by L. A. Witt
“We’re—” I sucked in a sharp hiss as Diego’s fingertips traced my straining fly. “But we’re missing the game.” As protests went, it didn’t sound convincing at all.
“Don’t think we’re missing anything.”
“But we’re . . .” I closed my eyes as he squeezed my dick through my jeans. “Fuck . . .”
A hot breath of laughter warmed the side of my neck. “Hmm?”
“Damn it, just because your team is losing doesn’t mean—”
He bit that spot where my neck met my shoulder, and my resistance crumbled.
“You are such a bastard,” I moaned.
He laughed again, then flicked his tongue across the place he’d bitten. As he lifted his head, he grinned. “I’ll stop if you really want—”
I shut him up with a kiss. I didn’t care that I was letting him win and distract me from the game. We’d both learned real fast that it didn’t take much for Diego to make me want him. We were like teenagers together—ready for sex at a moment’s notice. The Cardinals would be fine without me.
Diego straddled me, and I curved my hands over his ass to pull him against me. He claimed my mouth, and we made out as he rubbed our cocks together and created the most dizzying friction.
Something happened on the screen. The commentators were talking fast and loud like they always did when things were getting exciting, and the spectators roared in the background, but I couldn’t even spare a look at the TV.
“Turn it off,” Diego growled. I bit back a grin and a comment about him not being able to focus while his Eagles got their asses kicked in the background. Instead, I fumbled for the remote and found the power button. One click, and the spectators and commentators were silenced. Now there was nothing to muffle the sounds of our slick jerseys brushing against each other or the wet, needy kisses in between low moans. The game was a distant memory, but my pulse raced even faster than it had during that fraught first half.
He adjusted his position a little, and I realized he was shifting his weight off his bad knee.
“This okay?” I asked between kisses. “For your leg?”
“Uh-huh. Long as I don’t . . . as I don’t . . .” He shivered, cursing softly. “I’m good. Trust me.”
“Just say so if you want to move.”
“’Kay.” He kissed me again, deeper this time, and if he was even a little bit uncomfortable, he didn’t show it.
What had started as a playful diversion from the game quickly turned into the main attraction. I didn’t protest. We kissed and groped and fumbled with belts and zippers. By the time we had each other’s cocks in hand, I was pinned to the couch, and Diego was rocking his hips, and his hand moved in perfect time with them, and it was almost like he was riding my dick instead of pumping it. I kept a hand on his thigh to steady myself and stroked him too. He always seemed to like it when I used his foreskin to stroke him rather than creating friction with my hand, so I did it that way, and he groaned.
“That good?” I asked, seriously out of breath.
“So good.” He wasn’t just rocking now—he was thrusting, forcing his cock through my fist with every motion. “Ungh . . .” He shuddered, letting his head fall back. “I’m gonna . . . God, Mark . . .” Whatever he said after that was either in Spanish or too mumbled for me to understand, but the breathless, desperate tone said it all. So did the way his body was steadily getting more and more tense with every thrust, until the cords were standing out on his neck and his muscles quivered under the hand I was using to grip his thigh.
I slung an arm around him and held him to me as we kissed and stroked each other. The position was frustrating the hell out of me because my body desperately wanted to move, to force myself through his tight fist, but it was also hot and perfect because Diego’s hand was pumping me within an inch of my life and his body was hot and solid against mine and his kiss was . . . his mouth was . . . oh God . . .
I stroked him faster, letting his foreskin slide up and down his shaft, and he groaned as he pushed himself into my hand. I loved how he rocked his hips while I was jerking him off. I loved anything he did, especially when he was kissing me at the same time and breathing hard and trembling, and fuck—I couldn’t hold back anymore and shot my load on both of us.
Then he shuddered, and cum streaked across my stomach and chest. In that instant, I regretted not taking off my jersey when I’d had the chance. Not because I wanted to keep it clean, but because I loved the way it felt when he came on my skin. Who was I kidding? I loved the way it felt when he came. Full stop.
Panting and unsteady, we separated, Diego flopping onto the cushion beside me, and we sprawled for a moment while we caught our breath. Then I took some napkins from beside the pizza box, and we cleaned off our hands and shirts.
“Wonder what the final score was,” he slurred.
“Hmm.” I picked up the remote and clicked the TV back on. The game wasn’t quite over yet. The timer showed two and a half minutes remaining in the fourth, and—
I sat up, jaw falling open. “What the fuck?”
Diego howled with laughter. “Oh! Oh, look at that!” He pointed at the screen. “Who’s got their shit together now?”
I blinked in disbelief. Sometime between Diego groping me into distraction and now, the Eagles had pulled it together enough for a four-point lead. They also had the ball and were well within range for a touchdown.
“What . . . the . . .” I gaped at the screen. “You can’t be serious.”
Diego had tears streaming down his face and could barely speak. “Oh my God. That’s . . . fucking epic.”
I tossed a pillow at him, which only made him laugh harder.
“Look on the bright side.” His expression was earnest, but I could practically feel the smirk trying to come through. “Instead of witnessing your team falling apart, you were getting off.”
I glared at him.
His earnestness crumbled, and he started giggling again.
I couldn’t help it, and I laughed as I gathered him into my arms. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?” I asked against his lips.
“Not what you were saying ten minutes ago.”
I kissed him again to shut him up. He grinned into it at first, but then his lips softened, and before long . . .
Football game? What football game?
Dating Mark was amazing. The sex was great, and so was just hanging out with him.
In the back of my mind, though, I’d known there was a storm coming. Not between us, but in me. I’d been pretty steady for the last few months, aside from the odd random nightmare, but as always, it was only a matter of time.
And finally, midafternoon on a Tuesday a week after Thanksgiving, the thunder came in the form of a text message from my boss.
Don’t come in until I tell you.
My blood turned cold. Fuck. That was a message I’d gotten before, and I knew exactly what it meant—someone was sniffing around the bar. Maybe a health department inspector. Maybe a cop following up on a call. Someone official, though, which meant someone Hank didn’t want noticing me or my accent. Neither of us needed them getting curious and asking about my mythical green card.
Cool panic skittered through me. What if they found something this time? Saw my name somewhere and asked questions? Heard someone mention me?
Shit. Oh shit. Even though I hadn’t seen it firsthand, I’d heard ICE was getting more aggressive in some states. It was only a matter of time before they started cracking down here. One anonymous tip, and I was fucked.
Closing my eyes, I took slow, deep breaths. There was no point in freaking out until I knew that was what was happening. For all I knew, it was the guy from the water district coming to read the meter, and he was Mexican too, so it wasn’t like he’d report my ass.
Still.
Until I knew for sure otherwise, it was possible. It was way, way too possible that my stability—if I could call it that—would get yanked out from under me. I tried everything I
could think of to talk myself down and keep the panic attack from closing in. A friend had given me her leftover valium a few years ago, but that was long gone, and it would’ve been expired anyway.
I wasn’t even sure it would have helped.
As I paced my tiny apartment, every imaginable worst-case scenario crowded into my head. I tried to remind myself that as long as I didn’t show my face, no inspector or auditor would have any reason to think I worked there. There was no paper trail to let officials know I worked there. I only worked for tips. Everything I did was under the table. My name wasn’t on the schedule or any other place in the building. I was a ghost.
Whenever some official showed up, though, or when someone breathed a word about illegals, I was sure Hank would finally decide I was too much trouble. He’d only brought me on board because he felt sorry for me, and because he didn’t think it was right that a veteran was out on his ass like that, but he had a business to run. Sooner or later, he might realize he couldn’t risk his livelihood for mine.
And there went the panicky downward spiral. Chest tightening, air refusing to move fast enough or deep enough into my lungs, I tried to will myself not to freak out, not to let it take over, not to drop to my knees and heave into the toilet until every muscle in my torso ached from the force.
This happened every fucking time, but it still caught me off guard, and it still scared the hell out of me. As soon as there was so much as a threat to my employment, I jumped like a deer who’d heard a twig snap. Except there was nowhere for me to run. I needed that job. I needed it so I could pay my rent and help my family and maybe eat once in a while. And I needed the free meals my boss gave all his employees—even me—during our shifts. If whoever was at the bar right now found something, and Hank fired me, I’d lose my income, a meal or two a day I couldn’t afford even with my income, my place to live, my phone, my truck . . .
Fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck, get it together, Diego.
Except . . . why? Why shouldn’t I panic? I was replaceable—disposable—and I knew it. Hank only kept me out of pity, and probably because I was saving him a shitload of money since I didn’t get an actual paycheck. Which meant, yeah, I was taking a job that could’ve been filled legally by a local, but it wasn’t like I could live without a job, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to find legal employment. But I couldn’t get a job without a green card and I couldn’t get a green card without a job, so what the fuck was I supposed to do?
Not that any of that stopped the occasional drunk asshole—or perfectly sober asshole—from lecturing me about what “my kind” was doing to fuck up this country.
I came here legally, I wanted to snarl at customers sometimes, and I fucking fought for your right to call me a job-stealing wetback, you ignorant ass.
I bristled and tried to shrug away the anger that was building alongside the panic. Whatever happened, happened. I needed to get my head together before a flashback took over. That or a panic attack. Sometimes both. Whenever my stability started wobbling, my brain turned to dominoes. I might lose my job . . . and my place . . . and my truck . . . I could starve . . . I could be deported . . . and all because of the military and all these injuries from the war that had killed my friends and screwed up my body and left me with a head full of things nobody should ever have to see and—
I grabbed the kitchen counter a split second before my knees would have given out. The tunnel vision was so strong, my peripheral vision had gone almost completely black. I took a couple of stumbling steps and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. I hung my head between my knees and tried to stay conscious. Tried not to puke. Tried not to let the panic attack take over.
I didn’t know how long I sat there. Time compressed and bloated, making me feel like it could’ve been hours or just a couple of minutes. My shirt was damp with cold sweat. So was my hair. I’d need a shower before I headed to work. If I headed to work. If I still had a job. If I—
My phone rang, startling me so hard I almost toppled my chair. I fumbled with the phone, and when I recognized my boss’s ringtone, I almost collapsed into a panic again. I took a couple of deep breaths so I wouldn’t be hyperventilating when I answered.
I put the phone to my ear. “Yeah, boss?”
“It was just the health inspector following up on some bullshit.” He sounded relaxed and dismissive. That was a good sign. “It’s all clear for you to come on down.”
I released a relieved sigh. “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” After I calm the fuck down, take a shower, and calm the fuck down some more.
“Whenever you can. It’s pretty quiet right now anyway.”
Yeah, but I need the hours on the clock so I can get food from the kitchen.
I didn’t mention that part, though.
“I’ll be there ASAP.”
As I settled in for my shift, the panic refused to go away. I could function enough to work, which was good. I just couldn’t relax.
This was going to be a rough night, and not just while I was at the club. I had to sleep sometime, and that terrified me. At least when I was awake, I could steer my thoughts around the shit that tried to come up. Once I was asleep, not so much.
Come on, brain. It’s all good. Don’t lose it. You want to get fired for freaking out?
I took some deep breaths whenever no one was looking. I still had my job. I hadn’t been deported. As far as Hank or I knew, the health department inspector didn’t have any reason to believe the High-&-Tight was employing an undocumented immigrant.
But the panic held on.
If anyone ever decided they cared enough to make the call to ICE, my whole world could be thrown on its ass in a heartbeat. Just having someone or something trip this fear was enough to make me physically sick. Even though there hadn’t been any actual immediate danger, and it was over now anyway, I could still feel the flashbacks and nightmares that I knew were coming.
I threw myself into my job as much as I could. Focused. Focused hard. It was the only way I knew to keep from losing it, and even that wasn’t foolproof.
I tried not to notice how much my hands were shaking while I mixed drinks and made change. I tried not to think about the churning in the pit of my stomach. I tried not to imagine how much worse the night would get after my shift was over.
But I failed.
Miserably.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This always happened when I felt Uncle Sam breathing down my neck. Always. It was like a cascade of stress that landed me right smack in my hellish, bloody past. It started with the hint that the jig was up and I might lose my job or get deported. Then it was like my brain went into rewind, screaming through everything that had cost me my green card and my health and my stability and my fucking sanity.
I was sweating and shaking and trying to claw the pieces of myself back together so I could work without feeling like I was fighting off a heart attack. Because that was exactly what it felt like when the panic took over—like I was having a heart attack. Or I was about to. Or bullets really were flying and my friends really were bleeding out and—
Breathe, Diego. Breathe.
Like that was going to help. Except it would keep me from passing out. Passing out at work meant an ambulance, which meant paperwork. Not to mention insurance I didn’t have. Plus, I’d learned the hard way that passing out still meant nightmares, and the only thing that terrified my coworkers more than me collapsing was me waking up screaming. Probably part of why I’d been the first to go when layoffs had happened at my last legitimate job.
I just tried to keep my shit together. The day was hell, but tonight would be even worse. I’d spend the entire night alternating between nightmares and flashbacks—the only real difference was if I was awake or asleep—and I decided I didn’t want Mark to see it.
I need to bail tonight, I typed out with shaky fingers. Knee is acting up.
The lie made me wince, but it was better than the truth. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide this from him forever. Event
ually, he was going to find out, and he was going to see what happened when my demons caught up with me like they always did.
Just . . . not tonight.
Eventually, but not tonight.
“Hang on, Samson. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Mom?”
“It’s Ramírez. Stay with me. Look at me. Look at me, man. Hang on.”
“Mom . . .”
“Come on, just hang in there, Samson. Samson?”
My eyes flew open. The cool, still silence of my dark apartment was jarring, and my ears still rang with gunfire and my own shouts. Had I actually yelled? My throat was raw, so maybe. Or that was from the hyperventilating that had left me dizzy. My landlady wasn’t banging on my door or calling me, so maybe I hadn’t screamed this time.
I sat up slowly. Something crawled down the side of my face, and I batted it away, but it was just a drop of sweat. One of many drops. As I settled into reality, I realized I was drenched in sweat.
I swore under my breath. Just what I needed. There was no point in going back to sleep for a while, especially not like this, so I peeled back the sheets and got up to grab a shower.
My legs were shaking as I stepped into the bathtub. Every scar—especially the big ones on my shoulder and my leg—itched. I didn’t even know if they really itched or if I’d just convinced myself they did, but I had to fight to keep from scratching them to ribbons.
All because a fucking text from my boss had scared me. I closed my eyes as the water ran over my face. Not that I was surprised. Those texts came once in a while, and they always sent me into a tailspin. Sometimes the tailspin didn’t even need a trigger. It just . . . happened. And it didn’t even matter why once it started. Now the only thing that counted was how to make it stop. Which I hadn’t figured out how to do. I had to just ride it out and hold myself together as much as I could until my brain unstuck itself from the past.
But this hadn’t happened in a while. I’d been doing so well.
