I run a hand up her torso, feeling her smooth stomach and her pebble-hard nipple. I massage her tit as my other hand opens her up and I run my tongue up her center. She cries out at the sensation and I feel a really stupid surge of pride. It’s a guy thing. Nothing turns us on like knowing we can turn our woman on.
I focus my attentions on her clit, the texture of my tongue making her writhe. She’s grinding against my mouth, and I’ve got a handful of the best tits this side of the equator. My dick is rock hard again. I reach down and stroke myself a couple of times as Beth begins to plead with me, “God, Juan, please make me come. Please.”
I give her one last lick and pinch her nipple then reach over to the nightstand and pull out a condom. At the rate we’re going, I’ll have to ask one of the guys to make a trip to the store for me tomorrow.
I stand up, looking at her hazy eyes as I roll on the condom. I lean down, put my hands under her arms, and scoot her farther up the bed. Then I lie between her legs, hooking one of her knees over my arm as I tenderly kiss the inside of her thigh. She runs her fingers through my hair and smiles down at me.
I come up level with her and kiss her lips. “Te amo, mi corazon,” I whisper.
“Forever,” she answers as I plunge into her and we both fly higher than any drug could ever take this mafia prince and his girl.
Afterwards, I lie with her in my arms, softly stroking strands of her hair as she dozes, one soft leg thrown over mine, her arm across my abs, her head on my chest. I take a snapshot in my head, something I’ve done many times since I was a teen who lost his world. I take snapshots of the bad things and snapshots of the good, few as there’ve been. I take a snapshot of this and file it away in my head. It’s in a drawer that’s labeled simply “Beth,” because all my memories of her go in that drawer, and it is the most precious selection of mental photos I have.
Just as people are separated because of wars, because of illness, because of death, Beth and I will be separated because of circumstances out of our control. But even a few days ago, I would have never dreamed I’d get the chance to make love to Beth Garcia. That I would get the brief moment in time to touch her skin, taste her mouth, smell her hair, be inside her. I will cling to those memories for the rest of my life, and no matter what happens to me—prison, death, utter isolation—I won’t regret it, because I had her. For one brilliant, sparkling moment, I had her.
* * *
1 Siesta = rest time
THE days at Miguel’s compound merge in a blur of sex, food, and time at the pool. If I weren’t a prisoner I could almost enjoy it. A tropical vacation. But the ever-present armed guards along with the lack of other people to talk to make it an uncomfortable experience. Luckily, Miguel fulfills his promise that I can call my parents.
My mother is hysterical, but when I tell her that I’ve been treated like a princess and that I’ll be home in just a week or so, she calms down some. My father is ready to get Gabe and David and my oldest brother Tomás and fly down here like some sort of paramilitary operation. I explain to him that it would be a really bad idea, and he relents, but only if I can call each day to prove to them I’m still alive and well. I ask Miguel, and he agrees.
Whenever I question Juan about the details of returning to the US, he deflects with generalities or starts undressing me and derails the whole conversation. He continues to spend much of each day with Miguel, and I can’t understand why if we’re going to leave. What is the purpose of learning the family business if he’s not going to be working in it? Juan says simply that Miguel wants to get to know his son, so they spend time together and of course they talk business since that’s all Miguel really does with his days.
Deep down, I sense that there’s something Juan isn’t telling me, but we’ve been through so much and salvation is so close that I don’t want to believe that anything else can go wrong. I want to imagine a happy ending for me and the man I’ve given my whole heart to. I ignore the warning signs, I deny the misgivings, and I make a conscious choice to live in the now, in the warmth and the luxury, and most of all, in Juan’s arms, which hold me so tight and bring me such pleasure.
Finally, eight days after we were brought to Miguel’s compound, Juan comes into the suite at six o’clock like he usually does.
“Hey, linda, you here?” he calls as he enters.
I walk in from the balcony where I’ve been reading. “Hi,” I beam at him as I run across the room and jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist and kissing him with all the pent-up energy I’ve acquired over the dull day.
“Wow,” he says as he sets me down and looks at my smiling face. “Is that because you’re so crazy about me or just glad to have someone to talk to?”
I sigh. “A little of each, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I got some news you’re going to want to hear then.”
I move to the balcony and sit down as he grabs a beer out of the mini fridge then joins me.
“So? What is it?” I ask fidgeting in my chair. There is so little variation to my days here that the smallest glimpse of something different makes me antsy with anticipation.
“Mmm. Give me some more sugar and then I’ll tell you.” He taps his lips, indicating where he wants it.
I narrow my eyes at him but lean forward, slipping out my tongue and running it along his top lip before I take his bottom one between my teeth and slowly apply pressure.
“Shit,” he mumbles around my mouth. “Okay, you win.”
I lean back, smirking. “Don’t try to blackmail me, mafia man. I’ll always win.”
He smiles. “I’m not worried. When you hear the news, you’ll be all over me.”
“Just tell me!” I harp impatiently.
“We’re leaving for the border in the morning, linda. Tomorrow night, you’ll be back in the States.”
I scream so loudly that it echoes around the property. Then I throw myself at Juan, toppling both of us and his chair to the floor.
“Fuck,” Juan complains, rubbing his elbow that took the brunt of our fall.
“I’m sorry.” I can’t help but giggle. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to. Here, let me kiss it better.” I take his arm and start kissing it up and down until one thing leads to another and we christen one of the few surfaces we haven’t yet had sex on—the hard, tile floor of the balcony.
That night, at dinner, I decide to brave speaking to Miguel. I don’t want to jinx anything, but I really feel I need to thank him for allowing us to go home. He might be a criminal and a violent man, but he must love his son and want what’s best for him. I can’t ignore that. I love Juan too. We have that in common.
“Señor?” I say quietly as some of the guests at the other end of the table are engaged laughing at a joke.
“Yes?” he answers, pausing in cutting his steak.
“I wanted to thank you for tomorrow.”
He nods once. “You should thank Juan. He’s the one who arranged the trip for you.”
“Yes, but you’re the one who allowed it. And I know it will be hard to have him leave again so soon after getting reacquainted, but it really will be for the best. I’m going to make sure that he has a wonderful life in the US, Señor Ybarra. Now that he’s free of the RH, he can really start his life, and I’ll be there with him for every step.”
Miguel looks at me strangely and then down the table at Juan, who is listening politely to one of the employees telling a story. Juan must feel the scrutiny because he looks up at his father then at me. I grin at him and he gives me a weak smile in return before looking back at his father, something desperate bleeding in his eyes.
Miguel turns to me again. “I’m glad to hear that. And I agree. Juan is going to have a very good life. The life he deserves.”
I keep the politeness glued on my face but watch Juan carefully. Something in the way he looked at Miguel was wrong. Something in the way Miguel looked at me was wrong. Deep in my heart, I feel an odd ache begin, and it isn’t much longer before I
excuse myself from the meal early. Upstairs, I lie down on the bed and pray that Juan and I will survive the trip to the border, because I don’t trust Miguel Ybarra and I know that something about tomorrow isn’t what he says.
BETH has gone to the suite early, and my father calls me to his office after dinner.
“Come. Sit,” he gestures at a chair.
I do as he asks, waiting silently for what he has to say. I remember the way he looked at me at dinner and I know this has to be about something Beth said to him. I’ve tried to always sit between them during meals, but tonight, there were extra guests, and while I was working to make nice with some cabron who owns a shipping line we want to use for transport, my father invited Beth to sit right down next to him.
“I had an interesting conversation with your young lady,” Miguel tells me.
“Oh yeah?” I answer, trying to appear nonchalant.
“It seems that she doesn’t know she is the only one going home tomorrow.”
“And did you fill her in on the realities?” I ask, my heart beating hard.
“No. That is between you and Ms. Garcia, but I need your assurance that there won’t be a mess to clean up at the border tomorrow.”
“There won’t be. I haven’t told her because it would cause problems. She won’t want to leave without me and she needs to. But I’ve arranged it with her brother. He knows what will happen and how he needs to handle it.”
My father nods, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Bueno. I’ll trust your judgment on this. But please remember that I am concerned for your safety. Any scenes that draw attention to you will endanger you—and your young lady.”
I give him a nod and stand. “I won’t forget,” I say, wondering whether my safety is most in danger from his enemies or from him.
As my hand reaches for the doorknob, he speaks one last time. “I’m sorry, Juan, that you feel you must send her home. Hopefully, in time, you will find other things to take her place.”
I don’t answer as I walk out and quietly shut the door behind me. In that moment, I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone or anything in my life. If he really knew me, if he really cared about me, he would realize that nothing in this world or the next will ever take Beth’s place.
THE next morning dawns muggy and tropical. I’m full of jitters, anxious to get to my family so they can stop worrying, curious to see where in Mexico I’ve actually been for the last week, and concerned about whether the trip to the border is going to go as it’s supposed to. Juan and I wake up before six a.m., and he makes love to me so tenderly and poignantly that I am nearly in tears afterwards.
“What’s wrong, linda?” he whispers as our bodies stop shuddering, our orgasms fading into the soft light of the dawn.
I bite my lip, trying to hold the tears at bay. He looks at me with deep, sad eyes and softly strokes my cheek.
“Is everything okay? Will today go like it’s supposed to? I’m scared. It feels like something terrible is about to happen.”
He kisses me on the lips, breathing me in deeply as if I’m the very air he needs to live. “Everything is fine, and it’s going to go exactly how it needs to. Don’t worry, linda. You’re going home, and you’re the love of my life.”
I gulp and paste on a watery smile. “I love you, Juan. I will always love you.”
We kiss again before he pulls out of me and leaves me feeling empty and lost. After dressing, we go straight to breakfast, where Miguel sits waiting for us.
“1Buenos dias,” he says as we enter the solarium.
Juan nods and goes to the buffet table to make a plate.
Miguel takes a sip of coffee then says, “Juan, all of the paperwork you’ll need is in the car. I’ll be sending two escort cars with you, and we have friends in the policia to watch your route along the way. All together, you will have ten men with you, and another four will meet you at the border in Laredo with Ms. Garcia’s parents and her brother David.”
I cough as the juice Juan brought me sticks in my throat. “Is all of that really necessary?” I ask quietly once I’ve recovered, looking between the two men.
“Unfortunately, it is,” Miguel replies. “If certain enemies of mine knew that my son and his girlfriend were traveling ten hours through much of the length of Mexico, they would very much want to take that opportunity to hurt me. The escort and personnel are for your protection.”
Juan doesn’t respond to or look at his father. He simply keeps eating.
I tell Miguel, “I understand. Thank you for looking out for us.”
“It’s a father’s job. I can never make up for the many years that I was unable to protect Juan, but I will make sure to do so from now on.”
Once we finish breakfast, I walk with Juan to the front of the house, where the requisite big, black SUV is waiting for us, flanked by two equally dark sedans. All three cars have Miguel’s men standing outside, waiting, lined up like the American Secret Service. I stifle a shiver at the thought of all those guns.
Juan helps me into the car then leans over and gives me a chaste kiss. “Give me a minute to talk to my father?”
“Sure,” I reply.
He walks up the stairs to the front door, where Miguel is standing, his expression somber. I marvel for a moment at how alike they look. Juan is slightly taller and thinner than his father, his limbs longer, but the eyes, the hair, and the tense way they hold their jaws are very much the same. Miguel speaks to Juan for a moment, Juan listening, arms folded and head down. One curt nod by Juan, and he and Miguel shake hands before Miguel takes Juan’s face between his palms and kisses him on each cheek.
Juan turns and trots down the stairs. As he comes toward me, I see him surreptitiously wipe at his face, and I wonder if anyone else has noticed. Once he’s in the car, the entourage gets into the other vehicles and the driver of our car starts up the engine. We roll forward, sandwiched between Miguel’s cars and Miguel’s men, and as I watch Juan while he looks out the window at the mansion receding behind us, I wonder if we’ll ever truly be free of Miguel Ybarra.
Ten hours is a very long ride when your boyfriend doesn’t want to talk. I try to engage Juan, but he has retreated into silence. He holds my hand and watches the landscape speed by. At some point, we both sleep, and when I wake, he is watching me, his eyes pinned to my face, his breath soft on my eyelids and cheeks.
“Hi,” I say, squeezing his hand that has held mine since we left Miguel’s.
“Have I told you you’re beautiful?” he asks.
I laugh. “Yes. At least a thousand times in the last week.”
“Well, it can’t be said too much. You’ve always been the prettiest girl I know.”
“Did you think about me…when we were younger? Did you ever want to date me or wonder about us being together when we got older?”
He huffs out a laugh. “I told you I had a thing for you when we were kids.”
“Yeah, but a thing could just mean, when you saw me in a miniskirt, you thought, ‘Hmm not bad,’ or it could mean you were dreaming about growing up and marrying me.” I wink at him.
He scratches his neck, looking awkward for a moment. “The second thing,” he mutters.
“What?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I heard him clearly.
“I spent a lot of time dreaming about growing up and marrying you.”
“Seriously?”
He rolls his eyes, and looks irritated. “Yes. Seriously.”
“Oh my God, that’s so sweet,” I cry, a feeling of triumph coursing through me.
“Don’t get too full of yourself,” he tells me. “I also dreamed about driving a Ferrari, having a mansion in San Antonio, and going to law school at UT.”
“And you can have all those things,” I tell him. “Now that you’ve got this chance at freedom and a fresh start, anything is possible, Juan.”
The mask descends over his face, blankness taking over from the animation of moments before. “Whatever you say, linda,” he answ
ers, his voice raspy like he’s swallowed a mouthful of sand.
He turns back to the window and I’m left in the silence once more.
* * *
1 Buenos dias = Good morning
WE ride on the desolate highways of Central and then Northern Mexico. They’re nothing like the highways in the US—no traffic jams of individual cars. You’ll find plenty of that in the cities, but out on the highway it’s mostly run-down buses and the occasional wealthy traveler, which oddly I’m one of.
Beth’s questions about what I thought of her when we were kids sends shards of pain through my chest. When I remember who we were—our innocence and hopefulness—it’s crushing to realize where we’ve ended up today. Here on this abandoned road, speeding toward the final act in our short-lived time together.
I turn away from her unable to watch her beautiful face, knowing what I’m about to do. I’m not a good person. In the seven years since Beth knew me last I’ve beaten people, stolen from people, used people, threatened people, and yes, I’ve killed people. I’ve done anything and everything I needed to in order to survive. It’s not pretty, it’s not the kind of thing you can wrap a bow around and call it good. There is no looking away from it. And once again, there will be no looking away today.
But God, how I wish I could. How I wish I could turn a blind eye to what’s about to happen, to the deceit, the betrayal, the tragedy that will become of my love for Beth. Because, make no mistake about it, this time my actions don’t come from my need to survive. This time they come from my need to see her survive. As long as I know she is safe, I don’t need anything else in my life. And for as long as I live, I will know that I did the right thing—the only thing, the loving thing.
If only it didn’t hurt. So. Damn. Much.
We get to Nuevo Laredo at about six p.m., and as we crawl through the border town traffic, my heart rate increases mile by mile. When I see the bridge looming before us, one of the cell phones in the car rings. Ryan, who is sitting in the front seat, answers and has a short conversation in Spanish. He confirms with the caller that we’re near the point of entry. When he hangs up, he turns to look at Juan.
Buried (Hiding From Love #3) Page 14
