by Dee Garcia
Papi: My dick is hard af listening to you right now…
Eyes rolling playfully, the very corners of my lips quiver. “Two minutes!” I yell to Enrique, pulling Ángel’s message down for a quick reply.
Me: I’ll take care of it once I’m done here.
‘Cause I will. I’ll slobber all over that shit while he drives me to my car. His tints are dark enough. My thighs clench just thinking about it.
Papi: That right there is exactly why I want you, mami. No hay nadie como tu.
There’s no one like you.
My heart threatens to explode as I read and reread the last part of that message, barely holding back another infatuated smile. I don’t reply this time, though, swiping the message prompt away as I turn to the hallway. He’s breaking my focus. “Closing in on one minute, Martinez!”
“Fuck!” he growls, the loudest, heaviest bang meeting my ears.
Considering what I know, I assume it’s a safe. Probably where roommate dude kept his money. Still, I reach forward and grab my handgun, flipping off the safety. You can’t ever be too cautious. Martinez may seem harmless, but you just never know. Pressing situations force us to react differently than normal.
The clanking and banging continue along with Enrique’s strained groans, confirming it's definitely a safe, and he’s working like hell to get that shit open. I almost feel bad that he’s down to the wire.
Almost.
“Ten seconds,” I warn.
“Coño!” Louder still the banging erupts, a frantic beating that clearly matches the tempo of his heart.
It shouldn’t be so satisfying, but it is, nonetheless. A part of me has always thrived on their fear, how they react to me, the undying power they don’t seem to realize they give me when they all but bow at my feet. I won’t kill him; that’s not my style. I will, however, leave him regretting every last one of his decisions.
And I won’t bat a single lash while I’m at it.
“Seven… Six… Five…” I cock back the slide, blood rushing at the echoing, telltale click. “Four… Three…”
Hulking footsteps resound then, and right as the timer’s alarm blares, Enrique comes skidding to a stop before me, throwing a wad of cash into my lap. “There,” he pants, cheeks reddened, his entire body drenched in sweat. “Cinco mil exatamente.” Five thousand exactly.
From the looks of it, I don’t doubt the amount is what he claims, but you won’t catch me getting up from this chair until I can confirm that. Tucking the 9mm against the small of my back, I organize the bills in the palm of my hand and begin counting silently. Martinez is no less relieved, shifting on his feet restlessly as he wipes his face with his tank top.
It’s not until I fold the stack in half and rise from my seat with a satisfied smile that his shoulders fall lax. “Looks like you’re off the hook, Martinez. You can thank your roommate for having this saved up.”
“Si, hasta que me mata,” he retorts, drawing out my smile further.
“He’s not going to kill you, Enrique. Not if you pass along my message.” I’d pat his shoulder, but you know, sweaty ass motherfucker and all of that. I’ll pass, and I do, showing myself out the way we came. I’m crossing the threshold into the hallway when I stop short and offer him my parting words. “Oh, and, I should mention… The next time you ask me for an advance and don’t follow through on your end of the deal, you won’t be so lucky. Arcángel will know, and those who show up at your door will be far scarier than me, te lo prometo.”
Enrique gulps at the warning of my promise. He knows exactly who I’m talking about: the Yakuza. They don’t fuck around. They couldn’t give three fucks who you are, and they take absolutely no prisoners.
And with that, I leave the man shaking in his living room, strolling right out the front door like I didn’t just hold him up and wordlessly threaten his life for unpaid dues. Down the steps and around his white van, I slide into the Renovatio with ease, Ángel’s megawatt smile greeting me the moment I turn to look at him.
My pussy clenches, especially when I notice the way he’s grabbing his dick over his black jeans. He’s disgustingly good-looking.
It should be illegal.
“What?” I ask candidly, fucking giggling like a damn schoolgirl when he leans closer for a kiss.
“That was hotter than the first time, especially since I could hear it.”
The first time—such a fond memory. That’s how I started working for him—how we met. What started out as a random, unexpected conversation at a bar in Bayside turned into him unknowingly driving me to collect. I didn’t tell him this, obviously, didn’t know what he did at the time. I told him I needed a ride to a friend’s who owed me from our last night out, and he agreed without question. When I got back in the car with 7 G’s and a pocket pistol in hand, urging him to drive off, his expression darkened in all the best ways possible, and the rest is history.
“You’re dumb.” I peck his lips. “Another day, another dollar, baby. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.”
“That’s what makes it sexy as fuck,” he purrs. “I could listen to you do this all day.”
“I see that. Still need me to handle that for you?”
Ángel grins and tugs at my bottom lip with his teeth as he nods. “Always, mami. Fucking always.”
Combined with the excitement from Enrique’s, that’s all it takes to spur me on. Clasping his scruffy chin, I place another chaste kiss to his lips and gently push him back into his seat. “Take it out for me, Ángel.”
The man obliges without an ounce of hesitation, pumping it teasingly at my greedy stare once he’s got it freed. Every time he does that, I drool like a bitch in heat. No lie. Vein porn is real.
Probably looks the same when he grips my hair...
Setting the cash into the cup holders between us, I unlock my phone, end our still-going call, and open up the camera. Then I slide it into the pocket on the armrest of his door and hit the magical button.
“What are you up to, malita?” That naturally husky voice of his comes out deeper, prompting me to smirk as I grab hold of his length and lick my lips.
I’ll show him a bad girl.
“Giving us both something to look back on while you’re gone.” I flick my gaze up at him as my tongue comes out to tease the ridge of his head. “Now drive away…before we get caught.”
♫ Delincuente - Farruko & Anuel AA
“Ma!” I yell, softly shutting the door to her house behind me.
It’s not too late, about nine-ish, so I’m not surprised to hear her yell back, “In the kitchen, mi amor!”
Twenty bucks says she’s nuking one of those single-serve cake things. She loves them, which is probably why she’s currently prediabetic.
Ambling through the small living room, I round the corner into the kitchen, and, sure enough, there she is, pulling the mug from the microwave.
“Tell me that’s the first one you’re having today?” I chide, dropping my keys onto the small table.
“El unico.” The only one, she agrees.
Somehow, I doubt that. This woman always has sweets lying around the house. Chocolate bars stuffed in her drawers, pound cakes and cookies littering the small pantry. And when she has nothing else on-hand, she’ll bake anything her sweet tooth desires from scratch. I’d know. I’ve helped her in the kitchen more than Thomas and Noely combined.
Lips curled suspiciously, I place a kiss to her cheek. “Let’s keep it that way, okay? A lifelong condition isn’t worth it.”
“Lo se, mija.” I know. “They’re just so good and so quick,” she explains, popping open the fridge for the can of whipped cream and raspberries.
She eats it the same every time: one chocolate cake packet, a mountain of whipped cream, and a handful of berries.
Not the worst choice, but… “Still not worth it, Ma.” I’m leaned up against the counter, watching her merrily prepare her late-night conquest as if I hadn’t said a word.
She eyes me with
a smirk as she covers the top of the mug cake with a dollop of cream. “So, I see you had company last night.”
Shit. My entire body locks up because this conversation is about to spiral from routine to a full-blown argument in the next fifteen seconds. It always does when Ángel is the topic.
“I did, yes.” That’s all I offer—in the most nonchalant tone possible.
My mom hums knowingly, opening one of the drawers for a fork. “He was still here this morning, too, no?”
He sure as hell was, gloriously naked in my bed. “He was.”
Her chocolate brown eyes shift my way, frustration, worry, and disappointment evident in their warm depths. Sighing deeply, she sets her hands to the counter’s edge and bows her head. “Why, Benita? Why him?”
Aaand here we go.
For a man she hasn’t seen more than three times—if that—she doesn’t care for him…at all. She’s practically yelled my ear off about him more times than I can count at this point. The slightest hint I’ve seen him, and she flips her shit.
Every. Single. Time.
“Why are we having this conversation again?” I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face.
“Because you don’t listen! How many times do I have to tell you que es un delincuente!” He’s a delinquent. “Are you trying to get into trouble again?”
My eyes roll to the heavens and back at the juvenile word. “He’s not fifteen, Ma. He’s a grown-ass man.”
“Ah si, pero esta lleno de tatuajes y navegando la calles con drogas encima,” she snaps.
“Um, hello?” Holding her fiery stare, I lift my arms, reminding her they’re also very much covered in tattoos. That’s where I leave it, though. She doesn’t need to know I’m riding around with a plethora of drugs again, too.
After my last six-month stay in County, I was determined to keep my stubborn ass off the streets and finally make her proud, but La Carreta pays shit, and once you get used to the money, it’s hard to let it go. Ángel made it even harder by offering me a position of power in his surreptitious world of corrupt elites; hence, why I’m caught in this lifestyle deeper than ever before.
Undoubtedly the stupidest decision I could have made, I know, but being la Jefa has extreme perks. My wallet no longer weeps from the paltry clutches of poverty, and my family wants for absolutely nothing, unlike when we first arrived here from Cuba. I pay my bills, pay most of Ma’s bills—my brother handles the mortgage—and I can still take an impromptu trip to Bora Bora with my girls if I felt like it. I don’t need to wait tables at La Carreta, but I do it because I need a solid cover.
Ma has nothing to say to my virtually silent reply, lips thinned as she lifts her chin much in the same challenging way I often do. What is there to say? She knows judging others based on their exterior is wrong, especially when she knows nothing about them to support such judgment. Does Ángel look like the good boy next door? Hell no. Still doesn’t give her the right to assume—even if she’s right.
I’m about to tell her as much when the vibe of my phone leaves me with the rebuttal on the tip of my tongue. Retrieving it from my back pocket, I glance over the illuminated screen.
My stomach flips around furiously at the message displayed.
Papi: I’m here, muñeca. Open up.
Trying my damnedest to remain unaffected—because the last thing I need is to add more fuel to her fire—I type out a quick reply and stuff the phone back into my pocket.
Me: Two minutes. I’m downstairs at my mom’s.
“Well, looks like this conversation is over.” Pushing off the counter, I take the three necessary steps toward the table and grab my keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ma.”
“Don’t walk away from me, Benita,” she grits, halting me before I can so much as spin on my heel. “No termine.”
My arms shoot out at my sides in pure irritation. I’m so fucking tired of having this conversation with her at least once a month. “What is there left to say, Mom? You don’t like him, I get it. I don’t need to hear you say it five more times.”
Her eyes blaze in barely-contained fury, face overcome with the crimson tinge of anger as she slams a fist onto the counter, rattling her mug. “Bueno, me vas a oir!” You’re going to hear me! “He’s not the man for you, Benni! You need to let him go before you wind up in prison. Porque tu lo sabes, you know damn well if they arrest you again, you’re not going to County. They’re going to lock you in Max and throw away the key, whether you’re guilty or not!”
She’s not wrong.
Just a couple years ago, I served two different sentences pretty much back to back. The first time, I was pulled over for a dead taillight on my Civic and wound up downtown for the six ounces of weed in my back seat. Tommy bonded me out within the hour, only for me to be hauled away when I showed up for court a few weeks later. Six months, one per ounce—that’s what the judge slapped me on the wrist with.
You’d think I learned, right?
Nope. I went right back to doing the same shit like I’d never gotten caught in the first place. Four months later, I was charged again for a similar crime. They got me with weed, cocaine, prescription pills, and various paraphernalia, too. Why I got off with six months a second time is beyond me, but that was the sentencing where the very same judge promised me I wouldn’t get off so easily a third.
They catch me now, and I’m going away for a long time.
End of story.
“I’m not even doing anything I’m not supposed to be doing!” A blatant lie, but what else is new?
Since I followed Tommy onto this depraved path, all we’ve done is lie to her.
Better to lie than starve.
“Estas segura? Because somehow I doubt your checks from La Carreta are able to pay your rent, your bills, my bills, and still leave you money a estar en la calle con ese hombre!”
Once again, she’s not wrong; those checks are pitiful, but I’m not going to stand here and argue about it until I’m blue in the face. It’s pointless, just like the conversation Ángel wants to “finish” tonight.
Nothing is going to come of it.
“Think whatever you want, Ma. I’m out.” Turning on my heel, I stalk through the house to the front door, counting the seconds until she comes speeding behind me to whoop my ass.
I think I make it to five when, surprisingly, I hear her bellow from the kitchen, “No seas tonta, Benita!” Don’t be stupid. “Open your eyes and realize what he’s doing to you.”
I roll them instead. I don’t need to open them or have this elaborate “Come to Jesus moment” she’s waiting for.
I already know.
He’s driving me crazy; that’s what he’s doing. I mean, here I am, walking myself into the inferno despite knowing how it’ll end.
Why?
Because Arcángel was handcrafted by the devil himself. He’s the embodiment of sin and temptation wrapped up in a suave, tattooed package that I can’t resist.
Rounding the front right of the house, I start down the long driveway to the taller two-story building behind my mom’s. Both are duplex style homes—my building is just stacked. We call it los altos.
His car, that sexy-ass Mansory Renovatio, is parked behind my little Acura, the sight of it instantly quickening my pulse. I can’t see through the tints, but this beast definitely isn’t on, which means he’s upstairs already.
A low wolf whistle breaks through the neighborhood’s silence as I near the stairs. My lips twitch knowingly, but I don’t spare him a glance, keeping up the steps at an even pace. Our eyes don’t lock until I make it around the landing to the balcony.
There he is at the opposite end, propped up on his shoulder against my door.
Hands all casual in his pockets like he hasn’t a care in the world.
If it weren’t for the streetlight between my building and the house next door, I wouldn’t be able to see him. The all-black makes it easy to lose him in the shadows. Black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sho
wcasing all his ink. Black slacks. Black shoes. He’s always encased in the ominous color. It’s part of his signature.
A glimpse of his pearly whites peek through a smirk, another wolf whistle resounding as I start toward him. My heart hammers, but I hold my head high.
“Benita,” he croons his usual greeting, quirking my lips.
“Ángel,” I return, sliding my key into the lock.
I can’t believe he’s here again.
We’re inside my space moments later. I turn on the lamp on the small table by the door while he shuts it and clicks the locks in place. The dim lighting does nothing to dull his gorgeous face.
I’m rapt, eyes glued on his formidable form as I undo my small apron and hang it on the coatrack.
He doesn't move, equally as rapt from his place by the door. “How was work?”
“Work.” I shrug. “Same shit, different day.”
Ángel slowly nods as if he understands, then crooks a silent, beckoning finger.
No hesitation. I can’t. Everything about his darkness calls to my own, moving me toward him like a moth drawn to the most brilliantly tempting flame. A few mere steps, and I’m close enough for him to sweep up and pin me to the now-closed door. He’s got me suspended, trapped against his hard body, large hands clasping my ass as he crashes his mouth to mine.
Brutal. This kiss is fucking brutal—scorching, impassioned. Ángel has never put his lips on me like this before. That should have been my indication that the rest of the night would be brutal too.
“Me tienes loco,” he mumbles, digging me so hard into the door I can barely breathe. You’re driving me crazy.
“Same,” I admit, fighting to take the lead from him. “Why are you doing this to us?”
“Me? I’m not doing shit. This right here is all you, mami. It’s all your fault.”
