Maybe it was the product of the shadows across his face, but he looked older, the lines around his flared nostrils seeming deeper. His expression gave her pause: it was distant, troubled. Haunted.
Without comment, he bent and picked up the used smokes, put the cold butts in his pocket and headed down the walk toward his Firebird.
“What’s wrong?” Alma asked as she followed him, but he just shook his head.
**
Driving back to Alma and Sam’s place – or, just Alma’s now – had become second nature. When he thought about going home, he pictured wherever she was, and so he was on autopilot as he steered them through the ever-shrinking houses of the less expensive Marietta neighborhood where she lived. Which was a good thing, because his head was too full of worry and what-if scenarios.
Alma was a smart cookie, so she didn’t press him for an explanation to his blatant rudeness all the trip home. Not until they were in the house, doors locked, and he was headed toward the bathroom did she break her silence.
“Carlos.”
He knew he owed her something, even if it was a lame excuse. But so far, he hadn’t even been able to come up with one of those. I’ve gotten myself in the middle of a drug war, baby, and there are folks who wanna use you to get their way. He heaved a sigh and turned toward her. She had shed her coat and was in the lean sweater she’d worn to dinner, her hands on her hips. She didn’t look pissed, more confused and hurt.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked.
It seemed like such a little-girl thing to ask, but the seriousness of her expression and the tenor of her voice told him this was a lot more important than some little-girl worries. “No,” he said, and it was the truth.
It was her turn to sigh then, and she folded her arms, glanced over at the wall and, no doubt, the framed photo of her with Sam. It always went back to Sam: to the ways he’d let her heart down over and over, and how she expected no better from him. “Then what’s going on?” she asked, eyes coming back to his. She looked tired now. “You’ve been weird for weeks and tonight is the worst yet. Is this too much for you? Do you…” she wet her lips, shook her head, “are you rethinking this whole you-and-me thing?”
“No,” he said so fast it sounded like he was yelling.
Alma’s eyes widened.
“I mean no. No, baby, of course not.”
She nodded. Smiled humorlessly, slapped at her thighs. “Then what’s wrong, Carlos? If this is a relationship, if we’re together and not just friends with benefits, then I can’t be the only one participating.”
“I told you I love you.”
“Then why are you acting like you can’t stand to be around me?”
He wanted to tell her the truth, and because he couldn’t, his anger with the situation was getting directed her way. But he didn’t know how to make this right. He shrugged, knew his expression was less than friendly. “I’ve just got some shit on my mind. It’s not about you.” Even though it was. The tightness in his chest had everything to do with her, and her little Sam, and the danger he’d put them in. She was having a boy, and she’d been positively radiant when she’d told him on the way to her parents’ house, and the news had only worsened his stress. His sense of duty. And of guilt.
He let her stand there and mull it over, slipping into the bathroom and pushing the door to. He cut on the shower as he started taking off clothes and thought, with sick certainty, that he’d never showered so much in his life. He’d felt irrevocably dirty since Sam had died at his feet. Soiled. Stained.
When the water was hot, the glass door fogging up with steam, he stepped over the rim of the tub and sealed himself in. The temperature was nearly scalding, but it felt good pounding against his skin. His predicament would be no less bleak once he shut the tap off, but for the moment, it was nice to feel clean.
Over the sound of the rushing water, he didn’t hear Alma come in. The door slid open and he was startled when her dark head poked through. Her beautiful brown hair was already curling from the steam in the bathroom, and it framed her face, the withdrawn, worried set to her features.
Carlos went still as she stared at him, and then stepped, naked, into the tub with him and closed the glass slider afterward. It was a small tub, really not big enough for two people to stand up comfortably without bumping into one another, but he guessed that was the point. Water rushed over the top of his head, landing against her chest, cascading over her full breasts, her peaked nipples. Beaded over her belly. He let her come to him, and she did, stepping up to him and ghosting her hands up his stomach, over his chest, and back down again, fingertips brushing along his hipbones. Water turned her hair to rippling jet waves over her shoulders, clung to her lips and lashes as she brought her face to just within inches of his.
“Are we together?” she asked. Even with the noise, he could hear the fear, the doubt to her voice. “Are you my…?”
Boyfriend sounded too stupid, so he settled his hands on her waist, pulled her in until their stomachs kissed. “Yes,” he said before he could stop himself. It would have been so much smarter to break her heart here in this shower, to tell her no and walk away. If she was nothing to him, then she couldn’t be used to manipulate him. She would be safe, could move back in with her folks and raise her child without any negative influences. She’d be sad, she might cry, but it wouldn’t be like losing Sam. She’d get over him.
But the thought made him queasy. Hurt worse than all his worry.
He leaned down and put their lips together, Alma’s mouth opening at the slightest pressure from his tongue. Her skin was slick under his palms as he moved his hands up and down her back, keeping her tight against him.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “Yes,” he repeated. “Whatever you wanna call us, we’re together.” A hot stroke of possessiveness surged through him, tightened his hands against her hips. Her eyes were the color of expensive coffee right up close to his like this. “I have absolutely no intentions of sharing you with anybody.”
She grinned. “Promise?”
“Swear.”
**
Later – a while later – Carlos seemed much more relaxed as he flopped down onto the bed beside her. They’d stayed in the shower until the water had grown cold. And then the real fun had started: him putting her up on the counter, her shoulders and head back against the mirror. Now she felt warm and liquid all over. Worn out and satisfied. She settled onto the mattress beside him and slipped beneath the covers, watched him stretch his arms up over his head, the muscles in his torso pulling in an admirable way. He had a half-smile plastered across his face, eyes closed.
“So,” she maneuvered down in the bed so she was propped up on one elbow. “My mom got out all my own baby furniture.”
One of his eyes opened. “Yeah?”
“She wants to help me set up the nursery.”
He snorted. “She’ll love that shit.”
“Mmhm.”
His other eye opened and the happy post-coital smile slipped a little. “What?”
Alma took a deep breath, not sure why she was nervous all of a sudden. “I’ve been thinking…and I wonder if maybe we shouldn’t…”
His brows twitched.
“…move in together.”
That strange expression that she kept noticing flickered across his face and was gone again. She chalked it up to a sense of guilt thinking about moving into his beloved cousin’s house with her. He swallowed and she saw his adam’s apple jackknife in his throat. “As in here?”
“Yeah.”
A second passed. A minute. Then he twitched a smile she was well familiar with: his worry-free, goofy one. She released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Okay.”
“Okay?” she asked.
“We already are anyway, might as well make it official, right?”
In answer, she grinned and leaned forward for a kiss. Maybe she was just holding him tight because the tragedy of Sam had left h
er needy. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like she was falling in love.
19
The nursery became the project to beat all projects. Once Diane had been let back into the sanctity of the Morales home, it starting feeling a whole lot more like the Harris home. Nothing about the room was to her liking. Carlos had expected that a few coats of blue paint would need to go up, but apparently, he’d been wrong.
The walls were to be ivory, a nice, neutral color, and the bedding and room accents would serve as pops of masculine color.
Pops of color. He actually knew what that shit was now. And felt like less of a man because of it. Diane kept bringing in shopping bags full of blue and green and yellow pillows, quilts, and little knickknacks. In a matter of days, she’d gone from being the boogeyman fifteen miles down the street, to a constant presence in the house. He no longer waited around for breakfast – snagged a Pop Tart and headed off for work. Alma was happy, though, so he guessed that was what mattered.
He, however, was left to his own devices more and more, no longer the sole center of Alma’s attention. And without her as a distraction, he dwelled on his predicament: on Diego and what Sean had told him, the idea of Alma being in danger.
He was struggling to unwrap a Power Bar with his teeth when his phone went off in his cup holder. His breakfast – it wasn’t cooperative anyway – was chucked to the passenger seat and he answered with a quick, “‘Lo?”
“Where are you?” Sean didn’t waste any time on pleasantries.
“About a half mile from work.”
“Call in sick. I need you to meet me.”
Cursing under his breath the whole time, Carlos turned around in a driveway and gunned back down the road the way he’d come. His foreman didn’t put up a fuss about his claim to be sick – said the stomach flu was going around and to get to feeling better soon. He hated himself for being so malleable. How in the hell did he suppose he was breaking loose of Sean’s grip every time he went running toward him? Just a little longer, he kept telling himself. Until we get some justice for Sam. But he knew those were lies that became more rotten by the minute.
**
“When’s he going to move his things in?”
“Not sure, Mom,” Alma said as she topped off Diane’s mug and set the coffee pot back on her tray, poised to head off to the next table. Her mother had been coming into the Silver Plate regularly, while she was on the clock, slipping in questions and bits of advice as she maneuvered between the tables.
She snagged Alma’s sleeve as she stepped aside. “You need to find out,” she said, serious. “He doesn’t need to be half-in, half-out. You’re having a baby and it’s not fair to you, or to the child, for him to come and go when he pleases. If he said he’s going to move in, he needs to move in.”
“I hear you,” Alma conceded, shaking loose and walking toward her next waiting customer. And she did. She’d been waiting for Carlos to make some sort of move toward their discussed living arrangements. He’d seemed distracted, moody, needing a smile or a touch to shake him out of wherever he’d gone inside his own head. She had wondered if he was having second thoughts about cohabitation, but he always assured he was just busy with work. Tired. Thought he was catching a cold. So with all that considered, it was no wonder he hadn’t starting trundling his things over from the apartment.
“Hey, Sal,” she greeted as she drew up next to his table. He was in for what had become his routine latte and bagel, as snazzily dressed as ever in a charcoal turtleneck and pressed grey pants. “Getcha anything else?”
He glanced up from his paper and across the café to where Diane was poring over baby goods catalogues. “Is that your mother?” he asked with a knowing smile of commiseration.
“Yeah,” she huffed a little sigh. “She’s decided she’s no longer mad at me about being pregnant and wants to be Super Grandma.”
He chuckled. “My mother…my brother and I are all grown up, but she doesn’t know it yet.”
She shook her head. “Not sure which is worse: when they’re pissed off, or up your ass.”
Sal laughed and downed the rest of his coffee. “I’ll take the check if you have it. Got an appointment downtown I need to get to.”
She fished out her pad and tore off his order stub. He handed her his credit card without even asking to check the amount. He was a trusting customer. And the entire transaction took less than two minutes, for which Alma was grateful. Sal never wasted her time. She waved him out of the café and circulated through her other tables again. Had to get a fresh blueberry muffin for the kid who’d tossed his to the floor in a fit of temper. She silently hoped her own child wouldn’t act that way.
By the time she made it back to her mother’s table, she’d decided Diane might have a point about Carlos. As her mom gathered breath with which to deliver, undoubtedly, yet another pearl of wisdom, she beat her to the punch. “You’re right.”
Diane’s teeth clacked together as her mouth closed and her eyes bulged in shock.
“If Carlos and I are gonna live together, then he needs to move in already.”
Diane blinked a moment, still stunned, then seemed to give herself a shake. She nodded. “Absolutely, he does.” She raised an emphatic finger. “And don’t wait for him – you can’t wait on men to make first moves. If he’s ‘busy’, go get a bag of his stuff and bring it to the house. If he’s gonna be there, he needs to be there.”
**
“Carlos,” Carlos felt Sean’s hand thump against the back of his shoulder as he gestured with the other toward the slimy, overly-put-together asshole who’d been at the café with Alma. Bastard. “This is our new associate - ”
“Manager, really,” the shithead said with a smug little smile.
Sean sighed. “Whatever he is.”
Carlos snorted. “And I’m guessing your name’s not Diego.”
“Nope.” He extended a hand Carlos had no intention of shaking. “You can call me Sal.”
Sean’s elbow bit into his ribs and he reluctantly clapped palms with “Sal.”
“Carlos handles all my north metro Atlanta sales right now,” Sean said with what almost sounded like pride.
“Lotta work for one guy. Shame about your cousin.”
Kiss my ASS! But Carlos nodded tightly, lips pressed together into a non-expression. They were at a rundown sandwich counter that didn’t appear to have enough customers to stay open. While it was preferable to some of the bridges and underpasses where this type of meeting usually took place, Carlos was uneasy about more than Sal’s pretend pleasantness. They were all being careful to use ambiguous terms, referring to everything as “business” and “sales,” but a rookie patrol cop could have seen right through the charade. And Carlos had long ago learned that if someone was too nice – too polished and professional – it was a sure sign there was something rotten underneath. Guys in stocking caps on corners with baggies in their pockets were all about the dough, honest in their thievery. You knew to be wary of switchblades and semi-autos. But this? This suit and tie bullshit? He had no idea how many sharks were circling beneath them under the smooth, shiny surface of the water.
Sal adjusted the front of his grey turtleneck that looked like it might have come from the women’s department of whichever pricey store he frequented. “I’m really glad the two of you could make it on such short notice,” he said. “I have a list of potential clients to share with you.”
It brought Carlos a small measure of comfort to watch Sean frown in displeasure; it was nice to know he wasn’t the only one getting yanked around. “I thought the whole reason for this arrangement was to gain my clients, my book of business.”
“It was,” Sal assured. “But no sense in not expanding, right? Which brings me to my next point – we want to increase your stock and volume of sales as well.”
Carlos could feel the blood draining out of his face. This was Sean’s idea of getting revenge and turning him loose? Expanding his involvement to all new, death-de
fying heights?
“W-what?” Sean actually stuttered. “Do you mean to tell me - ”
“I’ll be outside when you need me,” Carlos muttered and pushed up from the table. He could hear the low, heated voices of the other two men as he made his way along the counter and up to the door. Outside in the weak December sunshine, the breeze slapping across his face, he took a deep breath that did nothing to relieve the knot of tension rooted between his lungs. He dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and shook one out, lit it with hands that quaked just a little bit. His life, he knew with a sinking sensation that threatened to pull him into full depression, was not his own anymore.
**
Alma’s shift ended at three, and she drove straight to Carlos’s apartment – she had a key now – taking a change of clothes and a large duffel bag with her up to his unit. The place still smelled of the meatloaf she’d made them for dinner the last night they’d stayed here; that and the pumpkin spice plug-in air freshener. Everything still seemed to be in order, but the air felt cold, and not just because the thermostat was turned down low. It was strange to think that this place where Carlos had lived for the past four years was no longer his home. Even stranger, in a way, to think that his new home was hers as well. She stood in the living room a moment, breathing in the scents of pumpkin and meatloaf, and let the weight settle over her. In two months, she’d gone from happily married, to pregnant, widowed, and sleeping with Carlos. It was a heavy, staggering overload of thoughts and emotions, and it took a great mental effort to move her feet and head toward the bedroom.
The bed was made and she left the duffel on it, dug around in her little knapsack for the leggings and tunic sweater she’d brought. Another wave of emotion washed over her as she pulled her black work shirt over her head and caught her reflection in the hanging wall mirror. She was obviously pregnant now, though her baby bump was still very small. Seeing herself like this always made her feel very young, and very unprepared for the very adult turn her life was taking. It reminded her of Sam, and left her wondering how Carlos could see her expanding with child and call her beautiful. How could a man want a woman who carried a baby that wasn’t his?
Shelter Page 18
