by Rissa Brahm
He crawled to the foot of the bed and touched the toe of the redhead, her slender arm dangling over the edge of the mattress in deep, lazy sleep.
“Hey…time to wake up.” He paused three beats. “Hey, hello…I’ve got to go, ladies.”
Zack stood up and stretched then shook his head at the tangle of beauties. Gazing at them he wondered why he didn’t feel sated on any level, because he definitely should have. He knew any man on the planet would have.
But instead, he felt slightly sick to his stomach, to add to the same throbbing headache he’d had the night before. He went and grabbed an antacid, an aspirin, and a Super B from his toiletry kit, and came back to the bedside.
“Girls…it’s time! Up and at ’em!”
He imagined the would-be words of his buddies, his attorney and his brother. Any of them would have died to be in his shoes right then, staring down at those magnificent female forms he had fucked the hell out of all night long. “Lifelong lucky streak,” they’d say. Just like that prick at the bar last night.
Lucky streak, my ass. They had no idea. What about his father ditching him, leaving him to care for his brother and mother, only a damn kid himself for fuck’s sake. Yeah, they had no idea what Zack James had been through. And what he’d overcome to reach his current heights.
He continued to stare at the naked beauties still rolled in the sheets of the grand king-size bed, their limbs entwined like a delicious abstract painting.
Damn it. It would’ve helped if he could remember either of their names. J&T—shit! He did remember that although last night’s motivation had been to prove that shady dickhead at the bar wrong, the girls had definitely made out. And he got off once, a decent release from his very real jet lag.
But none of it mattered. His efforts hadn’t done anything to stop the droning lull inside. Why the hell was his gut still filled with this cavernous void?
He shook his head. Just pathetic. A goddamn walking, talking, fucking cliché. What was this? A bout of conscience…or guilt maybe? Fucking depression, like his mother? Or some psychosomatic bullshit? Was he looking too deep? Maybe it was nothing more than sheer world-weary boredom.
The other reason he was in Vallarta was to play Best Man at his kid brother’s wedding. But the wrench in his psyche couldn’t have had anything to do with that. He was happy for Darren. The thought made the corners of Zack’s mouth lift—a first in literally days.
Marriage wasn’t in the cards for Zack, but for his brother, he couldn’t have been more relieved that their parents hadn’t annihilated the institution of holy matrimony for both the James boys. Thankfully, Darren was too young to remember much of the devastating split. And so his kid brother, untainted, found a girl—the girl—and if anyone could settle down with one woman for life, it’d be Darren.
But for Zack, his unattached lifestyle was the way. At least it had been, damn it. He’d relished the pure, unadulterated freedom of being a filthy fucking rich bachelor. And just as he reminded himself that he’d been made for the fast life, the blonde moaned and stretched. Yeah, he was meant for this, he thought, watching her bright blue eyes highlighted by her smudged black eyeliner glare savagely at him at the foot of the bed.
*
Mopped into a corner, she was trapped against a catch-all box of her abuelo’s keepsakes, there just collecting dust.
She took a swig of water then hoisted the heavy box up onto the kitchen counter. There, teetering on top of the pile of random things, she noticed a framed black and white photo of her grandparents. She’d never met her grandmother, but God, the woman was beautiful. It was obvious that her abuelo thought so too. She took the frame off the top of the precarious pile to study it more closely—and to save herself the very likely mess on the floor. And, God, broken glass to boot!—never a good sign. The last thing she needed was a bad omen on her first morning in her new home. Please, Jesus.
She wiped the dust layer off the glass and smiled at the looks of depth and serenity her grandparents had for each other. Sweet, familiar. That was the kind of love, selfless and unending, that she and Sebastian had shared.
A surge of burning pain traveled up her spine. Knowing that type of adoration had ever even existed was heart ripping. It was so rare after all to see two truly connected souls, even with how many couples she works with in her day-to-day. God, ignorance would have been such bliss, if she’d just never known it in the first place. But she had— and she’d never know it again, at least, not for herself.
She flipped the photo frame over, wedged it deep and safe inside the box, and then shoved the entire heaping thing into the center of the counter.
Get back to it, Isa. She gripped the mop again and hit the volume control on her phone three times, tricking her lingering tears to halt in their tracks. Now scrub, damn it.
Her new and far-off home had to be her focus.
And her career—despite its admitted and torturous irony.
Yes, despite her propensity for breakages, mishaps and the like, she was an expert at strategizing and planning successful destination weddings in her coastal hometown of Puerto Vallarta. And she loved the work, again, even with the in-her-face pain of it.
And she’d had no reason to consider herself a masochist when she’d accepted the opportunity at nineteen. She’d been naive then, engaged to Sebastian in a whirlwind of magical bliss. But now, after losing her true love and two arranged fiancés after that, her remaining family continually asked Isabel why she kept doing such excruciating work.
It was torture, yes, but it was what made her feel anything anymore. It combatted the chilling numbness in her heart. It was her self-punishment. And now it was decidedly her realized purpose: helping tie the bonds of love for other hopeful souls while fate kept her from tying her own. Fate’s cruel joke was her test-turned-mission.
So now her new home and her work were her life, and she was reconciled to that fact.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, it got hot, almost sweltering. With the lack of air conditioning, the summer heat knocking at May’s door, and her deep angry effort at that clean start, she knotted her hair in a bun and tied up her sweat-soaked top to just below her bust line. Cooler, better. She looked down and grinned—her in a crop tank and panties? Yes. In her place, not a soul around for the first time in her life—hell yes!
Half-naked freedom!
And why the hell not? Her condo complex was even empty of vacationers until October, and her direct neighbors had up and left—when her abuelo died, rumor of her moving in had circulated like wildfire.
So, she’d conquer her new home this way, her way!—with her hard rock music blasting, arms and legs and back busting ass, and loose strands of her dark locks sticking to her sweat-kissed and smiling face.
*
She had to remember her client meetings in town, so she paused to check her progress and the clock. Only the filth-covered windows and sliding glass door to go, with more than an hour to do it in. Yeah, she’d be fine. “But so much for the cleaning service, though,” she murmured to herself and the wind.
They’d obviously rushed through the place, but with just a little more effort, she’d be able to see out to the beach and the bay where some of her fondest childhood memories had been made. The children of vacationing foreigners staying at her abuelo’s condo complex had been her only playmates growing up, because those kids hadn’t known of the little gray cloud that followed her wherever she went.
Other than time spent at her abuelo’s, she grew up more or less friendless. Well, except for Roberto, a fellow outcast since second grade and loyal to the end. Oh, and her brother, Ray, only sixteen months older than her, who’d shared common interests in fashion and beauty products, so even her lack of long-term girlfriends hadn’t been too hard on her. Not really.
Anyway, Isabel didn’t blame the kids at school, the neighbors, or the folks at church—and now the majority of her own family—for their fearful distance. As far back as she could remember she’
d had to struggle to keep things from breaking, falling, crashing, and crumbling around her. She wouldn’t want to be in her wake either if she were in any of their shoes.
Especially as she matured, because so did the hovering darkness. Larger incidents happened that no one could explain, except that Isabel seemed to always be at the center of them. And by adulthood, the dark nimbus cloud that was her curse burst open, breaking her heart and crumbling her soul.
She grabbed a rag and spray bottle and began cleaning the glass door from top to bottom, sunlight streaming through each new swipe—“Jesus Rays” are what she and her siblings had called them. After that first full pass, the initial layer of dirt vanished, and the room already became a different place. She even felt lighter. But how sad that her grandfather’s home had gotten so dank and filthy since he’d gone. Well, she was there now and would be sure to keep the place pristine and fresh, worthy of her sweet abuelo’s memory.
She sighed then stepped way back to see her progress. A crack in the lower right corner caught her eye and made her jaw clench. Of course. Why was every glimpse of hope met with an ill omen?
The bay breeze flooded her face from the open door, and she took it in and swallowed it back. You know what? Screw it. Because again, what control did she have anyway? If things were gonna go to hell, there was not a damn thing she could do about it, right?
So she keyed into the hard rock ballad filling the place, grabbed the spray bottle microphone-style with white knuckles, and made like a rock star in a music video. With the windows and slider open to the moving ocean air, her mostly bare, sweat-soaked skin prickled as the breeze met her. This was a literal and figurative cleansing—of her new home, of her pride and conscience, and of her past, damn it! She felt powerful. Optimistic, even. The rough, head-banging freedom of belting out the words to the heavens, to Fate herself, was a liberating release.
And just as she got to the raging chorus of the song, her streaming hard rock got rudely interrupted, replaced by a joyful mariachi ring tone. Her oldest sister Celeste. Calling again. Attempt number four.
She huffed then glared at her phone. She placed the spray bottle down, moved the mop blocking her path carefully against the wall, wiped her brow with the back of her hand, and stepped toward her phone. But as she reached for the device, she tripped over the bucket at her feet, bringing her back to reality, the reality where she had no hope and no control. There it is, Isabel. Fate had the control and wouldn’t dare let her forget it.
*
She got to it on the fourth ring, “Celi, hey…are you there?” Her voice as sweet as crème caramel.
“Little sister, how are you? I’ve tried you, like, a billion times!”
Ah, the exaggeration. “Sorry, Celi…is everything okay? The girls alright?” Her three nieces, whom she never saw anymore, had been like her surrogate children. But by her own insistence, she refused to put them at risk. She did miss them terribly, and the few photos Celeste texted her did little to fill the void.
“The girls are fine, Isa. Yeah, they’re great. Will send you the clip of their dance recital…so adorable.”
“Oh, good, I’d love that,” she said, shoving the pangs of envy deep down, below the scars.
“But Isa, I was calling because I wanted to be the second to congratulate you! Antonio said it’s done—you’re a homeowner now!”
“I am. I am a homeowner.” She shook her head at hearing the words. Crazy. Then she knocked on the wood door frame.
“I’m so happy for you, Isa! How was your first night’s sleep?”
“Not bad. A bit choppy…from the excitement of it all. I’m still, well…a little floored. Literally.” She laughed, the puddles of splattered mop water she’d spilled mocking her from below. “I’m just knee deep in suds and pine scent right now.”
“I thought the maid service cleaned yesterday?”
“Yeah, the place was cleaned, but you know, not to my standards.” She laughed again.
“Your OCD standards, yes,” Celeste teased. “I know them well.”
“Yes, but that’s why Lucinda throws me as many events as she does. Because of my ‘perfectionist tendencies.’” And Isabel’s incessant need to compensate, fix, or undo the constant crap that happened around her. Lucinda was pretty damn awesome to overlook half of it.
“True. Just don’t go overboard like you do and hurt your back or something. Then how will that woman run you ragged?”
“I love my work, Celi, and now I’ll need it all the more. For gas money alone, with how far out of town I am. But anyway”—shift to the positive, Isabel—“I do love it out here.”
“God, Isa, I couldn’t be happier for you. A place of your own. Now we just need to find you a man to share it with.”
“Don’t you dare start,” she warned, trying to check her tone. She knew Celeste loved her and always meant well—hell, the woman had practically raised her—but challenging Isabel’s decision to steer clear of relationships was not needed. Nor welcome. “I know you want me to be happy, Celi, but I just can’t go there. Not after all that’s happened. I just need to keep to myself.”
Celeste owned the opinion that Isabel’s curse and the danger she posed shouldn’t prevent her from finding a man and “from really living.” But how could Celeste understand? Her sister carried no burden on her shoulders. And hey, she didn’t hear Celi fight Isabel’s decision to keep away from the girls. But putting others in danger was fine, right? It baffled Isabel, truly.
“Look, Isa, I don’t want to dampen your new-house high. You just enjoy your new place and when you get settled, I’ll come by for a quick visit. We’ll talk then.”
But Isabel wasn’t game for that talk, not again.
Just because Celeste’s ex, Juan, had left her and her three little girls cold, and Celi was now on the hunt, it didn’t mean Isabel wanted a man. She didn’t. She was done hoping. What was the point anyway? She’d already found, and then lost, Sebastian. And you only get one soulmate per lifetime, right?
Right. And so, since the most recent tragedy, she’d formulated rules for herself. Isabel would continue to keep loved ones at a distance and not allow new ties. No relationships, period—especially not romantic ones. She’d take the occasional quick fling with one of Vallarta’s vacationing foreigners who knew nothing of her curse, and usually, in her experience, didn’t believe in such “superstitious crap” anyways. It was a perfect situation, unattached and safe release. A win-win.
After all, she was only twenty-five years old, and she wasn’t dead yet––for whatever reason. And for safety’s sake, she kept her sexcapades anonymous. No full names, no numbers. Guilt and danger free.
But her sister didn’t understand her—her curse or her vacuous extra-curriculars that led to nowhere on purpose—so, as always, Isabel just appeased Celi on the surface and ended their talks as quickly as possible. “Okay, Celi, sounds good.”
“Oh, hey! I’ll see you tonight? Antonio had said seven o’clock, I think. At our usual spot.”
“Yes, right! I almost forgot. See you at dinner.” Balanced with her two remaining brothers, dinner with Celeste wouldn’t be so bad. That is, as long as there was no repeat of last time, when Celeste brought a “friend” for Isabel. God, that was awful. But Ray and his boyfriend Eddie had monopolized the conversation as usual, so she’d managed.
“Okay m’ija. Hasta luego. A las siete en las tarde.”
“Right. Seven. Ciao.” Isabel sighed as she hit “end” on her screen, and her playlist automatically resumed.
She set her phone on the coffee table with a long sigh, then got right back into her hard rock distraction.
She shut her eyes tight, and whipping her hair around wildly, she unwound again. With every head-banging nod, back to freedom. No pressure, no curse, no loneliness.
And when the song ended and switched to the next, she opened her eyes…
…and screamed bloody murder.
*
A face. At the still-sl
ightly-hazy rear slider.
“Cover yourself, Isabel…you’re killing me!” Roberto said as he moved to the open doorway.
“Por Dios! You scared the hell out of me, Roberto! Jesus!” In a veiled huff, she ducked into her bedroom as he made his entrance. In Mexico, the unannounced and uninvited were never turned away, an unspoken code that basically applied to any time of day at all. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t be pissed-as-hell by it. She’d loved the sweeping freedom of being half-naked in her far off piece of solitude. And, damn it, now she’d have to hunt for something to put on.
But also, this was the fourth time this week Roberto had stopped by. First at her cramped room-share in town and now at her new home, a thirty-minute drive south of Vallarta. She could safely assume this visit would be like the others, rehashing an already extremely tired conversation. She was feeling too elated and, at the same time, too exhausted to hear his rant about how they were meant to be together. And he wouldn’t let it go.
“Give me a second!” she called from her bedroom. “Hey, can you pause my playlist?” she asked him, unable to hear herself think as she searched around her room for a not-so-small box of her more comfortable clothes.
But except for her professional outfits she’d already hung in her closet, the box of her hang-around clothes was out in the main room. “Hey, just sit and make yourself at home. Or better yet, grab a drink from the sink. It’s so hot out already!” she called, hoping to redirect him to the kitchen while she made a run for the box.
“It is hot, outside and in!” he called back to her, a wink in his voice.
She poked her head out. His back was to her, at the sink filling two glasses. She made a tiptoeing run for the box, only ten feet away from her door toward the slider.
“Shit!” she screamed, only a foot from her goal.
“What, Isa? What is it?” he said, spinning around.
Her foot. The right one. It throbbed and dripped red. Damn it! She hopped the short distance to the box to grab whatever was on top—her yellow satin robe—then threw it on. She scoffed at the dark red droplets all over her newly cleaned tile floor. From the corner of her eye she saw Roberto moving in her direction to help. “I’m fine. Just sit on the couch. Please…”
