Her eyes didn’t flicker my way once but she felt my presence. “Annie,” I barked.
Her eyes didn’t leave the screen as a new trailer for an upcoming movie flashed on the screen. Instead, she waved her hands in my direction, dismissing me. “Shh. The movie is about to start.”
I stood there, towering over her but her stubbornness and my weak resolve won in the end. I lifted the blanket she had tucked beside her and sat down, my large frame barely fitting. I shook out the blanket, spreading it across to cover our thighs. I kept my eyes on her while she kept her eyes on that forsaken screen.
Just when I was ready to grab the tip if her chin and force her eyes to mine, her head fell against my shoulder, her hand sneaking out to find mine and lacing our fingers together. The movie started but I couldn’t even be bothered to spare anything outside of the car a glance.
If my eyes could focus on one thing for the rest of my life, it would be her, no qualms about it. In the dark, surrounded by people, she was the only thing I cared about.
By the end of the first movie, I had moved her onto my lap, my arms wrapped around her shoulders as I placed soft, whispering kisses against her neck.
She was irresistible to man who didn’t much want to resist.
My mom would have been forty years old today.
Every year since she died, her birthday had been something I dreaded. In the beginning years, this day brought out a mixture of anger and sadness in me. So damn angry that she was gone and that she didn’t take me with her. So damn sad that I had to live in a world where my favorite person didn’t exist.
When I was sixteen, things changed. I was in my second year of high school and working as many hours as I could at a local diner. I read The Count of Monte Cristo for the first time in my Honors English class and it gave me the courage to say what I wanted aloud, even if it was a whisper in the shower where no one else could hear. It became real then. He was going to pay for what he did to my mother, did to me.
The anger didn’t disappear but I focused more on my mother. Who she was. The things she liked. So, her birthday wasn’t tainted by him or what he did to her all of those years, or the fact that she wasn’t aging.
Her birthday became a tradition. A way to remember her in a way I knew she’d like. In a way, if she was still alive, we would spend the day anyway.
So, I took some of the money I had saved since I started working and I spent the day like I knew she would.
“First thing you need to make yourself feel beautiful is spending the day with your favorite person.” Her words hurt because she was gone and I no longer had a favorite person.
Her voice rang in my ear, a memory surfacing of me asking her what her perfect day looked like. “Nothing will make you feel lighter than getting your hair done. A cute new outfit will make you feel brand new. And lastly, although my favorite, is a killer pair of heels. All a woman needs is a killer pair of heels and the ability to confidently walk in them to make this world bow down to her.”
Six years ago, I started a tradition as a way to never let go of the first person who ever loved me. Every year, I got my split ends trimmed and my highlights touched up. I traded in jeans and t-shirts for something she would wear, usually something cute and flirty and way too revealing for my liking. I never wore the heels but I did own six pairs that made me feel amazing the total of thirty seconds it took to try them on.
This morning after Hector drove me into this city and I put in a few hours at the shooting range, I began my mother’s day. Getting lost in the hustle and bustle of the city, my first stop was at McNutt’s Cafe where I ordered an iced coffee and a quick sandwich. I ate it at the bar meanwhile I stared at the now empty stage wondering when the next poetry reading would be and living through the memories of the last one.
I could not get Eliza Reyes out of my head. She couldn’t have been up on that stage longer than an hour and somehow, she managed to change me. She made me see that there was beauty in weakness as well as in strength. Before her words, I didn’t know how my mom felt, being a victim of domestic abuse. When it didn’t happen to you, it was easy to judge. It was easy to say, “well if I was her, I would have just left.” It’s easy to see a woman being hurt by the hands of a man and question her. What did she see in him? How could she love him? Why was she still with him? I’m ashamed to think that as a kid and having to see what he did to her and having to take care of her after, that I wondered the same question. There wasn’t a day after that first night of taking my kid mask off and realizing what was going on that I didn’t beg for the two of us to run away. When I was eight and even during the last year when I was twelve, I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t leave, why she wouldn’t give us a chance at having a better life.
I didn’t understand my mom even now. I couldn’t. When I was younger, I was so mad that my tiny feet couldn’t fit into her shoes and now I was glad that I’ve never had to.
But it felt like I knew her better after listening to someone talk about their experience that felt so close to her experience. I realized now that her abuse didn’t define her life. She was so many things before she was a victim. She was a mother. She was a friend. She was a woman. She was a human.
That’s how she would want to be remembered by me. She would want me to remember the way she used to braid my hair after my nightly showers and rub my back when I didn’t feel good. She would want me to remember the look on her face as she kissed my face and left me with our neighbor when she went out for drinks with her friends. She would want me to remember all the things that made a woman beautiful. And she would want me to remember her heart, how big and impossibly full it was. She would never want me to remember her as a victim. And so I wouldn’t.
My next stop of the day was the salon. There were a few people ahead of me and I flipped through the few stylist magazines they had lying out. I had never wanted to do anything crazy with my hair; it was almost always up in a ponytail anyway.
A smile blossomed on my face and I quickly grabbed a magazine to cover it.
Shit.
Hector. I groaned internally. This was not a good time to be popping up in my head.
Hector, who always made it a mission to make my ponytail holders disappear. Apparently, the man liked my hair. The only thing I particularly liked about it was at night when we were lying down, he would let my hair down and run his fingers through the strands until I fell asleep.
I set the magazine down, dug my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and bent over so no one could see the smile I knew for sure would come with texting the man in my life.
Me: I have a question.
Him: I have an answer. One you probably won’t like.
I barely controlled the laugh that climbed up my throat. He had a point.
Me: What should I do with my hair?
He didn’t reply right away. In fact, he didn’t reply for a few minutes. So, I tried again.
Me: I was thinking bangs. Maybe a bob cut. Oooh, what about going all pink?
He didn’t text back. He called me.
“Yes,” I yell-whispered. I was not a fan of taking calls in public places especially inside of a business.
“Where are you?” he grunted, sounding distracted.
“At the salon,” I said, stepping out of the busy area of the shop.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my hair done,” I deadpanned. What else would I be doing at the salon?
He was quiet for a moment before I heard him inhale a deep breath and then let it go. “Would you like some company?”
My body froze as my heart kicked into overdrive. He was offering his time with me out in public. A very small part of me wanted to decline. This wasn’t about him or us or what the future held. It was about my mother. But I supposed it was time my two loves met.
“Yes,” I said a little too breathlessly because what the fuck?
Loves.
Love.
Hector. Is that what we were doing
? Love? How the hell was I supposed to know? I knew I cared about him. I knew that if I had to, I would kill for him. I would protect him against anything or anyone. In a few short months, I went from trying to kill him to waxing poetry about him every day.
I couldn’t deny it any longer. It was true. I was a goner.
“Annie,” he barked in my ear.
“Yes?” I asked, cringing at how high my voice had just climbed.
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t trust my voice right now so I hummed my yes.
“What salon are you at?”
After I told him the address, we hung up. A hairstylist called my name and I went to tuck my phone back into my jeans but it went off before I got the chance. I looked down and saw that Hector texted me back. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t change a thing about you, bonita.
Gag me was the first thing that came to mind but the butterflies in my stomach told a different story as they worked on perfecting their gymnastics routine.
When the stylist asked me what I wanted to be done today, I gritted my teeth to prevent smiling like I was high on drugs as I told her just a trim and my highlights touched up. My mom was right when she said that getting your hair done changed a woman’s world. It did make you feel brand new.
Thirty minutes later, with a much lighter head and a treatment of shampoo and conditioner that made my hair feel like I could walk on to a photoshoot for a commercial, I turned toward the door, catching sight of Hector immediately.
I was happy to see him, even though it had only been a few hours. Irritation settled in as I took him in. He wore that fitted hat again, pulling it down, masking his face. Not seeing those brown eyes felt like a hate crime against me.
I sauntered over to him. As soon as I reached him, I glided my hand in his and my heart did a little happy dance when he let me get away with it.
“I see you took my advice,” he said as we walked out of the salon.
I grunted in response. It was either that or grin so hard that my cheeks hurt. “Do you have anywhere else to go?” he asked, escorting me to the passenger seat of the Lexus.
I turned around before I got in. “I have a few places to go actually, so if you’re busy, you don’t have to—”
I was silenced by his hand grabbing me around the waist and nudging me in the car. “I’ll take you wherever you want,” he said before he shut my door and walked over to the driver’s side.
Before he could join me in the car, I crossed my legs tight hoping to relieve some of the want I had for him. Once he was in and buckled, he reached for my hand and placed my palm on top of his thigh, his hand covering my own. Well, there went that thought.
“Where to?” he asked as he pulled out of his parking spot.
“How do you always have a parking spot? In the city? It doesn’t matter if it’s late at night or in the middle of lunch hour.”
He shot me a wicked grin, answering without words; he had his ways.
“There’s this cute shopping center up by The Bellevue I want to go to.” I looked over at him to see his eyebrows raised in confusion. “What?” I asked defensively.
He squeezed my hand, effectively calming my ass down. “You don’t spend money,” he said, shrugging. “And I know any place that’s by The Bell is going to cost you a pretty penny.”
“I spend money,” I insisted half-heartedly.
He snorted. He actually snorted. “Fruity cereal does not count, bonita.”
I was quiet for a moment, wondering if I should tell him why today was different. In my silence, his thumb reached out to run soft circles on the top of my hand.
I already gave him my heart, what the hell was a little more?
“It’s my mom’s birthday,” I told him in a rush. His thumb froze on my skin and before I could even let out a deep breath, his thumb was back in motion. It might have been my imagination but I could’ve sworn his touch grew softer.
“She would have been forty today. And over the past couple of years, I started this tradition on her birthday. I spend the day doing things that she would have loved doing. Hair cuts and outfits and high heels.” My heart hurt speaking the words aloud and I think Hector knew that because he flipped my hand over and laced our fingers together before giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
We were both quiet as he drove deeper into the city. But I felt his hand in mine heavy almost feeling like he was holding my entire body in his. “The outfit you wore to the first poetry reading. Is that one you got on her birthday?”
I looked over to see his lips turned up in a smile. “Yes,” I said slowly, remembering his reaction to that outfit.
“Do you think you’re like her at all?” he asked as he pulled into a parking garage.
I wanted to say no. She and I, we were complete opposites. She liked shiny things; I didn’t. She cared about things like fashion and looking beautiful. I cared about justice and women and poetry. I cared about her. About people like her who haven’t lost the battle yet.
“I actually do,” I told Hector as we exited the car and started walking to the shopping center I had in mind. “Maybe she wasn’t good at protecting herself but she would be at the forefront of the battle for me and in a way, I guess for the past ten years or so, I have been preparing to do the same for her.”
Hector reclaimed my hand before giving it a squeeze.
He followed me from boutique to boutique, as patient as I had ever seen him and he had come into one too many close calls with the edge of my knife. I tried on skirts and dresses and rompers and anything else remotely cute. I showed Hector every single outfit which he offered no opinion on except for a single question almost every other outfit. “Are you planning to wear that outside of the house?” To which, I replied with an eye roll.
We made our way through the entire shopping center with only one store left. I was sifting through the racks with Hector following close behind. I jumped when I felt his hand at my hip. He leaned down, his chest coming into contact with my body and I shivered.
“Have you ever thought about combining your styles?”
I looked up at him over my shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“You and your mom’s,” he explained, turning around and starting to look through the racks of clothing. I bit my lip to fight the smile. Just like I had moments ago, he outstretched his hand once he found something he approved of with the intention of handing it to me. When I didn’t reach for it, he spared a glance at my amused expression before huffing and throwing the clothes over his own arm.
Twenty minutes later, he all but stuffed me and the clothes he picked out into a dressing room. All of his picks were a combination of what I tried on earlier today with some of my regular denim added into the mix. He picked out flowy tops with jean shorts. Some jean overalls and even some jean skirts.
When I tried on the first outfit, I fell in love. A black tight fitting midriff-baring tank and a pair of black jean short overalls. My almost nonexistent boobs looked amazing as did my legs, but most importantly the fabric. The fabric that I was used to made the outfit feel completely normal when it wasn’t something I would normally wear. I sat down on the tiny seat in the tiny room and fought the urge to cry.
I knew it wasn’t normal. I knew that someone knowing you, understanding you shouldn’t make you cry. But at the same time, there was a time not too long ago that I came to terms with that no one would know Annie. Hell, just a few months ago, I didn’t even know her.
A light knock sounded at the door. “You okay in there, bonita?” His voice was as soft as his knock. Fuck. I stood and walked over to the mirror and dabbed at my eyes, willing the tears to go away.
I opened the door instead of answering. His eyes searched mine and then dipped lower. I might have pushed my chest out a tiny bit. His eyes snapped up and his jaw clenched. “Do you like it?” I asked, batting my eyelashes.
His only response was a grunt. I tried on a few more of his selections and after the third one where I caught h
im readjusting his jeans, he said, “I trust your opinion.”
Tucked safely back into the dressing room, I let out a soft chuckle. The last outfit was the one. The jean shorts were a soft sage green color and the belt was wrapped in a bow in the front and the white flowy tank-top with a plunging neckline it was paired with was simple but elegant. I felt more naked than I did clothed. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, just different.
I didn’t show it to Hector. I was sure he would see it at a later time. I dressed back into my original clothes and we made our way to check out. He offered to carry the outfit and I let him. When it was our turn to pay, I grabbed my paper thin wallet out of my pocket to supply the cash I brought with me but when I looked up Hector had already paid the bill and was staring down at me in amusement, my bag of clothes tossed over this arm.
I took it, huffing. “I could have paid for my own stuff.”
“I know,” he said, opening the doors for me. “So could I. And I did.”
I felt my nostrils flare but any aggravation I had dissipated when he took my hand. When we tucked back into the Lexus, he asked me if I needed to go anywhere else.
I looked into his brown eyes and felt my chest caving in. My breaths didn’t come as easily. My hands shook so bad I detangled my hand from his. I needed to be anywhere else but with him.
I lied to Hector for the first time in a very long time. “Matt needs me back at the range for a few hours.”
His jaw tightened and his eyes averted from mine, knowing damn well his eyes were the truth and my lips were the lie. But I couldn’t feel regretful over it. The day with him had been so easy, so natural, so comfortable. But it had been hard. Hard not to lean into him. Hard not to rip that hat off and kiss him senseless. Hard not to tell him that I loved him.
When I walked into Philly Range, Matt stood in the lobby, his head tilted in confusion at my return. Without a word or second glance, I walked past him and straight into my office. I shut the door, grabbed one of the guns that needed cleaning and took it to my desk. I all but fell into my chair and I started to work. Or I tried to but my hands wouldn’t cooperate. My hands shook so bad, it was a miracle that I could hold the gun in them at all.
Hijacked Page 23
