by Camilla Monk
“Your suitcase is in the closet,” she says, “and there’s a surprise for you in the bathroom.”
“Thank you . . . You really shouldn’t have.”
She comes closer and pulls me into a loose hug. “Antonio says I have to go. He’ll take me to the airport tonight. We’re going to his place in San Pancho.”
I pat her baby bump awkwardly. “Maybe it’s safer for your little lump. The man we’re looking for, he’s . . .”
“I know. Angel says Keasler is crazy. I think he’s actually afraid.” She giggles, but this time the joy doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I mean, Angel of all people . . .”
I understand then that it’s not just about telling me good-bye. She’s scared of losing that strange brother of hers, who sells antitank ammo but thinks the sloths breaking into his garden are after him, who gives and takes with equal ferocity. I return her hug in earnest. “It’s gonna be okay. If anyone can pull this off, it’s March and Dries. Plus Angel is gonna help us.”
“I know.” She sighs. “You’re still kids, all of you.”
I look at her curiously; it would have never crossed my mind to call someone like March a kid, much less Dries.
“Antonio, he understands,” she goes on, her gaze falling to the ample bump under her blouse, “that he can’t be a kid anymore.”
I’m tempted to contradict her, but maybe she’s not entirely wrong. Would I make the same choices if a little lump freeloaded on me? I think of my mother . . . who tried to flee with me to Tokyo, to escape Dries, to protect me. Did she decide to grow up too late?
“You should tell Angel that,” I eventually say. “Before you go, you should tell him you want him to leave the playground.”
Beatriz doesn’t answer. This time her nose bunches, and tears roll down her cheeks.
•••
She’s gone. Antonio dried Beatriz’s tears and took her to the car. Dries said he was a clown who once blew up his dining room with a bazooka, but the man who told me good-bye tonight was more than that. There was certainly a bit of playfulness in his brown eyes as he called me querida and made me promise to come to him if I ever got tired of March—thank God Beatriz took that joke well . . . But there was also gravity, when he asked me one last time if I wanted to change my mind.
I didn’t. I’ll stay a kid a little longer, but Antonio has officially become a dad.
After they were gone, I went to the bathroom at last. The tub was full and Beatriz’s surprise sat on a wicker armchair, wrapped in a red satin ribbon: an elegant black leather toiletry bag . . . filled to the brim with strange and wonderful things. I tossed a handful of bath bombs in the tub and dove in—or so to speak, because if you dive face-first into a stone tub, you die.
Soaking chin deep, lulled by the birdcalls echoing in the jungle, I relax completely. My body gives up, dissolves in the fragrant water. Through the sheer muslin curtains, I gaze at the darkened garden sculpted by the light of the torches, bloodred hibiscus flowers and leaves shivering in a soft breeze. It’s only been four days since my last bath, but those ninety-six hours have felt like an eternity. I died, and I was reborn since, so I indulge to celebrate this new start in life. I test every single product Beatriz gave me. Exfoliating gel, face cream, hand cream, foot cream: I spend at least an hour scrubbing and slathering every inch of my body with mysterious substances.
After I’m finished, I contemplate myself in the mirror with a sense of deep satisfaction, feeling clean, new. I wrap a fluffy white towel around my body and smile to myself when it brushes my now-baby-smooth legs. A blush creeps to my cheeks; I’ve shaved places I know I’ll sorely regret to have subjected to such treatment in a couple of days, but for now . . . the flat-chested, bruise-covered war prisoner looking back at me in the mirror is the epitome of sexy.
Prepare your old ass, Anies, for I wear pineapple lip balm and used a questionable Brazilian cream that claims it’ll make my nipples pinker: Island Chaptal is back!
When I step out of the bathroom, the first thing I notice is March’s navy jacket, neatly laid on the chaise longue. The window is still open, and through the milky veil of the curtains, I see him, standing on the terrace with his arms crossed, enjoying the garden’s quietude. He’s changed back into a perfectly pressed white shirt and dark jeans whose creases appear to have been ironed extensively—maybe to make up for the twenty minutes of hygienic hell Angel put him through. I tiptoe to him, but his sixth sense kicks in, and he turns around before I’ve even reached the window. Dammit.
A tender smile pinches his dimples when he sees me, and I feel myself melt a little. It’s the calm before the storm: by dawn, the Lions will receive the product of Angel’s directing efforts, and all the players will gather for a poker game where the loser gets nuked. Until then, I wish time could slow down. I want to be alone with him in that room forever, warm, safe. He walks to me and trails the back of his knuckles down my arm. Delicious shivers dance across my skin in the wake of his touch.
“Do you have everything you need?” he asks.
“Yeah, Beatriz spoiled me.”
“Excellent.” He’s still smiling, but there’s sadness lingering in his eyes, creasing lines on his brow. He knows it too, that we can’t stop time . . .
It could be the effect of the mysterious nipple cream, but gazing into in all that blue, I feel strong, happy, and I want the same for him. I want to share this feeling with him, reassure him that I love him, and that we’re gonna be okay, somehow.
I want us closer . . . connected.
I’m barely conscious of the movement of my hands undoing the towel. It slips from my body, falls to the floor with a whisper. The second after, the breeze raises goose bumps on my chest, and my shoulders jerk with the instinctive need to cover myself, but I don’t, because March is looking at my naked body, silent, his features frozen in an unreadable mask.
When he ducks his head and moves away, I think that maybe I was too bold and made a terrible mistake. He walks to the dimmer switch and grazes it. The light bathing me becomes comfortable darkness, dim rays streaking the room, licking my skin. Then he takes his phone from his jeans pocket and taps the screen twice before setting it on the desk. A faint buzz signals that the volume has been turned off. I swallow softly.
He returns to me, and this time I’m no longer afraid. His hands glide around my waist, down to the back of my legs, to pick me up. I look up at his jaw, outlined by a ray of light, as he carries me to the bed and lays me down on the mattress carefully. My pulse is thrumming fast under my temples in breathless anticipation.
March sits by my side and bends to brush his lips to my forehead, trailing down my nose, my lips. He pauses to kiss me deeply before his mouth resumes its journey. I arch against him when he reaches my neck. My hands fumble blindly for the buttons of his shirt; he helps me, and soon it slides down his shoulders. I smell soap and warm skin, something that’s just him. The moment my palms splay on the warm rug on his chest, an ecstatic grin tugs at my cheeks. I stroke those silky, springy curls over and over while, in a moment of pure transgression, March tosses his shirt on a nearby armchair. It lies in a heap, wrinkled. I register the rustle of his belt sliding out of the loops of his jeans before it joins the shirt, similarly discarded.
When his mouth finds mine again, there’s no longer any doubt that we’re past folding things. Past self-control. I wrap my arms around his neck as his lips seek mine, tugging and nibbling. I taste the mint on his tongue, and I want more. Slowly, he lifts me up until I’m straddling his lap. I caress his hair and let my fingertips trail down to the lion on his shoulder while we break the kiss to catch our breaths.
I smile against the corner of his mouth. “I love you, Mr. November . . . and I really want you naked.”
March buries his face in my neck, his voice down to a husky sigh as he replies, “I love you too . . . I love you . . . so much.”
Those precious words wash over me like a warm wave, seep under my skin, and I hold on to him as he
moves atop me. His lips barely leave mine as the rest of his clothes hit the floor. It’s official: I’ve introduced a little spark of chaos into the perfect order of his life, and I have no regrets.
It’s exactly the way I dreamed it, his skin merging with mine, heated kisses and soft bites as he works his way down, exploring sensitive territory that’s entirely his. I throw my head back, and my fingers dig into his scalp when his head disappears under the covers. His hands linger on my breasts, unwilling to let go of the prize, but his mouth . . . Oh my God . . . Yes, it’s definitely going down. A trembling exhale makes my stomach dip when his lips graze my inner thigh. My hands reach for his, gripping them tight.
An appreciative growl rises from under the comforter, before I see stars and fuzzy unicorns. Disjointed thoughts collide in my mind like a chime; I wonder if he knows exactly where and how to touch me because we’ve done this before. Then I can’t think anymore. There’s pure sunshine between my legs, pulsing through my veins. Bright spots dance under my eyelids, and inside me, something coils and coils . . . My mouth parts in a silent scream until sounds overflow and spill from my lips, culminating in a high-pitched moan. It’s over too soon, and I crash back to Earth, in the bed, still holding March’s hands with a trembling grip.
As he emerges from under the covers, a knowing smile on his lips, I take several gulps of air. My body goes limp, spent from the high—except for my legs; they’re still shaking a little. March molds his body to mine, nuzzling my neck and stroking my thigh while I recover.
“How do you feel?” he asks, his voice laced with a suave undercurrent that tells me he already knows the answer to that question.
“Eeek!”
A thick silence falls in the bedroom. We look at each other.
“Th-that wasn’t me,” I stammer. The endorphins clouding my brain are now dissipating, quickly replaced by confusion.
March blinks. “I know, biscuit . . .”
“Eeeek!”
This time the plaintive squeak whips us both to a sitting position. We look around the room for the source of the noise.
I roll to the edge of the mattress. “I think it’s coming from under the bed.”
March gets up to check, and I indulge in some shameless ogling in spite of the gravity of the situation. That’s a damn fine butt . . . on a body that a Greek sculptor would have carved in marble for posterity. He kneels by the bed with a frown, his eyes scanning the shadows, until his eyebrows jump. I peer anxiously as he reaches under the bed and the squeaking intensifies. What the hell?
When March rises to his feet, my mouth falls open in silent shock, and two thoughts flash through my mind. The first one is that we are indeed cursed: dark forces work against us to ensure that I’ll never lose my virginity, and March will forever tread a path of thorns and utter frustration. The second one . . . is that someone needs to come up with a calendar of hot, naked men holding sloths. That stuff would sell like fake piercings at Hot Topic.
THIRTY-ONE
THE CROSS
Yep. A goddamn sloth.
In March’s arms, the furry little guy—I’m not entirely sure if it’s a he or a she, by the way: there’s nothing sticking out—has stopped squeaking and is now thrashing . . . very slowly. Its short legs pedal uselessly against March’s stomach while its lanky arms curl around his shoulders.
“Um . . . it must have sneaked in when I was in the bath. Beatriz told me they sometimes manage to enter the garden,” I venture. No wonder Angel hates them, if they hide under his bed too while he does . . . whatever it is that he does to women with those terrifying eyes of his.
March doesn’t reply. He stares down at the beatific smile permanently etched on the creature’s lips, his expression something halfway between befuddlement and dejection. The face of a modern Icarus who was about to touch the stars when a squeaking sloth burned his wings and sent him plummeting to the ground. My gaze trails to his lower body, and I bite my lower lip in disappointment. Yeah . . . everything is going down.
I leave the bed, pick up my towel from the floor, and cover myself. “I’ll dress and take him back to the trees. I’m sure he can find his way out.”
“I’m certain he will,” March concurs, in a flat, remote voice.
With a compassionate wince, I extend my arms and allow our unexpected voyeur to latch onto my body. “I’m really sorry about that . . . but I won’t be long,” I say, stroking the strangely rough fur covering the small body—maybe it’s a baby? The sloth is lighter than I expected and sort of . . . limp, like it’s barely holding on to me in spite of its long claws. I suppose it’s—understandably—freaked out.
A muscle tics in March’s jaw. “It’s . . . all right, biscuit. I suppose these things happen.”
I’m afraid the curse is actually ours alone, but I’m not going to tell him that because he looks crestfallen enough as it is. Better get the sloth to safety before it gets shot.
•••
I slipped on a pair of panties, a light cotton dress, and my sneakers to go free Hadrian—I decided that would be its name. I’m not sure why, but I think it sounds cute. Ignoring the strange or otherwise amused looks a few of Angel’s guards send my way, I hurry across the garden to the nearest tree. I don’t care what they think—or rather I prefer not to imagine—I have a sloth to save, and then I’m gonna run back to that bedroom, tear my clothes off, and jump on March! I’ll let him take the lead right afterward though, because obviously, he’s the most qualified of the two of us.
Dammit. The guards won’t stop staring at me . . . I hope no one actually ever mentions the incident in public. I’ll probably have to change my name and go prowl the badlands, alone on my Harley. Like a renegade.
Hadrian alerts me that we’ve found the perfect tree with a faint squeak. He’s right: a ground light gilds the rough bark, lighting up a path back into the safety of thick foliage. Just what we need. I help him latch to the trunk and watch him slowly climb up. I wiggle my forefinger at his departing butt and hiss, “Yeah, that’s right, back to the jungle, mister. And you’d better pray I don’t find you under my bed again!”
“What in the world are you doing, little Island?”
I whirl around in mild panic. Sweet Jesus, there’s a witness to eliminate! Dries is standing on the lawn a few feet away, shadowed by a pair of palm trees. When he moves into the light, I notice that he too must have been chilling a bit. His white shirt hangs lose over a pair of linen slacks.
“Um, I was just . . .” I shake my head to collect myself. “We found a sloth in our room, and I went to help him back into the trees.”
His eyes turn to slits. “We?”
“March and I,” I clarify.
Under his silvery beard, his lips go thin. “I see . . .”
I give a tentative smile. “You don’t need to be like that, you know.”
“You mean a responsible, concerned parent?”
Uncontrollable laughter shakes my frame in response, and it takes me a good thirty seconds to recover under Dries’s irritated stare. “Sorry . . . sorry about that. But yeah, what I’m trying to say is that you don’t need to play dad. I’m old enough to—”
“You’re vulnerable.”
I blink in surprise. There’s no contempt to be found in his admission, only raw anguish. Deep lines of worry wrinkle his brow, crease his eyelids, and I recall with a shiver the way he exploded back in Finland, when he realized what Anies had done to me. It’s easy to forget that Dries is a human being because he hides it so well most of the time; everything seems to glide over him like on the scales of a fish. But it doesn’t. The pain, the blood, it ravages him from the inside, and I see that devastation now, carving its way out.
I glance back at the darkened window and the room in which March still awaits. Such is our curse . . . I sigh and take a step toward Dries. “Do you want to walk?”
He gives me his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, and we tread in silence across Angel’s lawn, away from the ground light
s and the guard, in the comfort of obscurity. We eventually sit together under a tree, near a patch of fragrant orchids.
“Think of it this way,” I say as Dries settles against the trunk, stretching his legs in the grass. “I could have fallen madly in love with Angel. Wouldn’t that be marginally worse?”
“I should have strangled him with his own cross back there.” He grunts.
“His cross?”
“He hides it under his shirt. He’s a Catholic.” He spits that last word like it’s actually worse than being an arms dealer.
I shrug. “Okay . . . whatever floats his boat. What I mean is that I’m an adult, I make choices, for better or worse, and you can’t protect me from everything and everyone. Also you don’t get to criticize March when you banged the flight attendant practically right under our noses. I can’t believe you did that . . . Seriously!”
His lips curl in the dark. “She was a fine little thing.”
I let myself fall on the lawn. “Can you at least feign contrition?”
“I never apologize.” He chuckles. “That’s my religion.”
I let his words sink in, gazing at the star-studded night sky, the crushing beauty of space one can only witness in the absence of any light pollution. “Dries.”
“Little Island.”
“What happened with Alexander Morgan? With his family?”
He doesn’t say anything at first. I register some rustling, and he moves to lie by my side. “I was under the impression that you already knew . . .”
A wave of sadness washes over me, that numbs me, engulfs me whole. “March said you had Morgan’s family killed when he was twenty-two. His parents and his little sister. He said that Morgan tried to use me to take revenge on you, and you shot him, and you . . . you took his eye out to punish him.” My eyelids briefly flutter shut as I remember those minutes of overpowering fear I spent alone with Morgan and his demons, back in the dark room. “I think that’s why he went crazy.”
