And yet, as I watched him work--to keep himself busy, and to "earn our board", he took care of all the gardening for Isardora--I had the feeling that, while he might have gotten used to the ache, he still wanted, against all common sense, to be his father's son.
"Do you think you'll ever forgive him?" I asked.
"That's the wrong question," he said. "Forgiving him isn't the problem. It's that we've been at loggerheads with each other since the day I was born, practically. I don't think we would know how to be civil with each other even if we tried."
"Really?"
He shrugged. "Izzy will tell you all about our epic fights," he said. "Some would go on for days. One lasted a month."
"That sounds...unhealthy."
"It is," he agreed. "But there you have it--he always thought I was a spoiled brat and I always thought he was an absentee landlord. It was a relief, to be honest, when he disowned me."
"How could a father not realize what he has in you?" I wondered aloud.
"How could a mother let you go?" he asked.
Slowly, the wounds healed, as wounds do. Between Blake, Isadora, and Dorian, they managed to chip together enough money for both of us to go to Hawaii, and for the next month I waited tables and went to night school to get my teaching certification, while Blake kept on giving surfing lessons. He became a trainer at his buddy's gym. Life went smoothly, for the most part--our biggest daily quibble was who got to sleep next to the door of the van. We eventually paid back Isadora and Dorian. I got a teaching job at a nearby middle school.
And then, one day, even the joy in our lives came back. It was just another day, and I was on my way to work when I saw a wooden longboard on sale in the window of a shop. Right then and there I decided to get it for Blake, but even the sale price was above what I had in my bank account. That was the day when I received a $500 tip from one of my customers. I bought him the longboard, and arranged to have it delivered to the van. When I got home that night, though, he showed me a pamphlet--there was a cute little bungalow, a fixer-upper, that we'd been eying, but the asking price was head and shoulders above what we could afford--and said that he'd been approved for a mortgage. "I just asked if they'd be willing to take something I could afford, and they said yes," he said.
One year to the day that we first met, we woke up and packed a picnic lunch to take to the beach. The part of the coast had huge, flat boulders, and we picked our way across them to find one that was large enough to sit on, to lie down on. It was just us, and the world, again. "I love you," he murmured, as we finished the lemonade.
"I love you, too," I said. "Do you remember..." I began, but he pressed a finger to my lips.
He leaned in for the kiss. I closed my eyes, feeling his lips go soft against mine, tasting him. His fingers brushed against my shoulders, my neck, and my back, searching for the knots that held my string bikini on. First my right side, then my left, but he didn't stop until I was completely naked, completely exposed--completely his.
I pressed my body against his, and that feeling of one-ness with him, from our first date, came rushing back. My tears of ecstasy mingled with the sweat that ran down his body, and the rush of our breathing fell into the same rhythm as the rush of the ocean around us. The world was a wave breaking, splashing us with a million little spears of icy cold, sending both of us gasping for breath, and little stars shooting before our eyes.
We fell asleep, warmed by the sun and the rocks, wrapped in each other's arms. He awoke first. I could feel his hands caressing my body, and his touch seemed to linger after his hands had moved somewhere else. Slowly, his hands began to hover, to concentrate, to linger, on my breasts, where the buds stood firm with the chill from the spray. "You're so beautiful," he said, touching his tongue to the tips. It was like being touched by glass, cold and smooth. My back arched with pleasure, but his weight kept me down. He smiled and stroked the inside of my thigh with his other hand, teasing me by brushing the soft skin, and then taking his hand away, just when I was expecting more.
"You keep saying that," I murmured, as he slowly worked his hand closer and closer to my pussy.
"Because it's true."
"Would you keep saying that if I got fat?"
He stopped, taken aback. "Wait, what do you mean?" he asked. His hand dropped, resting between my legs.
"I mean exactly that. Would you keep saying that if I got fat?"
"I suppose I would," he said. "Why?"
"Because I'll be gaining a lot of weight in the future."
Watching the expressions ripple across his face--confusion, understanding, and then, pure joy--was priceless. "You mean--really?"
"I took the test yesterday," I said. "There were two lines."
"Oh man," he said. "We have to get married. We need to--the second bedroom--we need to make that into a nursery. We'll have to arrange for child care. You'll need to pick out an OB--"
"Relax, Blake," I said.
"Relax? You just told me I'm going to be a dad!"
"Yes, you are," I said. "And I’m going to be a mom. But right now, she's--"
"Wait, how do you know it's a girl? They can tell this early?"
I almost had to laugh at him. Instead, I kissed him. The kiss deepened yet again, and his hands began moving all over my body again. But when he touched me again, it was different, yet again, from what he'd done earlier. I was the mother of his child, now, and when his hands floated over my belly they seemed to be asking permission. Can I know this child? Can I love this child?
"Yes," I whispered. "You can, and you will."
"What will we call her?" he asked. "And how can we afford everything that she'll need?"
"I don't know," I said. "We'll think of something. We'll find a way."
*EVEN MORE STORIES ON NEXT PAGE!*
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Just Take Me Already
By Celia Styles
He was hardly the first man I had been attracted to.
I could recall the quiet soccer player at my school, the one I always caught myself turning out to games for. Then there was John, the sandy-haired, blue-eyed cadet who had trained alongside me back at the academy.
There had also been countless men on the streets I’d caught myself looking twice at; there were even a couple I’d ended up at sweaty, passionate third base in the restrooms of pubs with. But I’d been brought up in a conservative, homophobic family, so I had dated women when I was too pressured to have a love life. Mostly, I had just kept quiet on the topic.
Once I started working, no one paid much attention to my love life or lack thereof, but that was fine by me. It’s probably why I spent so much time at the station; it was far easier to fill my time with the day-to-day work of a suburban cop than it was to spend some time actually thinking about myself and what I wanted. I had managed to keep those desires at bay for most of my 32 years, until I opened the door on a quiet September night, and saw him there. Little did I realize that the floodgates, so to speak, had been opened.
He was shorter than me, though only by a few inches, but slender: his broad shoulders tapered into a slim waist, his limbs long and languid. He was the opposite of brown-eyed, brown-haired, stocky old me, and I felt conspicuously big in front of him. Those eyes, flecked with green and glowing, bored into mine, and his sculpted lips slightly parted as he let out short, sharp gasps into the wintery air. His olive skin was clear and bright, and I wanted to reach out and feel it under my fingertips.
“Can I help you?” I barked.
“I-
I’m sorry, I just came from the border, and the policia, the police, they’re following me.” he blurted, his tone urgent. It didn’t take the accent for me to figure out where he was from.
“If you’re looking for a place to hide, I’m afraid this isn’t it,” I replied, closing the door on him.
I had moved to the town fairly recently, but I’d been warned that part of the country was often the first port of call for illegal Mexican immigrants. I guess some of the hostility the town had towards them had rubbed off on me, for I only felt the smallest twinge of guilt over turning him away.
But his foot got in the way of my shutting the door properly, and he used his hands to open the door wider. I couldn’t help but notice how long and elegant his fingers were, and how strong he was for someone so slender otherwise. If not for the door, he would’ve been in my personal space, and I felt the tiniest shiver at the thought.
“Please, you’ve got to help me!”
The desperation in his voice made me pause, and I peeked from the crack.
“Why the hell should I let you in?”
“Because it wouldn’t make a difference to you, but it would mean life or death for me!”
I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, so you really think I won’t get into any trouble for harbouring an illegal immigrant?”
He grabbed my arm, and if I had shivered at the thought of being close to him, it had been nothing compared to the electricity I felt now.
“If you let me in now, you’d get rid of me in a day, two days, at the most. If the cops come, you could say ‘No, I haven’t seen anyone,’ and they’ll believe you because you’re a nice upstanding white man and no one would suspect you of doing something like this.”
He was right. I hated to admit it, but he was right. If I let him in and then denied it when my colleagues showed up, they would believe me. They knew that I was the last person who’d let an illegal immigrant into my house, judging by the vitriol I spat about them whenever we had to collect them from the side of the road somewhere. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even bother to ask me.
I looked at the man in front of me again, read the desperation in his face, felt the pressure of his fingers digging into my arms. I could just open the door, and that would be that.
So I did.
I didn’t say a word as I pulled the door back, allowing him over the threshold. He released my arm and practically jumped into the house, a grin breaking over his face. He laughed with relief, and spun around to face me, his dark curls whipping against his face as he did so. I would’ve placed his age at about 25.
Whatever my misgivings about letting him in, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.. Stepping forward, I directed him to the living room.
“In here. You can sleep on the couch. Don’t make any noise, and don’t go outside until I say it’s okay. I want you out of here in two days, tops, okay?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”
“Do you have a name?” I asked, after a pause. I was reluctant to leave him just yet.
“Gabriel. And yours?”
“Officer David Felton.”
His eyes widened. “You’re a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you letting me stay?”
“I think it’s best that you don’t make me think about that too hard,” I replied. “You want something to eat?”
“No, no, really, I will wait until I can get out by myself. I don’t want to be any trouble.” He shook his head, sitting down on the couch and shaking off his jacket.
“Come on, eat something. The last thing I want is you getting ill while you’re here.” I snapped, walking through to the kitchen. The urge to protect him and look after him was overwhelming; white saviour complex, they’d have called it in a psychology paper. My brain was conflicted; I didn’t want him to stay, but I didn’t want him to leave, either. Pulling out some bread, I made us a round of bacon sandwiches, serving them on separate plates.
“Sorry it’s not any of your burrito-taco-diarrhea food,” I said as I handed him his food.
He looked at me as I walked round the couch, eyebrows raised. “I know what a bacon sandwich is, David.” His English was surprisingly good for an illegal immigrant. It was time to revise my assumptions, I supposed.
I shrugged grumpily, taking a large bite of my sandwich. “Whatever. Just eat.”
After he was done eating, I showed him to the bathroom and insisted that he bathe. I didn’t want a filthy immigrant, however good-looking, living in such close quarters with me, for however short a while.
He stepped out of the shower with just a towel around his waist, and I checked out his abs rather shamelessly. Boy, he had a delicious body.
Delicious body or not, I didn’t sleep as restfully that night as I usually did, my brain thrumming with the knowledge that an illegally gorgeous (and illegal) stranger was sleeping under my roof. I woke up to go check on him at least three times, afraid he would make off with some of my stuff. But I found him peacefully asleep every time. He didn’t even register that someone was shuffling around him.
It amazed me that he trusted a complete stranger in a foreign country enough to just go to sleep in his house.
The next two days went by in a strange, quiet sort of domesticity. I’d come down the stairs in the morning to find him leafing through my books, an English –Spanish dictionary next to him as he ploughed through Stephen King and Ray Bradbury and all the other American classics I had on my bookshelf. I didn’t like people touching my books, and illegal Mexican immigrants definitely didn’t feature in my list of ideal book borrowers, but I knew already that it was beyond me to deny him anything.
When his third morning came, he didn’t bring up the possibility of leaving and neither did I. I would go out to work in the morning, and he would clean the house and read during the day. We would talk about my books when I got home, and I would cook us up a meal of something delicious and unhealthy
We gradually, carefully, began to open up to each other, one little secret at a time. He had come to America on a whim, because he didn’t want to be stuck in his small rural Mexican town any longer. I told him about my parents and how they had died in a subway accident, my brother and how he had gone hiking to Europe and never came back.
He was extremely intelligent, and followed arguments easily. Thanks to his stay with me, his accent was increasingly losing its Mexican touch and sounding more, well, American. Unwittingly, I started picking up colloquialisms in Spanish I had never heard before. I could feel myself warming up to him, our conversations flowing easily. Staying up late nights talking to him had become the new normal routine for me, and I found myself living my days for those long, warm evenings.
Around a month into our acquaintance, we got to discussing US immigration policy, and all the things that I’d been tacitly taught over the years- that I should see these people as the enemy, and not as human beings- started to dissolve. It was impossible not to feel guilty about all the people like Gabriel who’d come over here not to cause trouble but to find a new start, the people I’d coldly turned away or cruelly thrown out. My worldview was shifting, inch by inch, and it was a liberating experience.
My unabashed physical attraction for him had, unbeknownst to me, given way to an emotional connect, and I forgot what it had been like to have a house without him in it. Cheesy though it sounded even to my own mind, I couldn’t imagine living without him. He had proved every single stereotype about his people wrong.
Taken by Two Tango Dancers
By Celia Styles
Chapter 1
“Roni!”
“Hmm?” Roni looked up from her computer to find three of her friends—and co-workers—crowding the entrance to her cubicle. She pulled her earbuds out of her ears and stared at them. “What?”
Jane laughed. “We’ve been trying to get your attention for five minutes! What are you so engrossed in?”
“It’s YouTube,” Callie, one of the other
girls, said. “She’s watching those dance videos again.”
“You’re obsessed,” Sue—not only her co-worker, but her roommate—said.
“I’ll admit that,” Roni said, her gaze moving back to the computer screen. “Who wouldn’t be? The tango…it’s so elegant, so beautiful. And Nicolás is so—”
“Oh, God, stop her now,” Sue said. “If you don’t, she’ll go on about his virtues for the rest of the day.”
The others laughed, but Roni just shook her head.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“We’re missing lunch is what we’re missing,” Callie said, tossing Roni’s bag at her. “Come on, let’s get out of here before one of the supervisors begins to think we’re volunteering to work through lunch.”
Roni reluctantly logged out of the computer and followed, slipping her bag over her shoulder. She tried to pay attention to the conversation going on around her—something about the new head of personnel—but her thoughts were still firmly wrapped around Nicolás Aguirre. He was…she had never seen a man who was more beautiful, but so masculine…She came across him quite by accident. She took a dance class in college—just as an attempt to fulfill her physical education requirements without having to run—and she was horrible. They learned everything from ballet to tap to the mashed potato. Roni hated the class and was glad when it ended.
But there was one dance that just seemed to speak to her soul.
The tango.
The instructor brought her husband in one afternoon and they danced the tango in an attempt to inspire the students. Most of the other students spent the five minutes it took them to perform checking their email or working on assignments for other classes. But Roni was fascinated. She couldn’t take her eyes off of them.
It was so beautiful, the way their bodies worked in perfect sync with one another. And the way he touched her, his hand resting lightly on her back, then sliding over her abdomen…it was like watching two lovers indulging in an erotic display of foreplay. By the time it was over, Roni was head over heels in love with the dance.
Romance: TOXIC (Forbidden, Pregnancy, Taboo Romance, Stepbrother Romance, New Adult Short Stories) Page 3
