by Mara White
They walked on the beach barefoot in the wet sand at the edge of the water’s reach. The frigid water bit their toes and they rolled their jeans up their calves. The cold air made her skin prickle. She wanted to ask him if he’d ever been to the ocean before, but it seemed insensitive. She’d grown up diving under the waves, eating seafood with her parents, surfing with her uncle, fishing and crabbing with her dad. Salana treasured her days at the seashore but until now, hadn’t really thought about how lucky she was to have them.
“Since you’re an only child, you’ll inherit this place. I mean, eventually?”
They were sitting on the sofa in front of the blazing fire and sipping on white wine. Salana had her feet in his lap and was loosely covered in a white afghan. They’d eaten lobster and linguini. She was mesmerized by how well he adjusted to his surroundings. Tiago’s confidence carried him through situations Salana might have doubted he’d be able to handle if she hadn’t seen it firsthand, with her own eyes.
She nodded sleepily, crawled across the couch and curled into his lap.
“Thanks for bringing me here, Salt.” His mouth was on his fist, his expression pensive as he stared into the fire.
“You’ve always taken me in, Tiago. Every single time, no questions asked.”
He smiled at her then and remembered Salana on horseback at the ranch, teaching the city kids. Then later driving him back to the hood in a fancy car. She was tough, a spitfire. A woman he truly admired, whether taking a bullet while coming out of a break-up or keeping her cool under pressure in the crowded city ER on a Friday night, or marching up to his apartment to check in on his ma while he was at Rikers. She’d been there for him too. They both navigated the unknown to reach one another.
Chapter 17
Tiago
He was going to meet her parents, again, and it was possibly the most stressful thing that had ever happened to him. More stressful than getting stuck in an armed robbery, overdosing, or in the box on Rikers Island. It was worse than public school, or church, or real jobs that expected something from him. He remembered well that sickening feeling when his grandma slicked back his hair, made him put on a starchy shirt and tie, shoes that weren’t sneakers. Every once in a while growing up, she’d wanted to parade him around, show the other ladies from church how precious her grandson was. He never felt precious—in fact, growing up, he’d believed that his parent’s lack of participation in his life was because they weren’t interested in him. Once he started high school, he’d acquired enough tattoos that his grandmother gave up on the fancy grooming for special occasions.
“Pareces muy gangero, hijo.”
It was all she would say. She couldn’t undo them. It made his heart heavy to remember her disappointment. Salt bought him an outfit worthy of the Livingstons’ party attire. A button-up shirt, slacks and real shoes instead of sneakers. He felt nothing but self-loathing as he slipped into the disguise. Her parents wouldn’t be happy unless he was a rich white guy, and that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. So why’d they have to pretend? Go through some fake song and dance like they would learn to like him if they got to know him. Tiago lit up a joint he’d rolled up for the occasion. Salt didn’t like him smoking in her apartment—their apartment, as she called it and insisted he did too. He wasn’t going to some Livingston Christmas party sober, of that he was hella fucking sure.
Salana drove and he could tell that she was nervous too. She chewed on her lower lip and swore at the other drivers who pissed her off.
“They know I’m coming or are you planning on surprising them? Can’t get mad—it’s Christmas!”
“Yep.”
“They writing you out of the will tonight, girl,” he said, flicking his cigarette out the window and onto the crowded Cross Bronx. Salt rolled her eyes, but said nothing. It probably wasn’t that far from the truth.
“I wish we’d thought to bring your grandmother,” she said. She made quick eye contact while she changed lanes, maneuvering them toward the fast lane.
“I think it would have been too much on her,” Tiago said. But what he thought was that Salana was imagining the condemnation of her dating choices might not be so harsh if his cute little grandma was around to force everyone to be nice.
“He doesn’t bite,” she told the guy who opened her car door. What the fuck, was he a butler? Tiago felt underdressed already. He was happy to see that the valet parkers were Spanish dudes who looked like they came from the hood. He nodded to them and they stared shamelessly, impressed that Tiago was pulling it off. Probably wondering how the hell a guy like him scored a girl like Salt. They’d for sure assume it was for the money or the pussy and probably joke about it all night. But the shitty part for him was that he was in it because he’d fallen for Salana so hard he sometimes couldn’t see straight. That’s what made him feel so fucking vulnerable and made the contrast so painful. He’d do anything for this woman and wanted to be by her side forever. But he couldn’t erase who he was or where he came from, and she couldn’t either.
The mansion was dressed up like a Christmas museum on the outside. Fir-shaped trees fashioned out of poinsettias and cedar bows with red and gold velvet ribbons decorated the outdoor staircase. He was still a little lit from the joint he’d smoked before Salana got home from work.
“Girl, I’m gonna lose one of these shoes on the way out and then it’s all you’ll have because my ass is turning into a pumpkin—no better yet, back into a hoodrat, at midnight. Do-rag, grill, it’s all coming out at twelve.” He laughed at his joke and she hit him in the ribs with the back of her hand.
“You’re stoned,” she said. But she didn’t scold him. “Just don’t act like you are at the dinner table. Eat normal, please.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, there’s a dinner? How the hell did I miss that part?”
“There’s always a dinner! It’s Christmas.”
“Oh my God, Salt. I’d rather—I’d rather, I don’t fucking know, I can’t sit down with these people.” He was about to turn around and back off down the steps. He had his braids pulled back into a low ponytail, freshly shaven, long sleeve button-down white shirt which Salt had directed him into. Maybe he’d go park cars with those valet guys and pick her up when it was over. He didn’t want to eat with these motherfuckers. They were all gonna ask him what he did for a living or where he went to school, so he’d have to make some shit up before Salt would tell them the truth.
“Oh, there’s my dad!” Salana said and skipped up the stairs into her father’s open arms. A man who gave Santiago an icy death glare over his beautiful daughter’s shoulder. Maybe he’d do that to any guy? Not a chance. Tiago could already feel his neck and hand tats burning from being scalded by Mister Livingston’s eyes. He couldn’t hide those tats, his accent, or his skin color. It was gonna be a long and painful night.
If he could have a dollar for every asshole who stared him down unflinchingly during the whole party, he could quit the game and take Salt out to a fancy dinner at the Four Seasons. These people were shameless. Look at someone like that in his neighborhood and you’d get cold-cocked faster than you could refocus your eyes on something else. Salt seemed oblivious. She was happy and laughing, introducing him to people like he was her pride and joy, just like his grandma did.
“Santiago is from the Heights, the neighborhood I work in.” People nodded slack-jawed and could barely fake a smile, they were so shocked at who she brought home to dinner. Plus, he was the only person of color in attendance who wasn’t the help. Some of these gringos tried to talk to him in Spanish like he didn’t speak English. He had to work all his facial muscles just to not laugh at them. What a fucking charade. Oh, the way he and his friends could trash-talk, if only they were with him.
“We have a program that does sliding-scale fees to laser those off,” a doctor told him, eying his neck. “For people who have left gangs—the tattoo can be a real deficit, a constant reminder.”
Santiago reached up and felt them, r
an his fingers over his neck then tipped his head at the guy. “I ain’t in no fucking gang, dude. You got me all wrong.” Salana said basically the same thing he did at the exact same time, although more politely. It covered up his choice of words and defused the situation, but he could tell Salt was teetering on being cool with his behavior. The man smiled condescendingly and handed Tiago his card. Salt dragged him away to the next group before he could punch the guy. Lucky for him Tiago was drinking beer and staying away from the hard shit.
Despite the awkward and miserable contrast between their lives, Salana and Tiago still managed to have fun. They couldn’t keep their hands off of one another. She clung to his elbow and his bicep, rolled into his arms for a hug. He let his hands play at her waist and along her back. She liked holidays and it was cute. Christmas made her happy and Tiago realized he could dig it too, if only vicariously through her joy. He wanted to fill kids’ stockings with her someday. Their kids. He swiped his hand over his face to destroy his delusional fantasizing.
“I think my mom likes you,” Salt stood on her tippy toes and whispered in his ear.
“More or less than your father? ‘Cause I think he wants to take me out back and shoot me,” he responded. Maybe he should have given the guy a chance, but it was impossible. He glared, he was short with him. It wasn’t hard to read the guy’s mind or his not-so-coded signals. Mr. Livingston wanted something different for his daughter, someone rich and powerful, with the right pedigree. Light skin, eyes, and zero tattoos would probably be a plus too. Oh, and no rap sheet, no prior arrests, or time served for drugs.
The Champagne and beer made them giddy and they let down their guard. He nibbled on her neck, his tongue shooting out once to lick the lobe of her ear.
“Not here!” She swatted him. Her hand dipped into the waist of his pants and she tugged him down a hallway in the direction of where they’d left their coats. Salana pulled him into a room and shut the door behind them. She kissed him in the dark and his palms skimmed her silhouette. She was wrapped like a Christmas present in a lace dress with a silver bow. He kissed off her red lipstick, the shade that made her eyes so icy blue.
“Fuck, Salt, my dick’s hard. You gonna make me piss off your people.”
“They’re not my people, Tiago. You are.”
He kissed her harder, not caring if her lips would swell, if her chest would bloom that blotchy red that it did before and after sex. He fucking loved it, how her body sang under his touch. He pulled his fingers through her blonde hair and pushed his thigh between her legs.
“Are we actually going to sit down at a table and carve a roasted duck or some shit? Figgy pudding? How many people are here?”
“Like fifty. They bring in more tables. It’s a tradition.”
Physically she was all over him, rubbing him through his pants, touching his chest and neck. Her body was hot and her breath sweet with Champagne. He wanted to paint himself with her body, wear her all over his skin and stuff up the holes in his heart with her loyalty and innocence.
“You need me to get you off before dinner?” he whispered into the top of her head. “Are you rebelling, Salt? Does it get you off to piss off your daddy? You want me to fuck you right under his nose?” It was something that had occurred to him on more than one occasion, that he was a phase to her and she was testing her parents. It scared him, of course, but he was so far gone with Salana that he still would have gone along with it knowing that he was only a vehicle for revenge and not her true love. They were fucking Romeo and Juliet. Was it real or was it the forbidden that tempted them? He couldn’t tell. But damned be it all because Tiago had fallen in love with her and there was no turning back.
“Daddy doesn’t like a hood fucking his sweet daughter. She’s so fucking sweet, isn’t she? And she likes his big cock,” he whispered in her ear and made her gag for it. Salana always got hot whenever he said crazy shit, she was a freak for his dirty talk.
He lifted her skirt that seemed to have endless layers of fabric under it.
“Where does this shit end?” he said, laughing. He sank to his knees at her feet and slipped his thumbs under the cotton of her panties at each hip. He slid them down her legs and she hurriedly side-stepped out of them. They were drenched. Tiago heard laughter in the hallway and footsteps near the door, but it didn’t stop him. The room was black without so much as a hint of light from electronics; it had that muffled cocooned feel of heavy drapes and carpets.
Salana’s legs were muscular, her calves pronounced in her heels. He ran his thumbs up the inside of her thighs and parted the lips of her pussy. She whimpered and lifted up her skirt to accommodate him. Tiago spread her cleft with his tongue, one hand cradling her ass, and with the other he reached up and slid his pointer and middle fingers into her mouth. She sucked hard on his fingers as he slid his tongue in and out of her. Her pussy was wet enough to make him want to come in his pants. They were sloppy and desperate, bodies in overdrive with the sharp thrill of adrenaline. After he pulled his fingers from her hungry lips, he flicked her nipples through her dress on the way down. The pain and pleasure jolted her and she moaned. She let her weight go and was fully sitting on his face. Tiago tightened his grip on her ass to keep her from sliding to the floor. His lubricated fingers slid easily into her ass. Salana rocked her swollen lips into his mouth, so soft and slick in contrast to his rough jaw. But she wanted it so badly her whole body trembled. Tiago barely moved his mouth, just gently licked at her clit and slipped his thumb into her pussy. It was Salana who did the work, hands on his head, hips involuntarily rocking into his giving mouth with a rhythm of their own. He pumped his fingers in and out of her, sliding deeper into her ass.
“I want to fuck you in the ass, baby.”
“I’m coming,” she said to him. But it wasn’t an easy orgasm. The wave ripped her under and the rush came again and again and again. She was suspended in a physical high that turned her mind off entirely as her body abandoned itself to his fingers and his mouth. She couldn’t talk, but he savored the sound of her whimpering and panting. Salana came riding his face and the orgasm seemed so consuming he wasn’t sure if she was still breathing or whether or not her heart had stopped beating. A low moan rose from the depths of her as Tiago drank in her pleasure, his tongue bringing her down slowly like honey, and just as sweetly. Maybe her parents were right and that pussy was a national treasure. Salana was so fucking sexy. She slid off his face and collapsed onto the floor in a puddle.
SALANA
He looked so handsome all cleaned up and civil. She gushed with pride when she saw him, beer in hand, across the room chatting animatedly with her uncle. The fabric of his shirt stretched across his pecs and biceps, showing off his physique. He’d taken his jacket off and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Just his forearms were enough to get her going. Her boyfriend was the hottest man at the party, in Connecticut, maybe the world. He glanced over at her and winked and Salana smiled happily, slightly drunk, completely sated, and hungry for dinner and more of Santiago.
“He does clean up well for a party, minus the tattoos. What do his parents do again?” Salana’s well-meaning aunt questioned about her mysterious boyfriend.
“His parents are both dead,” Salana said, not taking her eyes off of Tiago.
“Heavens, Salana, there’s got to be a better way to break that news to people. You don’t just dump it in their laps,” her mother scolded.
“It was dumped in his lap. Look, Uncle Thomas likes him.” All three women turned to take in the two men laughing. Salana practically wanted to jump up and down and clap because they seemed to be genuinely enjoying one another’s company. Tiago would probably never get there with her father, but with one member of her family she could cope—they would manage.
“Your uncle will lend an ear to anyone who will listen to him complain about your father,” her mother said.
“He does have a certain appeal,” her aunt proclaimed. “I can see why you like him.”
In the dini
ng room, Salana switched the place cards so that Tiago could sit next to her and not across the table. He’d be clueless on etiquette and probably even on how to eat some of the food. He could manage by himself, but Salana wanted to be right next to him in case he struggled. She certainly wasn’t going to abandon him or leave him to the wolves.
“Salana, don’t mess with the seating arrangement. Your aunt and I did that by hand,” her mother scolded her. She ignored her mother and grabbed a flute of Champagne off of the long table under the mirror.
“There’s my rebellious daughter, who’s throwing away everything we worked so hard to give her,” her father said, entering the dining area.
“Define hard,” Salana said. She rolled her eyes at her father and walked across the room to kiss his cheek. Her father was acting more civil about her choice to bring Tiago than she’d expected from him. But she was sure it was due in part to the belief her father held that she was going through a phase. Rebelling later in life because she’d missed out on those interactions, meaning parental feuds, while she was away at boarding school. She straightened his red tie and tucked it into his cardigan.
“Aha! There’s the man of the hour!” her father exclaimed. Salana went red and then paled as she watched Eric waltz into the room and envelop her mother in a friendly hug.
“Mrs. Livingston, you look stunning. Always a pleasure! Happy holidays,” he said as he passed her a Christmas gift.
Salana bit the inside of her cheek and clenched her fist. “How could you be such an asshole?” She spat the words quietly at her father. She’d never spoken to him with such disrespect, but neither had she ever been so furious at him. When she turned to face the man she’d walked out on, she flushed at the thought of the giant diamond that she practically trashed for less than a quarter of its value just to get back at him.
“Mr. Livingston, a pleasure! The grounds look stunning tonight, as does your daughter,” Eric said, shaking hands enthusiastically with her dad. Salana wanted to shove her finger down her throat and show him exactly what she thought of his games. Instead she gave him an exaggeratedly false smile and shook her head at his audacity. She was tipsy and feeling punchy. Salana rolled her eyes like a teenager as Eric gushed over her father and tried to impress him with all of his news about awards and honors. Salana had seen the emails and the hospital faculty newsletters, but she didn’t care what he did anymore. He could win the Nobel Prize, cure cancer, and Salana was pretty sure she’d still be happier with Santiago. She put a hand on her hip and wondered how the hell she could warn and prepare Tiago. Then her Uncle Thomas and Santiago along with a few other guests walked into the dining room.
