by JB Salsbury
And I can’t get enough of her. All that soft skin covered in a generous amount of SPF, warming under the sun. Her rosy cheeks that frame the most perfect pair of pale lips and the sweetest smile. My swim trunks grow tight just watching her move.
I scan our surroundings for the ten-thousandth time. The short dock has two boats tied to it, but it looks as though they’ve been there for weeks. I’ve yet to see a single person. She’s safe. Secluded.
Movement catches my eye, and I turn just in time to see Mercy’s beautiful round backside as she bends over to pick up another shell. My smile falls when I think about Sal, so I glare at the hotel, hoping he sees me and it scares the shit out of him. My phone pings in my backpack, and I groan while reaching for it. The one condition of my getting away with Mercy was that I had to be available to Esteban’s crew. It’s funny—I remember when I got my first phone when I was twelve. I cherished that thing. It may as well have been surgically attached to my body. Now I want nothing more than to toss the fucker into the open ocean.
There’s been some miscommunication with a sensitive delivery, so I type back and make a quick call while keeping my eyes on the hotel to ensure I’m not overheard. After a quick back and forth with Sancho, I stuff the phone and turn back to Mercy—only to find she’s not alone.
My pulse hammers and adrenaline gets me to my feet and carries me to her in seconds. She’s talking to a woman in long pants and a T-shirt. She looks innocent enough, but where did she come from and what the hell is she doing talking to Mercy?
“ . . . joyería . . . véndelo . . .”
“Shells?” I come up behind Mercy. “What’s going on?”
She turns toward me, pushing her hair from her face. “Oh, hey, look at these shells—”
“Quéin eres tú?” I ask the woman who she is, pegging her to be in her late fifties.
“Milo,” Mercy says.
“Disculpe.” The woman backs away, clearly reading my warning. “Lo siento.”
Mercy steps toward her. “Please, don’t be sorry. It’s okay.”
I hook Mercy by her elbow to keep her from getting closer to the woman.
She jerks her head around to glare at me then rips her arm from my grasp. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Have you?”
Hurt registers on her face and she turns back to the woman. “Toma . . . uh estos.”
The woman shakes her head, her gaze darting from me to Mercy. “No. No, no.”
“Por favor. Toma estos.” Mercy dumps the shells into the woman’s hands. “I want you to have them.”
The woman mumbles a string of Spanish, thanking Mercy over and over before heading back in the direction I assume she came.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Mercy spins on me. “What was that all about?”
I pop my Ray-Bans up on my head. “You tell me? You have no idea who that woman is and you’re out here talking to her like she’s some long-lost friend.”
Her white eyebrows drop low. “Long-lost . . .” She shakes her head. “She uses the shells from this beach to make jewelry, or at least I think that’s what she was saying.”
I think back to the little bit of their conversation I heard when I walked up, and guilt pricks at my skull. That is what she was saying. “Still, you can’t—”
She holds up a hand and stomps past me. “Don’t.”
I follow her but keep my gaze on our surroundings, just in case someone might—I don’t know. We can’t be too safe on a secluded beach in the middle of nowhere—aw, fuck it. She’s right. I’m a paranoid asshole.
“Mercy.”
She ignores me and flops onto her towel, stomach down. For a moment, I’m caught up in studying the tattoo that peeks out of the lycra on her full-coverage one-piece. How easily I forget all of what she’s already been through, all of what she’s survived, all without me.
“Mercy is stronger than you think.”
Laura’s words come back to me like a kick in the chest.
Mercy has been through the kinds of things that should make her angry and untrusting, yet she’s still the kind of person who believes in the goodness of people. Even a stranger on a beach. Do I really want to be the person who discourages her from trusting her instincts?
I lie on my side next to her and prop my head on one hand. I trace the delicate curves and intricate shading of her wings. She shivers but huffs out a breath as if she doesn’t seem happy about her body’s response to me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Again,” she spits out.
I grin at the quick reminder of her strength. “Yes, Güera. I’m sorry again. I’m an asshole.”
She seems to think about that for a few seconds before turning to her side, her head propped on her hand, mimicking me. “Can we please, just for a few hours, pretend that I’m safe and that you don’t need to protect me?”
“I’ll always protect you.”
“Pretend!”
“But—”
“We’re practically alone out here.”
“I know, but it’s the practically part that—”
“Please. Then I’ll go back to being locked in the compound, but until then, can we just live one normal day?”
“Depends. What exactly will normal look like?”
“I want to go to dinner.”
“Sal has a chef. We’ll have dinner in our room.”
She’s already shaking her head. “I want to go out to dinner. On a real date to that fancy restaurant on the cliffs.” Her pale blue eyes plead with mine. “Like a real couple.”
“We are a real couple.”
“If you do this, I’ll go back to the estate and be happy to stay for as long as you want me to. I just want one night . . .” Her eyes close and I know she’s fighting off crying.
Well . . . fuck. Part of protecting the woman I love should be keeping her safe from me making her cry.
“Fine.”
Her eyes dart open.
“But don’t go thinking you can—”
“Thank you!” She hurls herself at me, knocking me onto my back, and with her body on mine, she buries her face in my neck. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
I reach down with both hands and cup her round backside, squeezing until she wiggles. “I love you too.”
I push back the sliver of anxiety that flickers behind my ribs. Two months of LS duty has turned me into a paranoid motherfucker, and I’m taking it out on Mercy. She’s right. I need to find my chill and quick, or I risk chasing her away.
I couldn’t stand to lose her.
Mercy
“WHY DO YOU keep looking at me like that?” I peer at Milo out of the corner of my eye as we climb the steps to the restaurant.
After our argument at the beach, Milo has calmed down tremendously. He even lightened up enough to splash in the waves with me, and I managed to make him laugh. When the sun dipped lower toward the horizon, we went back to our room to shower and Milo fell asleep. I felt bad waking him up—after all, he’d had hardly any sleep the night before—but this was the one night he’d promised me and I’m taking advantage of it.
“It’s that dress.”
I freeze mid-step. “I thought you liked this dress. You picked it out.” I smooth my hands over the soft navy cotton, feeling as though it was years ago when Milo picked it out for me.
“Oh, I like the dress.” He tugs me close, and with him on a lower step, we meet nose-to-nose. His hair is still wet from the shower and his lips part just before he bites his bottom lip and groans. “But I love you in this dress.”
My cheeks flame. I wish I’d worn my hair down rather than pulled it up in a ponytail so I could hide my face behind it. “Thank you.”
“You know what I’m gonna love more?”
The smile that pulls at my lips is embarrassingly big. “I think I can guess.”
“You out of this dress.”
I throw my head back and laugh, and he guides me farther up the stairs. The scent of butt
ery meat, spices, and fresh tortillas comes from the open door. A short, stocky woman with gray hair and deep wrinkles greets us. Her eyes settle on me for a second too long before Milo requests a table in Spanish. With a flick of her wrist and two menus pressed to her chest, she motions for us to follow her. Milo holds the flat of his hand against my lower back, staying close as we walk through the half-full restaurant. I keep my chin up and pretend not to notice the way people stare at me.
Milo must sense my nervousness because he slides his hand up my back to grip my neck, pulls me close, and whispers in my ear, “Fishing boats bring in their catches daily and people drive in from all over for their food.”
I’m relieved when we stop at a table near the window where we can watch the small waves roll up on the rocky beach below. Milo orders us Cokes.
I raise my hand then feel stupid for doing it and tuck it in my lap. “Excuse me . . . uh . . . pardon.”
The woman looks at me through wrinkled slits for eyes.
“Margarita, por favor.”
She nods and waddles off.
Milo takes my hand and runs his finger over my ring. “Margarita, huh?”
“This is my first real dinner date. I figured why not.”
He leans back, his black hair mussed up so perfectly it looks as if he did it on purpose. “Our first dinner date . . .” He crosses his arms. “Hmmm . . . what do people do on first dates? I guess we should get to know each other. Tell me about yourself.”
I grin and lean toward him, my elbows on the table. “Well, let’s see. I’m twenty years old, I don’t go to school, I have no job, and I spend most days with my best friend, Toro, who is a dog.” He frowns, and I regret being so pathetically honest. “How about you?”
“I’ll be twenty-one in two months, although I sometimes feel sixty, and I’m in love with the most amazing woman.”
“Really? What’s she like?” My stomach flutters at the ridiculous game we’re playing, but it’s been so long since we had such a light-hearted conversation. Judging by the way he’s smiling at me, I’d say he’s enjoying this as much as I am.
“She’s smart, cute, funny. Every time I kiss her, I feel it for hours after, like she leaves some electric pulse on my lips.”
“Maybe she’s poison.”
“Fine by me.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table and his gaze latched onto mine. “I’d risk death for the chance to have her lips on me again.”
I find myself meeting him halfway as if his words have pulled me in, and he presses his mouth to mine. A toe-curling hum vibrates from his mouth before he pulls away.
“She sounds pretty extraordinary,” I mumble through the haze of desire his kiss casts over me.
“Oh, she is. Matter of fact, if—”
A young girl knocks into the back of his chair as she’s being sat with her parents behind him. Milo scoots his chair forward, and the man—I assume the girl’s father—apologizes in Spanish. Milo graciously accepts then turns back to me.
The little girl’s gaze slides to mine, and for a moment, I’m captivated by her wide stare. She’s probably never seen anyone who looks like me. I don’t want to scare her, so I smile and she smiles back. I wonder how old she is. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s younger than Milo’s little brother Julian. Five, maybe? Her mother snaps at her in Spanish, and the girl whips around to face her parents again as they talk amongst themselves.
I remember where I was when I was her age.
Hours that bled into days and weeks into months spent alone in a bedroom with nothing to occupy me outside of Señora’s books and daily visits. I had no idea back then that I was missing out on an entire world beyond the walls of that room. I had no clue that my childhood was being ripped from me.
“You want one?”
I focus on Milo, whose gaze is firmly on mine, and I wonder how long he’s been watching me like that. “What?”
He jerks his chin toward the girl. “A kid. You think you’ll want one someday?”
A margarita glass the size of both of my hands put together is placed in front of me, and a Coke in front of Milo.
He asks me if I know what I want, and I give him permission to order for me. Knocked off guard by the reminder of my past and Milo’s question about kids, I sit back, stare at the view, and sip the sweet and sour frozen concoction. He hands the waitress our menus and refocuses on me.
“I don’t know how to be a mother.”
His smile is sad. “I think you’re wrong. What happened to you . . .” He looks around then leans forward, and I do the same. “The upside to it is you have more compassion than anyone I’ve ever met. You love so easily. You’d make a fantastic mom.”
I hide my smile and flaming cheeks behind the large margarita glass and sip while going over Milo’s words. “Maybe. If things were different. But not like this.”
“No.” He leans back and tilts his head, looking at me. “Soon. I promise we’ll get back to LA, back to my brothers, and pick up the life we left behind. This”—he motions around us—“this is temporary. We’ll have a lifetime together after all this. Okay?”
I have no choice but to trust him. I have nowhere else to go, and even if I did, I’d never want to live a day without Milo, so I nod.
The restaurant never gets too crowded, but people come and go around us. If they’re staring at us, I’m too lost in Milo to notice. During our first course of ceviche, I see Milo’s eyes dart to the table behind me, and later during our scallops and seabass, he seems distracted by a group of men seated next to us. They were speaking in Spanish too quickly for me to understand, but clearly something they were saying was troubling Milo.
When the waitress clears our plates, Milo orders a beer and flan for dessert. I’m full but figure it doesn’t matter because he’ll eat most of it anyway.
“Want to dance?”
I jerk my eyes to his. “Here?”
He nods.
“Remember prom? I don’t know how to dance.”
“I’ll lead. You just hold on.” He offers me his hand.
After pulling me to my feet, he takes me to an empty part of the restaurant near the bar. The music is slow, and I don’t understand what the singer is saying nor do I care. Wrapped in Milo’s arms, nothing else matters. I’m content to simply hold on and sway. His big hands cradle me as he moves in what feels like a slow tease.
His nose nuzzles my neck. “I love how you taste right here.” He places a wet kiss at the sensitive spot beneath my ear, and I shiver in his arms. “I love how you respond when I touch you.”
I tilt my head. “Don’t stop.”
He brushes his nose against my throat and pulls the fabric of my dress aside to get access to my shoulder. His lips run back and forth, his tongue darting out for a taste, and my legs wobble.
“W-what’s this guy singing a-about?” I try to stay focused on the music rather than what Milo is doing to my neck.
“His pet cucumber.”
“What?”
He chuckles against my skin and continues with his torturous touch.
“That feels so good.”
“Hmmm.” He nips at my shoulder, neck, throat, and before too long, he’s practically holding me up.
“Milo . . .” I whisper.
His nose brushes the shell of my ear. “You ready to go?”
I nod a little too quickly, making him chuckle. “I just need to go to the bathroom.”
His dark brows drop low over his eyes. “Let me hurry and pay the bill and you can go at the hotel—”
I silence him with a kiss. “I’m only going to the bathroom.” I point in the direction of the restrooms I saw when we walked in. “I’ll be right there. You pay the bill, and I’ll meet you up front.”
He takes a good, hard look around and eventually nods. “Fine.”
I give him one last kiss and head to the bathroom, my face splitting in a ridiculous smile. I push open the door that reads Chicas. There are no other women in there, so I take a deep
breath and head to the first open stall.
Some time away from the compound is exactly what we needed. I thought I was losing him when really he’s planning to take us back to Los Angeles, away from his horrible father, back to Miguel and Julian and Laura and Chris. My mind pieces together our future. That one day I’d be lucky enough marry Milo and we could start a family is dream too big to fathom, yet I do it anyway.
A giddy feeling stirs in my stomach. I wash my hands, catching my reflection in the mirror—my face is pink from the margarita, and in the dim lighting, I look almost normal. I lean closer. White eyelashes, eyebrows, the whites of my eyes are a little red. I run my hands over my hair and push back the trickle of insecurity and grasp onto the hope that blooms in my chest. It’s been too long since I’ve felt excited about my future.
Maybe on the drive home, Milo and I can make plans, pick dates to go home. I’m sure he’s made enough money working for Esteban that we can get that apartment on the beach he spoke of before we left.
I’m practically floating when I head out of the bathroom, so stuck in a haze that I take a wrong turn and end up in the back of the restaurant by the kitchen. I whirl around and slam into a waiter who frantically apologizes in Spanish.
“It’s okay . . . um . . . mi culpa . . . lo siento.” My pulse throbs with panic. I tell myself I’m fine, that all I need to do is find my way back to the bathrooms.
I weave through tables and can’t help feeling as if I’ve been put on display as people stare with their forks and drinks suspended in the air. It’s only my imagination. Everyone isn’t staring at me. I tell myself this over and over as I scan the room, searching for the exit. My palms sweat and the walls close in. Fear grips my throat.
Remember what Laura said.
Focus on one person in the room.
Keep your mind on that one person.
That one person is Milo, but he’s not here.
I see the table we ate at is now empty and spin toward the direction of the door. One foot in front of the other, Mercy. Breathe . . . breathe . . . I see Milo’s tall frame towering above the tables, his back toward me as he faces the direction of the bathrooms. The vise grip on my lungs lets up, and I wipe my sweaty hands on my thighs. My feet can’t carry me fast enough.
