She steeled herself against the sight. Her mother liked to drink, and she liked to cry. Sometimes she did both at the same time, and wiped down the already clean kitchen countertops while she did it.
If only she could wipe her conscience clean, Sonny thought ungraciously.
“Do you mind?” she asked, helping herself to a cup of coffee. The cream was out, in a stainless steel carafe, and a bowl of raw sugar sat atop the counter. She sipped experimentally then sighed with reluctant admiration. Anita Vasquez made a damned fine cup of coffee.
“I met a man,” she said.
Her mother’s brows lifted with surprise. “Really?” She patted the couch beside her. “Tell me about him.”
Sonny sat in a chair opposite the couch, instead. It was pokey and uncomfortable, but she stayed. “He lives in Torrey Pines. La Jolla, actually.”
Anita smiled, knowing that meant he was rich. “Is he handsome?”
“Yes,” she said. Too handsome for his own good. Or hers.
“What color eyes?”
Sonny looked down into her coffee cup, having seen the rich, dark color before she added cream. “Blue,” she said, changing the tone of the conversation. Standing, she took the picture from her pocket. “Here he is. Take a look.”
When her mother saw the photo of Arlen Matthews, she gasped.
Sonny sat back in her chair and drank more coffee. It was going to be a long day. “Why did you never tell me his name? Why would you keep that from me?”
Still reeling from shock, Anita remained silent.
“What did he do to you?” Sonny asked.
Anita looked out the window, across the flat expanse of land in the distance. In the eerie predawn light, the harsh surface of sand glowed gray-white, as ethereal as moondust. “Nothing that hasn’t been done before. Or since.”
“Was he the worst?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
“Why?”
Anita stood and washed her cup in the sink, drying it carefully before she set it aside. “You never understood. The men in my life have not been perfect, this I know. But they were not deliberately cruel.”
Rage licked through Sonny’s body, quick and hot, like a burst of flames. “Everett Moore wasn’t cruel?”
Anita regarded her with sad eyes. “No. He was sick.”
Sonny laughed, but the sound held no humor.
“Your father was cruel,” she said.
A hard, cold ball settled in the pit of her stomach. “Oh?”
“Some men have wicked tempers,” she continued. “Arlen did not. He would hit when he was in a good mood. He would just strike out, lightning fast, while he was watching a ball game, in midsentence. He would do terrible, unmentionable things, then light a cigarette and tell me to move out of his way, because I was blocking the TV.”
Sonny believed every word of it. And felt herself go dead inside.
Anita covered her mouth with one hand, remembering. “One day I came home from work early. I found Rigo curled up in the closet.” She choked back a sob. “Arlen had beaten and tortured him. He was only six years old.”
Sonny’s heart went out to her brother. He’d never told her. “What did you do?”
“I threatened to press charges if he didn’t leave.” Her expression was troubled, her mind far away. “After he was gone, I vowed to never mention him again.”
Sonny couldn’t help but stare. A new idea occurred to her, one more painful than her memories of Everett. “Is that why you hated me? Because of what my father did?”
Her mother’s face wilted with sorrow. “I never hated you, mija. I always loved you. I love you still.”
Sonny found those words impossible to refute. Yet how could she believe them when confronted with so much evidence to the contrary? Too many times, Anita had chosen a man over her own daughter. Too many times, she’d looked the other way.
Sonny rearranged her face to hide her emotions, something she’d become very good at. “What name was he going by then? Arlen what?”
“Diels,” her mother said softly. “Arlen Diels.”
CHAPTER 14
James opened the door for her, his hair sticking up all over the place, a fleece blanket around his thin shoulders. He rubbed his eyes in a measured lack of concern to see her, returned to his comfy spot on the couch, and proceeded to snooze.
Sonny tiptoed upstairs to Ben’s room. Finding the door unlocked, she entered quietly, determined not to wake him up. She was feeling too raw for sexual intimacy anyway, too emotional to look him in the eye.
But she needed something only he could give her.
After visiting her mother, she’d turned off her cell phone and disengaged the GPS. Grant couldn’t call her and he couldn’t track her. When he caught up with her, she’d be reprimanded, at the very least. Until then, she was going to treasure every stolen moment.
Ben slept like the dead, obviously. He was sprawled out on his back, one arm flung across the bed, the other lying on top of his chest. The comforter hung off the side of the bed. One leg, dark and hairy against the white sheets, was completely exposed.
She unbuttoned her jeans and let them fall to the floor, then hesitated at the hem of her T-shirt. Would he expect something from her if she came to his bed naked? Mired in self-doubt, she stood there, legs shaking, until fatigue overcame her. Pulling the T-shirt over her head, she crawled across his bed, succumbing to it. And to the overwhelming desire to explore his body, while he was asleep and vulnerable.
Very carefully, she pushed aside the comforter.
Beneath the dark blue cotton of his boxer shorts, his penis lay soft and thick, clearly outlined, impressive even in repose. He stirred, kicked the comforter off the bed completely, and rolled over onto his stomach.
The man looked as good from the back as he did from the front. His shoulders seemed to span more than half the width of the bed, his deltoids were well defined, and his butt was the stuff female masturbatory fantasies were made of.
She knew that paddling and swimming kept his upper body tight and right. Obviously, maintaining balance on a surfboard also required well-developed lower body muscles, all working together in perfect harmony.
Sonny imagined some of those muscles working, with him on top of her.
Unable to resist, she pushed down his shorts and eyeballed his sculpted buttocks like a voyeur. Below the waist, his skin was a shade lighter than his sun-browned back, and that paleness endeared her even as it added an illicit thrill. Sliding her palm over that masculine curve, she snuggled against him and fell asleep.
When she awoke several hours later, she was still lying on her side, her face pressed against his smooth back.
His body was tense. He was awake.
Moving her hand over his hip and down the front of his shorts, she discovered that he was not only awake but fully aroused. He must have been having some very sexy dreams, because so was she. The points of her breasts tingled, and between her legs she was already warm and moist, pulsing with sensation.
Even in sleep they turned each other on.
Instead of letting her explore, he took her hand and placed it over his flat stomach, covering it with his, stroking her fingers. Making a sound of longing, she placed a soft, openmouthed kiss between his shoulder blades, and he turned to face her.
Feeling vulnerable, Sonny ran a hand through her disheveled hair. She wished she could smooth over her emotions the same way, rearrange her face to show confidence and allure.
His eyes were hot on her skin, her breasts, her belly. From the set of his mouth and the hunger in his expression, she knew that he’d been awake and wanting her for a while.
Too nervous to speak, she hooked her thumbs in her panties and pushed them off. Lying back against the pillows, she offered herself to him in a gesture that needed no interpretation.
He reached into the nightstand and came up with a single condom. Suddenly as awkward as she, he stared at the foil-wrapped package as if it were a tot
ally foreign object he had no idea what to do with.
Sitting up, she took the wrapper from him, pressing her lips to the throbbing pulse point at the base of his throat. He closed his eyes, struggling with some inner demons, and she saw that he was shaking.
His uneasiness calmed her as nothing else could have. She stepped into the role of nurturer, soothing him as well as herself.
She motioned for him to take off his boxer shorts, which he did. Then she held out her arms, a silent invitation for him to come over her, and he did that, too. Neither of them saying a word, she rolled the condom down him in a slow caress, taking her time.
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he trapped her wandering hands. Put them over her head. Pinned them to the mattress.
She wouldn’t have allowed another man to restrain her, but with Ben, she felt excited, not overpowered. She wanted him on top of her. Inside her.
Moaning, she wrapped her legs around his waist, squirming beneath him, all but begging for him to come into her. He was right there, so close she could feel the blunt head of his erection throbbing at her body’s opening.
She lifted her hips, wanting to feel more.
With a strangled groan, he laced his fingers through hers and he pushed forward, filling her with one perfect thrust.
She gasped.
Nothing had prepared her for that moment. Not the intimate scene in the Jacuzzi. Not the sweet rasp of his tongue the night before.
It was too much. He was too big, too thick, too heavy, too masculine. The sensation was too intense, too emotional. She was on the verge of tears, and orgasm, and he hadn’t even touched the right spot.
Very deliberately, he released her hands.
Sobbing, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his throat, longing for the sweet torment to end, hoping it would go on forever.
Using the position to his advantage, he slid his hands underneath her, curling his fingers around her collarbone. With his body covering hers, he pulled back and thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt, again. And again.
She could feel every inch of him, stretching her, sliding into her, creating an impossibly arousing friction. She couldn’t stop herself from coming any more than she could keep from crying out loud.
He covered his mouth with hers, swallowing the sound. When she quieted, he raised his head to look at her, his eyes so full of wonder that she burst into tears.
Undeterred by her emotionalism, he just kept moving inside her, slow and easy, in no hurry to finish even though she already had. He watched her face, gauging her reactions, and soon she forgot her tears because he drove himself deep and hard and at just the right angle, hitting just the right spot.
She came again, almost immediately.
This time it was too much for him. Shuddering, he buried his head in the crook of her neck and let her skin muffle his cry as she convulsed around him.
Then it was over, much too soon, and he was heavy, sweaty, and spent.
Refusing to let herself bask in the warmth of his embrace, she pushed at his chest. “Get off me. You must weigh a thousand pounds.”
He lifted his head from her neck and smiled that sexy, crooked half smile of his. His eyes were still sleepy, his cheekbones flushed, and his hair was all messed up, damp at the edges. He’d never looked better.
And she could no longer deny what she’d known all along. She was in love with him. “Feeling smug, are you?”
That wiped the grin off his face. “Well, yes. I mean, I can do a lot better, actually. But you did come twice.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re proud of that? I can do that in the shower.”
Taking the hint, finally, that she needed some space, he heaved himself off her. His ego, among other things, much too large to be daunted by her insults, he whistled a snappy tune all the way to the bathroom while she curled up in a miserable ball, feeling sorry for herself.
So I’m in love with him, she told herself. So what?
He’ll never love you back, an annoying little voice returned.
Groaning, she buried her face under a pillow, trying to stifle it. In the bathroom, she heard him turn on the shower faucet, still whistling.
He’ll never love you back, once he knows…
Furious with herself, and with him, for being so goddamned cheerful, she got up, stormed into the bathroom, and wrenched open the shower door. She was going to put a stop to all this love bullshit right now. Nip it in the bud. Smother it in its infancy.
He was rinsing soap off himself, smiling lazily. “Need me again so soon?”
“My brother killed my stepfather for raping me.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, as if what she’d just said was average postcoital conversation. “Why don’t you come in here and tell me about it?”
Her body humming with determination, she stepped into the shower. “I was sixteen,” she said, wetting her hair and lathering it furiously. “Rigo was twenty-two. He wanted to be a famous soccer player. It was his life.” She leaned her head back, rinsing.
He handed her the conditioner.
“My mom was always working odd jobs. And shacking up with strange men.” She closed her eyes, rinsed the conditioner from her hair. “Everett, my stepfather, wasn’t the first one who…took a liking to me.” She barely noticed when he handed her some masculine-smelling shower gel, was unaware that she scrubbed a little too vigorously.
“I think you’re clean,” he said, taking the soap out of her hands.
She stared down at the drain, waiting for the water to run clear. “Some of them liked Rigo, too,” she murmured.
He shut off the faucet, wrapping a towel around his waist and another around her.
“We both grew up pretty fast. He looked out for me. I looked up to him.” She stepped out of the shower stall. “If not for Rigo, what Everett did would have happened a lot sooner. But he couldn’t be there to protect me every minute.”
She snuck a glance at Ben, expecting to see pity. Or disgust. What she saw was fury.
“Go on,” he said.
Sonny had told this part of the story many, many times. Social services and court officials had made her repeat it, again and again. Like always, she delivered the lines flatly, her voice free of emotion, mind carefully blank. “One day when I came home from school, Everett was waiting for me. Rigo had been going to the local community college, playing on their soccer team, and he had practice.” She looked through Ben, not really seeing him. “Everett followed me into my room. We scuffled. He slapped me, and I fell against my dresser.” Remembering the explosion of pain, she lifted her hand to the back of her head. “By the time he was finished, I was barely conscious.”
A lot was left unsaid, but she couldn’t bring herself to describe the fear, the helplessness, the shame of reliving that experience every time she gave herself to a nameless, faceless boy in hopes of dulling her senses.
When she raised her eyes to Ben, she saw that his expression was fierce. “How did your brother kill him?” he asked. “You said he beat me to it.”
“Rigo was doing thirty days for possession when he met up with Everett in LA County Jail. He’s never admitted it, but I think he got arrested on purpose. He stabbed Everett thirteen times with a sharpened pencil.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten years.”
“And he’s still in prison?”
Tears flooded her eyes. “He got a twenty-year sentence. They made an example of him. Called it a gang-style execution.”
Ben ran his hand through his hair. “How old was he?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Jesus. Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with the world? Did he appeal?”
“Yes, but he already had a criminal record, so that didn’t help. And Everett’s history was inadmissible.” She shivered, suddenly cold and very, very tired. “Sometimes I think what happened affected Rigo more than me. He blamed himself for not being there. Even before he got arrested, he was
n’t the same. He never played soccer again.”
Ben wrapped his arms around her, but her body was stiff and unyielding. “Tell me what you need from me.”
She lifted her head to look at him. “Breakfast?”
He leaned down to kiss her.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t deal with pity right now, Ben.”
“Good, because I’m not offering any.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“The same thing I’ve always been doing. Trying to get you out of your towel.”
She glanced away, gulped down her question. Then faced him and asked it anyway. “You still want me?”
He cupped her chin, ran his thumb alongside her jaw. “You amaze me. To have gone through all that, and come out like you did? I can’t fault your brother for murdering your stepfather. But it kills me to see you cry for him instead of yourself.”
She fought against his hold, tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her. “If not for me, Rigo wouldn’t have gone after Everett,” she whispered, voicing her secret guilt.
“No,” he insisted, meeting her eyes. “None of it happened because of you.”
She’d told herself the same thing a thousand times. The words didn’t erase the pain, or the guilt, but they helped. Just having him listen helped. Knowing he still wanted her helped.
She studied him carefully. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You think that five-minute romp satisfied me? Like you said, you can do better by yourself.” He placed a hand over his heart. “My pride as a man is at stake.”
“I didn’t mean what I said. It wasn’t that bad.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You just laid down the gauntlet.”
“Your ego knows no bounds,” she said in wonder.
He bent his knees to pick her up, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. He carried her to the bed and tossed her down on it, not trying to be gentle, not treating her like she was damaged goods, or an object that might break.
He stared at her for a moment, undecided, then turned to his chest of drawers and put on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt.
Crash Into Me Page 18
