Against the Wall (25 page)

I also like her gorgeous tits, full and pink-tipped. I like the contrast of her nude form against my fully clothed one. It makes me feel powerful and in control. She's bare and vulnerable. I'm the aggressor, ready to master her body.

This idea gives rise to another, even darker one. There's a stretchy bit of elastic on the bed that was wrapped around the sleeping bag. I pick it up and secure her wrists together. Her eyes widen in shock and a pulse flutters at the base of her neck.

But she doesn't say no.

I lift her onto the countertop, buck-naked, wrists bound. Then I raise her arms over her head and loop them over the knob on an upper cabinet. She stays in that position, her breasts quivering with anticipation.

Damn.

The sight of her restrained and at my mercy is a huge turn-on. Maybe I shouldn't want to do something like this to her, but the illicit thrill is part of the draw. It's another fantasy I didn't know I had, another irresistible risk to take. She looks flushed and aroused, squirming with anticipation. I'm hard as a rock. My blood sings with adrenaline, as if I'm tagging her. I'm claiming this territory.

I take off my shirt because I'm getting hot. Like, really hot. Then I put my hands on her knees and part her thighs. She's wet between them, glistening for me. I cup her pretty tits and pinch her nipples, making her gasp. I'm hungry for a taste of that sweet pussy, so I sink to my knees before her. I used to think going down on a girl wasn't
firme
. As if real men only get head, they don't give it.

Stupid.

I lick the inside of her thigh and she whimpers. Making her beg is
firme
. I kiss her pussy lips and suck on her swollen clit. Then I fuck her with my fingers. She's slippery-hot, soaked with desire. I think she needs to come, really bad.

So do I.

I stand up and unbutton my pants, wiping my mouth. She stares at my cock as if it's a delicious treat and she's starving. Although I'm not huge or anything, I'm above average, and it's obvious that she likes what I've got. She wants it. I stroke myself slowly while she watches, mesmerized.

“You like sucking my cock?”

Her eyes are smoky, sort of sex-glazed. “Yes.”

“Do you like it when I eat your pussy?”

She moans, arching her spine.

I fist my hand in her hair. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

I crush my mouth over hers, kissing her hotly. I was going to toy with her and get her off a few times before I put my cock in her, but I can't wait. Reaching up to unsnag her wrists from the cabinet knob, I move her from the countertop to the bed. She lays there with her arms stretched over her head and her legs spread wide, thighs trembling.

Jesus.

My hands shake as I put on a condom. I won't last two seconds inside her slick pussy without one. She bites down on her lower lip as I roll it over my aching shaft.

“Hurry,” she says, breathless.

I cover her mouth again as I thrust inside her. She cries out in pleasure and I feel a moment of panic. I'm too close, even with the damned condom on. She's too fucking sexy. Instead of banging away at her, I straighten to my knees. She stays on her back, panting for me. I lick my thumb and place it over her clit. She digs her heels into the mattress, thrashing her head back and forth. I keep working her in slow circles, petting her slippery bead. Then she clenches her stomach and screams.

Her pussy grips me like a wet fist. So tight. Fuck.

Everything is a blur after that. I grip her hips and use her hard, driving deep, pounding her into the mattress. I'm worried that the bed will break and the trailer will come crashing down, unable to support us. Then I'm too far gone to worry.

I kiss her and love her and fuck her, fuck her. I thrust all the way to the hilt and shudder, exploding deep inside her.

When it's over, I get rid of the condom and unwrap the elastic around her wrists. I don't know if what I did to her was artistic or not, but I got pretty creative. I curl up next to her, drawing her into my arms. Now she smells like sex and vanilla. I nuzzle the back of her neck and cup her perfect breast.

I fall asleep, just like that, close to heaven.

I wake at dawn, in Eric's arms.

His lips brush my bare shoulder, feather-light. Then he scoots away from me and rises from the bed. I stay in the cozy cocoon of the sleeping bag, admiring his tight butt as he pulls on a pair of jeans. They ride low on his hips, unbuttoned. Not bothering with a shirt or shoes, he leaves the trailer.

Although my bladder tells me it's time to get up, I'm still tired from last night. I feel deliciously well used, and a little embarrassed by my lack of inhibitions. He said and did such dirty things to me—and I couldn't get enough. Instead of shying away from him, I responded eagerly, begging for more.

My cheeks heat at the memory. I think he'll continue to push my boundaries, if I let him. I'll probably like it.

He returns to the trailer with his pants half-buttoned, his skin prickled from the cool morning air. I sit up in bed and the sleeping bag falls to my waist. His eyes darken at the sight of my bare breasts.

“I have to pee,” I say, ruining the mood.

He picks up my dress from the floor. “Scrappy should be here soon anyway.”

I guess that means I have to go. I crawl out of bed and put on my clothes before I duck into the bathroom. He brought in a bucket of water to fill up the toilet tank just so I could use it. When I come out, he's wearing his shirt. I lean against the countertop and watch him lace up his work boots.

Last night I asked him to show me his true self and not hide behind those hard edges. He did that, to some extent, but playing out a sexual fantasy isn't the same as opening up on an emotional level. He hasn't told me how he feels about me or made any plans for the future. Nothing is settled between us.

We walk out of the trailer together, into the early morning light. When he tries to kiss me, I brace my palms on his chest and turn my head to the side. His brows draw together in confusion. Jenny makes the same expression. It's adorable on her, too.

“What's wrong?”

I glance across the deserted junkyard, unsure of myself. I'm worried that he's going to break my heart again, mostly. I'm worried that he's ruined me for other men. I'm worried that I'll never get through to him, never build a lasting relationship with him, never find anyone else like him.

Maybe we're doomed, like the couple from the volcano story.

“Will you show me your car?” I ask.

He can't say no to such a simple request, so he takes me by the hand and leads me down the rows of cars. The junkyard looks sort of post-apocalyptic in the dawn light, scattered with the skeletons of abandoned vehicles. I search the area for the beat-up clunker he was so fond of, but I don't see it.

Then he stops in front of a car that looks pretty decent, and I realize that it's his Chevelle. “Oh my God,” I say, shocked by the transformation.

Back in the day, Eric's car was his pride and joy. Even I thought it was cool, and I'm not into vintage muscle cars. It was classic and tough but not too fancy for daily driving. Now it's road-ready again, in good shape.

“Is it finished?”

“Not quite,” he says, smoothing his palm along the hood. It's newly painted, gray with two broad black stripes to match the original. He obviously put a ton of work into the rebuild. His blood, sweat, and tears, like he said. And when I study his face, I see more than pride. There's a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“I thought you weren't going to give it up.”

“I'm not going to give it to Omar,” he says.

“Then who?”

He shrugs, avoiding my gaze.

It doesn't matter that he's being evasive because the answer hits me in a flash of intuition. “The girlfriend. You're giving it to her.”

“She needs a car.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

My stomach drops to my toes and I stumble backward in dismay. “You went to see her again?”

“It wasn't like that,” he says, grabbing my arm to steady me. “I haven't slept with her since I first got out.”

“That's not what you said before.”

“I lied.”

“I don't believe you.”

His gaze becomes shuttered and he releases me. “Believe whatever you want.”

“Why would you lie? Just to hurt me?”

“Of course not. I lied to keep you at a distance.”

I stare at him, my heart in my throat. He's telling the truth now, and I hate him for it. “You dick,” I say, hitting his shoulder. “You made me cry that night! I imagined you with her, and it tore me up inside!”

“Would you rather I fucked her, or lied about fucking her?”

I can't answer. I'm too wrecked by the idea of him giving his prized possession to another girl—when he can't even be straight with me. Suddenly the car seems very sentimental indeed. I had my first orgasm in the front seat. I fell in love with him in this car. And here I am, right back in that vulnerable place.

“It wasn't really a lie,” he says. “I saw her that day, but we didn't hook up.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. It didn't feel right. I didn't want her.”

“What's wrong with her?”

“Nothing's wrong with her! She's fucking hot. She's just not you.”

I'm disturbed by this confession, and by the lengths he took to stay away from me. I feel like a burden on him, rather than a positive influence. He's finally acknowledged the connection between us, but we still can't be together. Not with this monkey on his back.

“If you give the car to this girl, Omar will leave you alone?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I think so. I'm going to meet him later this week and work out a deal.”

“Why do you have to meet him?”

“Because that's how we do things. I have to talk to him in person. If I go behind his back, he might feel disrespected and keep coming after me. I just want to lay it to rest, once and for all. Then I'll be free, and we can move on.”

“Can we?”

“I'd like to.”

“What if he's looking to avenge his brother's death?”

“Then I'll take another beating.”

I remember how he looked after the fight with Oscar. He was in the hospital for several days, his face bruised and misshapen. The thought of him going through that again makes tears spring into my eyes.

“Ay, mami, no llores,”
he says, bringing my head to his chest. “They won't kill me. I still have powerful friends. Omar wants a car, not a war.”

I'm not reassured by this claim. Eric seems more concerned about macho gang rules than his future or his safety. Two days ago he was freaking out when a lowrider passed by. Now he's trying to convince me that the threat is minimal?

I don't think so.

But I don't argue with him, either. He has to live his own life and make his own mistakes, just like I do. So I put my arms around him and savor his embrace. His body feels hard and strong against mine, his heartbeat true and steady. When he touches me, our problems fade. When we're together, the world stops.

We walk back to my car, hand in hand, and he opens the gate. Before I drive away, he leans in the car window to brush his lips over mine. It's a boyfriend kiss, dutiful and affectionate. Neither of us says a word as he retreats. I don't like what he's doing, but I won't interfere. If he wants to change, I'm here for him.

If he wants to self-destruct, I'm gone.

I spend the morning putting the final touches on my Chevelle.

Memories of the night before keep washing over me, making me sweat. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of disaster. Meghan might be up for anything in bed, but she's not going to let me drag her down into the gutter. If I don't get a handle on my life, I'll lose her.

I hose off the dirt and change into fresh clothes for work. Then I ask Scrappy for a pink slip to my Chevelle. He writes one out with his name as the owner. I can add Noemi's information to the other side, as if she bought it directly from him.

The engine doesn't purr like a kitten, but she starts up on the first try and drives smooth. I entertain a few fantasies about making a run for the border. I could go to Ensenada, eat some fish tacos. Lobster tail in Puerto Nuevo. Then I'd head inland, all the way to my mom's house in Zacatecas.

Tears burn in my eyes at the thought. It sounds pretty sweet, actually. I might be able to eke out a living as a tattoo artist, catering to drunk American tourists because I speak English
muy bueno
. But I could never come back. I'd never see Meghan again, or Jenny or April. That's too high a price to pay.

I park a few blocks away from Fine Ink and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I put a new bandage on my eyebrow before I left the junkyard. I haven't shaved recently, which adds to my disreputable appearance.

Damn. I won't be earning any pretty-boy points from the clientele today.

I lock up my car and head inside. There's a hushed atmosphere in the lobby. Matthew took a few days off while Kelsea was at the hospital, and today he's driving her to a doctor's appointment. I hope he doesn't return before I have to leave, because he's not going to be happy about me cutting out early. I keep my head down and start working.

Two hours later I'm tossing some trash bags into the Dumpster when Tank comes outside. He grabs me by the front of the shirt and slams my back into the wall.

What the hell?

My first instinct is to start swinging, but we're at work, and he's a lot bigger than me, so I restrain myself. He keeps a tight grip on my collar to hold me in place. He's standing with one foot forward, one arm fully extended.

“I heard you were a tagger,” he says in a flat voice.

“So what?”

“Maybe you're the one who vandalized the college and hurt Kelsea.”

“Get the fuck off me,” I say, showing him my fists. They're already scraped and swollen from my fight with Noah. “I didn't do anything to her.”

He doesn't let go, and I've had enough. I don't care if he's built like a linebacker, has a thicker beard than I'll ever grow, and can probably kick my ass in three seconds. When I warn someone to step off, I mean it. I sink my fist into his stomach, which feels about the same as the brick wall behind me. The blow seems to annoy him more than anything. He yanks me forward and throws me at the Dumpster, like I'm trash.

I slam into the metal side, hard. The impact reverberates from my shoulder to my fingertips and rattles my teeth. Gripping the edge of the Dumpster, I wait for Tank to come at me. He doesn't move.

Matthew bursts out the backdoor. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I was just questioning him,” Tank says.

“About what?”

“About your daughter. All of this trouble started after he came.”

Matthew gives Tank an incredulous look. “He wasn't anywhere near the college at the time of the accident.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he lives with my friend, who's a cop. They were both home in downtown Chula Vista.”

Tank crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Sorry,” Tank says, shrugging. “My mistake.”

“Jesus Christ,” Matthew says. “I can't leave for one afternoon without my employees brawling in the alley. Who made you Kelsea's protector, anyway? I'm a cripple, so you think I need you to take up for my daughter?”

Tank flushes at this criticism. “I didn't mean any offense.”

“Get back to work,” Matthew says to Tank.

“Yeah,” I say, “go pierce a dick.”

Tank flips me off over his shoulder.

“Do you have a death wish?” Matthew asks me.

“Maybe,” I say, still pumped up on adrenaline.

“I'll see you in my office.”

I adjust the collar of my shirt as I follow him inside. He sits down at his desk with a concerned expression that fills me with dread. I take the seat across from him, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.

“You're making me regret my employment offer,” Matthew says. “I could've sworn you said you don't like fighting.”

“I don't.”

“Funny how fists keep flying at you.”

“I haven't instigated anything.”

“Right. You're just unlucky. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

His sarcasm rankles, but I stay silent. Getting defensive will only lead to more trouble, and I have to take responsibility for my actions. I might not
like
fighting, but it seems to like me. I react without thinking.

“Tank didn't do that to your face.”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Noah.”

“Noah started a fight with you?”

“He threw the first punch, yeah.” After I tackled him, but whatever.

“What did you do to deserve it?”

I shrug off the question. My relationship with Meghan is none of his business.

Matthew leans back in his chair, drumming his fingertips against the desk. “Anthony sent me a picture of your mural.”

“He did?”

“I thought it was good. Great, actually.”

My throat closes up at the unexpected praise. “Thank you.”

“I appreciated the fact that you came to the hospital and prayed for Kelsea, too. That's why this is hard to do.”

Shit. Here comes the hammer.

“I can't have a loose cannon for an employee. I can't have you showing up with bruises and bandages and swollen knuckles every week. I don't care how talented you are as an artist. It's not professional.”

“I understand.”

“You've got a lot of potential. I hate to see you throw it all away.”

I want to assure him that it won't happen again, but I can't. I might have to take another beating later tonight. “Are you firing me?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“There's something else I should tell you.”

“What?”

“I have to leave early to take care of some personal business.”

“Personal business? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you want to keep this job?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

He swears, raking a hand through his hair. “Go on, then. You look like hell, anyway. I hired you to bring in customers, not scare them away. Don't come back until you're presentable. And be ready to explain what you're going to do in the future to avoid pissing people off so much that they keep punching you in the face.”

I get out of there before he can change his mind about letting me return to plead my case. Maybe I don't deserve any more chances. I'm disappointing everyone. I made Meghan cry this morning. I knocked April down yesterday. I fought with Noah and punched Tank. I've broken the vow I took in group therapy. I'm risking my job, my relationship, my future…for what? To pay a debt that I never should have owed in the first place?

I want peace, not violence. I want to stay out of trouble. But I don't think walking away is the right thing to do. I have to face this problem in order to solve it.

After weighing my options, I consider an alternative. Instead of negotiating with Omar, I'll just move forward with my plan. I can leave the car at Brown Field with the keys in the ignition and the pink slip signed over to Noemi. Then it will be a done deal. Omar can't refuse after the fact. He can't beat me up to avenge his brother if I'm not there. He can steal the car, but he'll be stealing from
her,
not me.

If he doesn't like my compromise, too fucking bad. I'm not in the gang anymore. I don't have to play by their rules or follow their code. It sucks to lose my Chevelle, but at least I'll have a clear conscience.

And I'll have Meghan.

I let my mind wander to the things she might let me do to her, sexually. Then I imagine telling her that I love her, and my heart stalls in my chest. I can't expect smooth sailing from here on out, but maybe everything will be okay. When I was a teenager, I used to picture going straight as a lifetime of boredom. That's not what I envision now.

Traffic is heavy but I arrive at Brown Field well before sunset. It takes me a few minutes to find the place where I killed Oscar. I park among the dusty hills and fill out the pink slip. Then I leave it on the dash. Part of me wants to linger over the goodbyes, to reminisce about old times and pet the new hood I just replaced. But I don't. I stick my hands in my empty pockets and walk toward the road. Toward a fresh start.

I don't quite get there. I'm about a hundred yards from the nearest bus stop when I see a group of lowriders coming down the highway. They're early, too. I have nowhere to hide, and I don't want to call attention to myself by running.

So I grip the silver cross at my neck and bring it to my lips.

Que Dios me bendigue
.