Side Chick Nation

by Aya De León

  By five in the morning, they had a draft.

  “I think it still needs work,” Dulce said.

  “Of course it does,” Zavier said. “But the structure is there. We’ve managed to braid it together: your history, Borbón’s history, and the history of Puerto Rico that culminated in this disaster.”

  “I think the writing is really uneven,” Dulce said. “Your parts are much stronger.”

  “I disagree,” he said. “I think I have more of a homogenized journalism voice, while you have a more authentic voice. We can smooth that out later. Now need sleep.”

  The two of them crashed in the bed. Dulce was truly exhausted, and sleep overtook her quickly, but even as she sunk beneath its waves, she was acutely aware of Zavier’s body, like an infrared outline in her peripheral vision, pulsing with warmth and intensity.

  Chapter 25

  Much later that morning, Dulce woke up to the hissing of whispered conversation.

  “But I never said we were exclusive,” Zavier was saying in a hushed voice, and then he listened for a while.

  “No,” he said. “That was never our relationship. We always said—” He was sitting in a chair by the window, his body hunched away from her, as if he was hiding both the phone and the conversation.

  Of course. Of course he was too good to be true. Of course he had a girlfriend.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked. “I don’t care what the legal definition is. I care what we agreed to. Two people. You and me.”

  The “legal definition”? Did that mean he was married? Well that explained all his so-called gentlemanly behavior. Her sister had explained how that went. These dudes let the woman make the first move so later, when it came out that he was married, he could completely avoid taking responsibility.

  She slipped out of bed and peed by candlelight.

  When she came out, she picked up her few belongings. The water wallet. Her flip flops. She took a granola bar off the bureau.

  But what would she do about the most important thing she had left in that hotel room—her story? She couldn’t take the devices it was on. She quickly emailed a copy to herself and went to open the door.

  “Hey,” Zavier said, lowering the phone. “Where you going? I brought breakfast.”

  “I gotta go,” Dulce said.

  “What?” Zavier asked, standing up. As he walked after her, he hissed into the phone. “I gotta go. And this is not over.”

  “Dulce, wait!” He tossed the phone on the bed and hustled after her toward the stairwell.

  “Don’t bother,” she said.

  “What is up with you?” he asked.

  “What’s up with me?” she asked. “What’s up with whoever you were talking to on the phone?”

  She pushed open the door to the stairwell. He followed her.

  “You heard all that?” he asked, right on her heels as she hurried down the stairs. “Well, it’s not ideal, but we need to talk about it. I don’t think it really changes things.”

  “Don’t think it changes things?” She spun around to face him. “You don’t think it changes things if you’re married?” she asked. “Or have you forgotten that I specifically asked you about that in Santo Domingo?”

  “Married?” he asked.

  “Or wifed up some kinda way,” she said. “Maybe it’s okay with her if you fuck around, but it’s not okay with me.” She turned and got in his face: “I’ll use your words. ‘Relationship’ that’s not ‘exclusive.’” She made air quotes. “Isn’t that what you said? ‘Two people. You and me’?”

  For a moment he just looked at her, mouth open, brow furrowed in confusion. Then he began to laugh.

  “Oh you think it’s funny?” Dulce asked. “Fuck you.”

  She turned on her heel and began running down the stairs.

  “That was my editor,” Zavier hollered after her. “His name is Dave.”

  Dulce stopped. “Your what?”

  Zavier caught up with her. “That was my editor Dave back in New York,” he said. “He’s insisting that their paper has the right to the Borbón interview because I’m traveling on their dime, and you used the pass with our outlet to get into the press conference.”

  “You told Dave about the article?”

  “Hell no,” Zavier said. “I filed my story last night and I’ve been working with you on the low. But reporters gossip and somebody must have said something. Anyway, they’ll pay you freelance rates, but it’s nothing like if we’d been able to sell to one of the tabloids.”

  Dulce felt the good news/bad news mix of emotions. He didn’t have a wife or girlfriend? But she also couldn’t sell her story for top dollar?

  “Your editor Dave wants to run our piece?” she asked. “And I’ll get my name in the New York Times?”

  “If you want,” he said. “You wanna go with your real name?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said. “I can’t lie, I was looking forward to that money. But what’s going on here is bigger than me getting paid. If we tell Borbón’s story and weave it together the way we talked about, that’ll get people to learn about what’s happening here. And that’s probably more important than anything.”

  Zavier smiled slowly. “So you were mad?” he asked. “You were walking out because you thought I was married?”

  “Not necessarily married,” Dulce muttered, looking away from him.

  “Or in a serious relationship,” he said.

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “In other words, you like me?” he asked grinning.

  “Why you tryna make me say it first?” she asked.

  “Make you say it first?” he asked. “Chica, I came looking for you in a fucking hurricane. I broke the rules and smuggled you into my press situation, and you’re still wondering if I like you? I can’t believe how much I’m feeling you. And I’m up here trying not to make a move so I don’t seem like a dick, but yes, nena, I’m totally fucking liking you.”

  Dulce leaned in and kissed him, and he kissed back.

  The last time she’d made out with anyone was high school. Those boys descended on her, tongue out, their kisses like beach landings of an invading army. But not Zavier. She was intoxicated by his slowness. He kissed her like he was tasting her, like she was a confection, an elixir, a delicacy he’d been waiting all his life to taste. Her body flushed with the pleasure of it, and she found herself the one hungry for more.

  “Let’s go back to the room,” she murmured in his ear.

  “I hope everyone’s gone for the day,” he said.

  “I think they were,” Dulce breathed against his neck.

  The corridor was empty, and the two of them couldn’t keep their hands off each other as they stumbled, tangled in each other’s arms, to the door.

  Dulce reached behind her to open it, but she had the wrong room. She turned to check the number, and saw it was, in fact, the right room. But it was locked.

  “You have your key?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t have my key,” he said laughing. “I ran out without even my phone because the woman I’m feeling so much was walking out for no reason.”

  “Damn,” she said, and the two of them leaned against the door and caught their breath.

  They knocked on the door, but Zavier’s wish had come true, everyone else had cleared out.

  * * *

  Usually, getting a replacement key in a hotel was an easy task. But the key card encrypting system required electricity and the right staff person to do it, so it would take hours to get back into their room. Fortunately, the tablet was downstairs at the charging station, and they were able to work on the story while they waited.

  Before the hotel could make them a new key, one of their roommates returned, the woman photographer. The two of them followed her back into the room with the look of guilty schoolchildren.

  The photographer unceremoniously lay down on the other double bed and she was snoring in less than a minute.

  Zavier
’s phone was inside the room with over a dozen text messages from his editor.

  “They want to run the piece,” Zavier said. “What do you want the byline to be?”

  “Byline?” Dulce asked.

  “Who should we say wrote it?” he asked.

  Dulce looked at him and her face split into a grin. “Celia M. Reyes.”

  Zavier grinned back. “You wanna send a photo?”

  “Sure,” she said, and twisted her hair back into a knot. She stuck a pen into it to hold it in place. Then she pulled a sheet off the bed.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “My sister and I used to use sheets to take glamorous selfies,” Dulce said. “Like we had on ball gowns or some shit.”

  Dulce draped the sheet over one shoulder, then pulled her tank top down over the other arm, so it looked like she had a one-shoulder strap evening dress.

  “I’m watching and learning,” Zavier said. “Not sure where I’ll use this knowledge, but it’s lovely to watch.”

  Dulce laughed and shook her head.

  The room was mostly dim, so she posed near the window. As a final touch, she snatched up his sunglasses and put them on.

  “You look like a woman of mystery,” Zavier said.

  “Perfect,” Dulce said, and Zavier took the photo.

  “Are we really doing this?” she asked.

  “By this time tomorrow, everyone is going to be googling Celia M. Reyes, and some middle-aged postal worker in New Jersey is going to get a lot of unexpected emails.”

  Dulce threw back her head and laughed.

  “Shhh,” Zavier said, with a glance at the sleeping photographer. “You’ll wake the baby.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. His mouth hungrier this time, but like he wanted more of something he had already savored. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. She let the sheet fall to the floor, and he kissed her bare shoulder.

  “I think you dropped something, miss,” he said, grinning, pulling her tank top and bra strap back up.

  “Is that mine?” she said. “I don’t know if I really need that.”

  She had just reached down to pull up the tank and take it off, when they heard a keycard in the door.

  The two of them sprang apart, and Dulce pulled her shirt back down.

  The other woman reporter came back in. An androgynous young white woman with a mop of brown hair and muddy jeans.

  “Dave’s been freaking out,” she said, clearly oblivious to what had just been going on in the room. “Did you file that story yet?”

  “We cleared it up,” Zavier said.

  “He says he wants that paperwork ASAP,” the reporter said.

  “That’s right,” Zavier said. “They need all your paperwork before they can run it.”

  Half an hour later, Dulce handed Zavier a piece of paper with all her relevant information.

  He looked it over. “Dolores?” he said. “I remember, from the plane. Your real name.”

  “That’s my government name,” she said, with a sly smile. “My real name is Dulce.”

  “That’s what your family calls you?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  “What my family calls me is none of the New York Times’s business,” she said.

  “What if I want to make it my business?” he asked.

  “I would say that you are way too nosy,” she said. “But since you’re an investigative journalist, you should investigate.”

  “Where do you recommend that I begin?” he asked.

  Dulce shrugged. “You have the journalism degree,” she said. “You figure it out.” She glanced down at the laptop. “Now don’t we have a deadline?”

  He cut his eyes at her before he got back to work, and the two of them spent the rest of the day going over contracts and then doing edits and rewrites back and forth with the editor.

  They couldn’t get a moment alone. But they did finish the article.

  * * *

  That afternoon, the two of them stood around in the hotel lobby. Zavier had been on the phone, and Dulce was eating some crackers and spam.

  Zavier hung up the phone and walked over to her. “We got that santera interview,” he said.

  * * *

  On the way out of San Juan, Dulce saw how much progress had been made clearing the roads. The highways and major thoroughfares had been cleared. But the going was still slow, because most of the traffic signs were out. Even on back roads it took forever, because you never knew if there was supposed to be a stop sign that had been blown down. And the further out of the city they got, the more the roads were still blocked with debris.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time the driver pulled the van up in front of a small yellow house. The building looked like it was still in pretty good shape, although the roof of the porch had been destroyed. In the yard was a compact gray two-door car, flipped on its back like a turtle.

  He asked the van to wait as the two of them got out and walked up to the porch. Zavier knocked. No answer.

  “You looking for Doña Inez?” A middle-aged woman was walking down the rutted road holding the hand of a little boy. In a baby stroller, they pushed a pair of gallon jugs of water.

  “Sí señora,” Zavier said.

  “She’s in line for water,” the woman said. “It’ll be another two hours at least.”

  “Gracias,” he said.

  As she walked off, Zavier told the driver to come pick them up in time for curfew.

  The van drove away, and the two reporters looked at the now uncovered porch. Zavier took Dulce’s hand. “Let’s find a spot out of the sun.”

  They circled around the back of the house only to find a covered porch that was screened in. Miracle of miracles, on it was a sofa that was actually dry.

  The two of them sat for a moment and looked out on the ravaged landscape.

  “How come you’re so far away?” Zavier asked. He scooted closer on the couch.

  She leaned her head onto his shoulder.

  “How come you managed to smell so good in the middle of a fucking disaster?” he asked.

  Dulce laughed. “Doña Inez ain’t the only one that’s got some magic.”

  “Oh really?” he asked. “You gonna show me some magic?”

  He leaned forward and kissed her. First just gently with his lips, but then, softly, with his tongue, as well.

  “I don’t know,” she said, pulling back. “Aren’t we supposed to be journalists hard at work?”

  “Didn’t you hear what the lady said?” Zavier asked. “Our interview subject won’t be here for a couple hours. I think we need to put in some time rejuvenating ourselves.” He was kissing her neck now, her collarbone, her sternum.

  “Really?” she asked. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, you just smell so good,” he said. “I wonder how you might taste.”

  Dulce gasped, as he kissed his way down her chest, nuzzling both her breasts, sliding one hand up under her tank top and kissing the other nipple.

  She arched back on the couch, as he slid his tongue down the center line of her rib cage, licking her belly button, teasing his way down to the waistband of her shorts.

  When he pulled them down, it was more as if to savor the feeling of his fingers on her hips, her ass, her thighs. The shorts weren’t an obstacle, they were a tool of pleasure, as he slid the material down slowly against her skin, then snapping the elastic gently against the side of her ass that practically hung off the couch.

  She giggled, and he looked up.

  “Does that feel good?” he asked. “Can I please, please taste you, Dulce?”

  Her face was burning. She could barely inhale enough air to breathe her reply.

  “Yes,” she hissed.

  He slid the shorts down her legs, exposing her skin to the air, but kissing her belly, all the while. She was too far lost in the pleasure of his touch, both gentle and insistent. She didn’t care that her pubic hair was wild and overgrown, she just wanted
more of him. More of his lips, his fingers, his tongue.

  Achingly slowly, he made his way between her lips. He tangled his tongue in the jungle of hair, making a slow, curving path down.

  When he finally slid his tongue all the way in between, licking her clitoris, she sat up with a strangled moan that nearly stopped her breath.

  Her body was out of control. She felt hot and clenched and overwhelmed with the power of it. Suddenly the heat of passion turned to shame. What if she didn’t look right? Smell right? Taste right? The intensity of the feeling was too much. She felt too open.

  “Come inside me,” she gasped, and reached into his cargo shorts.

  He was surprised, but she felt him in her hands, rock hard.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Her face was raw need.

  He slid his own shorts down and entered her. Both of them gasping.

  She was back on familiar ground. A man above her. Inside her. But somehow it was all different still. She’d never felt this wet, at least not without lube. And as he stroked in and out, it wasn’t the same as previous times. He wasn’t the only one swollen. She felt the luscious pressure of her sex against his. With no threat of that sharper pleasure, she could melt into the couch with this feeling, swallowing his moans as he exploded inside her.

  And when he collapsed onto her chest, spent and panting, she felt a delicious satisfaction unlike any other she’d had before. Not the ecstasy of climax, but the rapture of intimacy, merging, bliss.

  A moment later, he roused himself from the stupor.

  “I can’t believe I—” he said. “What about birth control? I know my boy has a condom back at the hotel. I was planning on—”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “But people can’t get basic medicine here,” he said. “It’s not like we can just get Plan B.”

  “I’m on birth control,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Right. Cool.”

  “The shot,” she said.

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything as he pulled out and slid his shorts back up.

  She stood and pulled on her own shorts.

  Had this been a mistake? Should she have played dumb and pretended to be unprotected?