Dark Passages 2: Pilar & Elias

by Reinke, Sara

  She shrugged. One of the spaghetti straps on her dress drooped down from her shoulder as she did, and he fought the temptation to reach over and ease it back into place for her. Either that or pull it all the way down…the other side too…

  “Do you like empanadillas?” he asked, forcing himself to tear his eyes away.

  She nodded, a softness coming over her face and smile he’d never seen before. “I used to eat them with my father,” she said. “There was a little cuchifritos stand on the waterfront, and he’d bring me there on Saturday afternoons for lunch.”

  “I know a little place that makes them too,” he said. “You feel like checking it out? My treat.”

  “Sure.” She nodded again, still smiling—making his heart melt. “Sounds good to me.”

  ****

  “Where are we?” Pilar asked. He’d just parked his car, but not at a restaurant. Instead, he’d pulled into the driveway at a beachfront condominium, and she leaned forward, peering out the dash, feeling immediately nervous.

  He opened his door, then unbuckled his seat belt. “My house.”

  “What?” She gawked at him, sputtering. “But you…you said we were going out for empanadillas.”

  He laughed. “We are.”

  They’d driven across town and down to the ocean, at least a thirty-minute trip from her mother’s house. At one point, they’d driven past a small cinderblock building—Boone’s Tavern, according to the sign—and she’d felt the strange prickling sensation that meant another Nahual was nearby. She’d looked in the tavern parking lot as Elías had driven past, and bristled when she saw Tomás Lovato’s motorcycle. She’d recognized it right away; he was the only person she knew who had royal blue rims on his wheels instead of chrome, painted to match the bike’s body.

  Mierda, she thought, craning her head to look over her shoulder, behind them as they passed. Shit. She hadn’t seen any other bikes there. Tomás Lovato was out on his own, away from his corillo. He was vulnerable.

  Why tonight? she’d thought in dismay. Why now, for God’s sake?

  She’d thought about asking Elías to turn around and take her home again, to make up some sort of pretense so that she could get back to the house and her bike, her gear. This could be my chance, she’d realized. It’s not what I’d planned…how I had in mind, but who cares? I could…

  “You look great,” Elías had told her, drawing her attention, snapping her back into the moment. And as he’d smiled at her, his thoughts apparent to her without his awareness, she’d forgotten anything—and anyone—else.

  Madre de Dios, she’s beautiful, he’d thought, dissolving any resistance or second thoughts she might have had.

  For a long moment after he’d climbed out of the car, shutting his door behind him, Pilar didn’t move. Her heart was racing—it had been from the moment she’d opened the door and found him standing on her mother’s front porch—but for the life of her, she couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety, fright or excitement. Maybe a little of all three.

  She hadn’t been with a man since the night of her father’s murder, hadn’t felt anything but loathing for them in general since her attack, but there was something about Elías that had both attracted her initially and continued to draw her even now. By all rights, the prospect of being alone with him should have terrified her—and had it been anyone else but Elías in that moment, she would have been out the door and bolting down the street, barefoot or not. Instead, inexplicably, she found herself feeling safe with him.

  Because I trust him.

  She jumped, startled, as he opened the passenger door for her. He held out his hand, a polite and patient gesture, then realized her hesitance. “Would you rather I take you back home?”

  I trust him, Pilar thought again, reaching for her seat belt, releasing the clasp. “No,” she said, smiling as she accepted his outstretched hand, slipping her fingers through his, unable to help but notice how well they fit together, like puzzle pieces meant to complement and correspond to one another.

  “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour,” he said with a smile, stepping back and helping her out of the car, guiding her in tow to the edge of the driveway, where the concrete gave way to pebbles, sea grass and sand. Here, Pilar stopped, wide-eyed, admiring the view of the ocean. The wind coming in off the water snapped the voluminous drape of her skirt around her thighs, threatening to blow it up toward her head. Blushing brightly, laughing, she used her free hand to try to swat it back into place.

  “It must be great living this close to the water,” she said.

  He shrugged. “The sound of it’s nice, I guess. I keep the windows open most of the time, just a little, so I can hear the waves when I’m sleeping.”

  The sun had set in full, and the moon was a pale sliver in the sky, reflected against the low, choppy waves as they tumbled and splashed ashore. Her dark hair flapped around her face, and she tucked it behind her ears with her free hand as he led her by the other down toward the surf.

  “I love the ocean,” she remarked. Even though he stopped before they reached the tide’s edge, she went on ahead, still carrying her sandals in her hand. The closer she drew to the water, the deeper her bare feet sank into firm, wet sand and the higher along her ankles the encroaching sea foam swirled. “My favorite time to go is right after a heavy storm. I used to go with Valien and my dad. We’d spend all day collecting shells, sand dollars, coral pieces, sea glass…anything that washed ashore.”

  God, you’re beautiful.

  Elías thought this, unaware of her telepathy, unaware that her mind was open enough to overhear him. She turned, feeling the dim heat of blush stoking in her cheeks, and found him gazing at her, a soft smile playing against the corners of his mouth.

  “Are you coming?” she asked.

  “No, thanks.” He held up his hands in mock-surrender. “I’m not really dressed for swimming.”

  “We’re not swimming. It’s wading. Take your shoes off, roll up your pant legs.” When he didn’t immediately move, cutting his eyes away with a sheepish expression, she cocked her head, trying to reclaim his gaze. “You’re not afraid of the water, are you?”

  “What?” He laughed. “Of course not.” Then, with a shrug, he added, “It’s what’s in the water that I have a healthy respect for.”

  She smiled at him, charmed. “Why do you have a beachfront condo if you don’t really like the beach?”

  “I like the beach just fine,” he replied. “Just from this side of it.” He motioned with his hands, looking down, indicating that he stood on dry land. “I prefer a swimming pool, where I can see what’s around me.”

  Pilar laughed, then held her hand out again. “Come on. Just try it.” Because he still looked hesitant, she added, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  Elías chuckled, shaking his head, but she could tell from his posture, the tension draining from his shoulders, that he was relenting. “Okay. You win.”

  With a grunt, he sat down in the sand and tugged his shoes off, followed by his socks. Bundling these together, he set them aside, then turned back his pant cuffs toward his knees. He stood again, dusting off his ass, then walked to the water’s edge, where again, he hesitated.

  “Come on.” Pilar smiled gently, hand outstretched.

  “You know, most shark attacks occur in less than three feet of water,” he told her pointedly. “And jellyfish can attack in less than that.”

  “Little kids pee in pools,” Pilar said, and he glanced up at her, averting his stricken gaze from the water. Because she couldn’t help herself any longer, she burst out laughing, and with a shake of his head, he joined her.

  “Fair enough,” he said. Then, moving slowly, he took her hand and let her coax him out until they both stood in water up to their midcalves.

  “You see?” she asked, after they’d stood together in silence for a moment, feeling the ebb and tug of the waves against them, the sand beneath their feet, their fingers still interlaced. �
�This isn’t so bad.”

  Turning to him, she watched him smile, then reach out, brushing a wayward strand of hair out of her face, making her heart race happily. “You’re right,” he murmured. “It’s not bad at all.”

  ****

  Elías hadn’t planned on taking Pilar to his house that night. Hell, he hadn’t planned on doing more than standing on her front porch and talking to her—confronting her, in truth, demanding that she tell him about her brother’s involvement in Miguel Torres’s murder.

  Because I know he’s involved in it, he thought. And in gang activity. But here I am, taking her to my house, showing her where I live, for Christ’s sake. Debo estar loco—I must be crazy.

  But despite this nagging voice in his mind, he’d brought her anyway. Because I trust her. As strange as it seemed—as inexplicable—he couldn’t help it. I trust her.

  He hadn’t mentioned Miguel Torres, and as they stood together on the beach, he’d stared at her as she stared out at the water, the moonlight sparkling in her eyes.

  God, you’re beautiful, he’d thought.

  At this, she’d glanced at him, seeming shy, and it was strange, like she’d heard his thoughts somehow—impossibly. But when she smiled at him, he melted inside, his line of sight collapsing down to the scant centimeters of earth and air surrounding her.

  He hadn’t anticipated company that evening, and winced as he led her into his home. He wasn’t messy by nature, nor was he a neat freak, and he moved ahead of Pilar as quickly as he could, collecting wayward clothes and dirty dishes. She feigned polite obliviousness and crossed his living room.

  “So this is how a cop lives,” she remarked, hands clasped lightly at the small of her back as she studied his entertainment center, perusing the haphazardly arranged photographs and books on nearby shelves.

  “You were expecting something different?” he asked, shoving an old T-shirt he’d found drooped over the back of his couch unceremoniously into the bathroom hamper.

  “I don’t know.” From his vantage as he walked back down the hall into the living room, he saw her shrug. “Maybe have crime scene photos or something stuck all over your walls. A gun rack, maybe, or handcuffs lying around. You know, like on TV.”

  He laughed. “I’m afraid real life’s a lot more boring,” he said. “My work stays at the office. My gun and handcuffs are in a drawer in my nightstand.” With a sardonic wave to indicate the room, he added, “They don’t really go with the décor. The gun rack’s in the trunk of my car.”

  Looking dubious, she raised her brow. “Why there?”

  He laughed. “Because my shotgun’s there too.”

  “What is it, a Mossberg 590?” she asked, and he blinked at her in surprise. “Pump-action short barrels are pretty standard for police officers, right? For riot control?”

  He blinked at her again, then managed a laugh. “It is…and they are, yeah. How do you know so much about guns?”

  She shrugged. “My dad taught me.”

  “About riot guns?” he asked and as she nodded, it occurred to him. By the previous year, Pepe Cervantes had more than comfortably established himself and his branch of Los Pandilleros in Bayshore. He would have already made his plans to supersede control of the region from Los Guerreros. Enrique Ramirez had taught Pilar about guns because he’d been expecting a war.

  Catching sight of something on one of his shelves, Pilar leaned forward, curious. “Who’s this?” she asked, picking up a framed black-and-white photograph of his father in full boxing regalia, taken when he’d been little older than Elías’s own twenty-eight years.

  “Mi padre,” he replied with a smile.

  “He was a boxer?”

  “Oh, yeah. A really good boxer. Won championship titles and everything, even competed once in the Olympics.”

  She regarded the picture with a wide-eyed, incredulous sort of admiration. “Wow,” she said, setting it back above the TV. Taking another in hand, she said, “Whose little boy?”

  Feeling strangely embarrassed, as if she’d just discovered more about him than he’d realized he was willing to share, he reluctantly said, “Uh, mine. His name’s Manuel. He lives in Miami with his mother.” Quickly, he added, “We’re divorced.”

  Pilar took the picture and studied it closely for a moment. Looking back at Elías, she said with a smile, “He looks like you.”

  He laughed. “Don’t tell my ex-wife that.”

  A small counter bar separated the kitchen from the living room, and as he went into former and began going through cupboards, she remained in the latter, leaning over the bar and watching him with undisguised interest. “What are you doing?” she asked as he pulled out a container of flour and a mixing bowl.

  “Making empanadillas,” he replied, reaching into the stainless-steel refrigerator behind him and pulling out a carton of eggs.

  “You mean from scratch?” she asked, and when he nodded, she said, “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” He dropped her a wink. “You’re going to help.”

  She laughed. “I am?”

  “Yeah. Come on.” Smiling wryly, he turned her words from the beach around on her: “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  “Okay, then.” Pilar walked around to stand next to him at the counter. “Tell me what to do.”

  God, he thought, blinking stupidly at her for a moment. Did she have to give such an open invitation? Because Madre de Dios, the things I could imagine…

  Forcing himself to move—mentally kicking himself in the ass—he took out measuring cups and spoons, directing her to the cupboard by the stove where he kept salt, vinegar and other supplies. As he explained the amounts of each ingredient she’d need to add in the bowl, she glanced up at him. “Don’t you have a recipe for this?”

  “Sure.” He tapped his brow. “Right here.” When she looked surprised, he said, “It’s really my dad’s. He owns a Cuban restaurant in Miami. I practically grew up in a kitchen.”

  “I thought you said he was a boxer.”

  “He was, up until the 1970s, when he retired. Then he took up cooking. He’d always loved it, he says. Having his own restaurant had always been something he’d wanted to try. So he did it.”

  He helped her carefully mixed the ingredients together, until they had formed a thick, pasty dough. He then spread a sheet of waxed paper down on the counter in front of them, dusted it lightly with flour and turned the bowl over, dropping the dough out with a damp, heavy splat. “You ready to knead it?” he asked.

  “How do I do that?”

  “Here…” He stepped behind her, reaching around so he could take her by the hands and guide her. He’d done this reflexively, but once his arms were around her, his body close enough for him to smell the sweet fragrance of her hair and to feel the soft outward swell of her ass settle lightly against his groin, he froze. He felt her stiffen in surprise at his unexpected closeness, but before he could draw back, she relaxed.

  “Show me,” she said softly, turning her face slightly toward his.

  He lowered her hands into the dough, watching as she spread her fingers and sank into the thick paste. Moving in tandem with her, he worked the dough between his hands, pressing into it, spreading it out until nearly flat, then folding it in on itself, re-forming a mound again.

  “Push into it,” he murmured, leaning forward so that she did as well. The idea that he could take her like this—just spread her legs a bit more, ever so slightly, hike the hem of her dress up to allow him ready access and then follow his own advice about pushing—left the front of his pants suddenly feeling tight and uncomfortable.

  Pilar tipped her head back to lean against his shoulder. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn she pressed her ass back into him too, a slight but suggestive wriggle. “Like this?” she asked, her voice little more than a hush. “Or harder?”

  “Harder.” His hands fell still, clasped atop hers in the dough, his breath ragged. Turning his face, h
e let the tip of his nose, his lips graze her cheek. She canted her head so he could trail toward her ear and uttered a soft sigh when he reached the delta of her throat. Now he knew he wasn’t imagining; she rolled her hips slowly backward and into his, just like when she danced for him, only far more subtle and seductive. The outward strain of his arousal pressed up between her buttocks through her panties and skirt, and he bit back a low, guttural groan.

  “Pilar,” he whispered hoarsely.

  She looked up at him, her mouth so vulnerably within his reach, he couldn’t resist anymore. The struggle was too great—as was the temptation. He leaned down, letting his lips brush hers, lightly at first, then when she neither resisted nor recoiled, lingering.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, drawing abruptly back, mentally kicking himself in the ass, because he’d just overstepped his bounds. She’d only just started to open up to him, and he knew given her past, he might have just blown it all, pushed her away, traumatized her. “I didn’t…I just…” he stammered helplessly. “I’m sorry, Pilar.”

  She turned in his arms to face him, her dark eyes riveted on his. “I’m not,” she breathed, reaching for him, cupping his face between her hands and kissing him again, her mouth fervent and hungry, the tip of her tongue slipping against his own.

  Her breasts pressed heavily into his chest, and he cupped them in his hands, feeling her nipples strain beneath the confines of the dress bodice. Pilar arched her back to meet him, rocking against him as if begging him to touch her, explore her, claim her. Her fingers tangled in his hair and he couldn’t contain a soft murmur of pleasure as the kiss deepened.

  “Elías,” she whispered, her voice trailing into a delicate moan as he slipped his lips from hers to her throat, working his way to her shoulder. He pulled the front of her dress down and kissed her breasts, encircling her nipples with his tongue each in turn, drawing them between his bottom lip and the edges of his upper teeth.

  With one hand, he reached for her thigh, pushing her skirt toward her waist, feeling the silken heat of her skin. His fingertips brushed the edge of her panties, then slipped beneath. Gasping for breath, she turned her face down toward his head, clutching at his hair as his hand slipped between her thighs.