”

  “Okay, you’re reciting with me. What did you need me for?”

  I slink into the empty booth. “I didn’t want you to google Cuban butterflies.”

  “Shit, I was on a roll.”

  Well, I doubt those butterflies have a connection to El Santo. “Has to be a symbol,” I mumble to myself.

  Dominic Alverez is out. All the way out. But I don’t have the nerve to pursue El Santo tonight.

  “First rule, I’m wearing pants to the club. Not some ass-crack-on-display skirt. Second, my attire is coming out of your closet. Third, when I’m ready to leave Triple Seven,” I mention the name of the club, “I’m walking out. You got that?”

  Roslyn squeals into the phone.

  I settle for skin-tight magenta pants and a napkin of a top. The sides of my breasts are out for all to see. Gramps would pop me with his old pipe at the sight of me, but Gram made him stop years ago.

  Caterpillars, also known as fake eyelashes, lay on top of my own. Lowering my gaze to my cellphone, I notice the lashes block some of my vision. I search ‘butterfly’ plus ‘nightclub’ in Miami and in Cuba as a last-ditch effort to find a link to the serial killer. I climb out of the passenger seat of Roslyn’s car. Valet takes her keys.

  A line wraps around the perimeter of the nightclub, rounding the corner. I groan at the sight of so many living, breathing humans. Inside of the buildings, sweaty bodies flush agains
t each other. Arms raise; asses sway. On the main level, a dance floor is in the center. The place ascends three stories up. A tower-like projector of the dance floor covers the farthest wall.

  On the top floor, Roslyn has a table to one side of the building. The entire section is shaped like a U. The sides parallel are for VIP lounges. The rear boasts another dance stage. Across from that is a flickering screen that spans stories high.

  With the flute flush against my lips, I pause before taking a sip. Light flashes and twirls, blinding me, then dances around a male figure in the opposite VIP area. His shoulders span wide. The cut of his leather jacket hits all the right spots on his biceps. Flashing light draws around him, tantalizing every part of him aside from his face. He’s smoking. An amber light smolders then dims with each puff. When he pulls at the cigarette, warm brown skin is highlighted for a mere moment. Chiseled jaw, good lips. But I can’t quite tell if he’s staring at me.

  Downing the drink, I climb back into Roslyn’s conversation. Every few minutes, my gaze magnetizes to the opposite side of the landing.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Roslyn pops up. “Aria, you aren’t lecturing me later for making you go to the ladies’ room alone.”

  “I’m getting us drinks.” I lie.

  “Why? I’ll get them free . . . Oh, okay. You have your eyes on someone.” She whispers the next part. “Text me after you get down there. If you need a save, another—”

  “Text? Got it.” My head bobs slowly. A tipsy feeling runs flush across my skin.

  “If you decide to take him home, text me his license, and—”

  “Noooo.” I shake my head. Again, all my movements are in slow motion. Feeling a pull to the opposite side of the room, I glance over. The cinder of the cigarette lights up. My heart clutches in my throat in anticipation of viewing his entire face. Another puff of smoke thwarts my view. I make my way around the curve, being sandwiched, swayed against, groped, as I go. By the time I reach the table, the only evidence that I’m not out of my mind is the butt of a hand-rolled cigarette. Smoke ascends from the ashtray. It’s similar to the stick Dominic smoked the night he crashed into my life.