Rock Chick 07 Regret (32 page)

I stared in fascination at his brown-skinned, muscled back. It had a tattoo too, this one on his right shoulder blade, bigger than the other one. It was a skull, wearing an elaborate crown, its grinning teeth clenching a beautiful rose. The skull and crown were all in black, the petals and stem of the rose, though, were in full, striking color. Although I was no tattoo expert, I had an art degree so I felt safe in saying the rose was exquisite, you could see the artist had taken their time and they were skilled at their craft, it was, quite simply, stunning.

It was
way
cooler then the broken heart.

He slammed the drawer, turned and walked back to me. He gave me a white t-shirt, wrapped his hand around the back of my head, leaned in and kissed the top again. Then he walked away, went to another drawer, got something else and headed to the door.

He stopped, put his hand to the knob and looked at me. “Get changed,
mamita
, I’ll call the boys and I’ll be back.”

I nodded again, he closed the door and I heard the floorboards creak as he walked away.

I stared at the doors and rewound the evening wondering how I got myself in this latest predicament. Without lemon drops to blame (I had diet with my spicy beef burrito), I could only blame the power tools.

Now what normal girl got turned on by power tools? I was so weird!

Then I realized he could be back any second. It didn’t take a year to call Ralphie and Buddy.

I threw the blanket back, tugged on the t-shirt (which was huge on me, by the way), undid my bra underneath it and squirmed and contorted until I pulled it off. I snatched up my clothes, folding them, my bra between my shirt and skirt, I put them on the dresser and dashed back to the bed which, I noticed belatedly, was unmade. I rearranged the pillows that were slightly scattered but partially stacked so that they were evenly placed. I sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, pulled the covers up around my waist, tucked them tightly around me and I stared at the door.

When it didn’t open immediately, I looked around the room.

I noticed a dresser, closet (one door open, one Hispanic Hottie that clearly hadn’t been taught how to properly hang clothes), boots and running shoes scattered against one wall and a laundry hamper overflowing in a corner.

Incongruous to the room, an expensive, flat screen TV sat on a handsome, dark wood, heavy, masculine TV stand that rested at the wall opposite the bed. It had electronic equipment and stacks of DVDs on display on shelves underneath it.

Boy, gay or straight, rich or poor, men really liked their TVs.

The room hadn’t been refinished. The once utilitarian cream of the walls was grubby, the white skirting boards chipped, the wood floors notched and needing sanding and refinishing.

Did a man bring a woman to such a room? Such a
house?

If that man was Hector, a
real
man who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, the answer was yes.

My stomach pitched and it hit me for the first time just how profound it was what Ricky took from me.

Because a normal, free New Sadie, fresh from a life under her father’s thumb, should have had a different end to a “just the two of us” date with Hector.

On that dismal thought, the door opened and Hector was there.

He was carrying his clothes and boots and wearing a pair of pajama pants, a thick, navy elastic band at the waist, plaid flannel legs. The thing was, he’d cut them off at mid-thigh (and, to be honest, had not done a great job) so the hems were ragged, they looked like they’d been worn about five million times and the waist hung low so I could see his defined abs and hip bones.

Oh my blooming
my
.

His head came up, he saw me sitting in his bed, his body jolted to a halt like he’d hit a wall and he froze.

I blinked.

Now, really, how bizarre was
that?

I stared at him. He stared at me.

The way he was looking at me made me feel funny, really funny,
seriously
funny (but in a good way), so I blurted, “Is everything okay with Ralphie and Buddy?”

His chin jerked back, he came unstuck, walked to the laundry hamper and answered my question with a, “Yeah.”

I watched him move. He moved well.

I tried to stop thinking about how well he moved.

“Um…” I muttered. “Isn’t it kind of early to go to bed?”

And it was early, at the latest nine.

“Yeah,” he said and dumped some clothes on the hamper. They immediately tumbled off the top and fell on the floor. He apparently didn’t notice this. He twisted and tossed his boots into the pile by the wall. I watched them sail and land with a thump.

Then my eyes went back to him, I caught the crowned skull again before he turned and came to the side of the bed.

“Should we watch TV or something?” I suggested.

He was carrying his jeans. His eyes came to me as he dropped his cell on the bedside table and then emptied his pockets.

There was something immensely weird but very lovely, snugly, comfy, warm about sitting in his bed and watching Hector empty the pockets of his jeans. Before I could plumb the depths of this weird, lovely, snugly, comfy, warm feeling, Hector spoke.

“Yeah,” he said again, his eyes lazy on me and that made me feel weird, lovely, comfy warm too!

“Do you have to move furniture around?” I asked him. “Because, if you do, I can help.”

A glamorous smile hit his mouth and my breath caught. “Move furniture around?”

“You know, downstairs.”

He laughed softly, shook his head and jutted his chin to the wall. My eyes moved to where he was indicating.

Oh boy. We were going to watch TV in Hector’s bed.

This was not good. In fact, how was I here at all? Why did I agree to this?

I rewound the night frantically (even though I’d done the same thing only moments before), it came back to me in a humiliating rush and I swallowed.

I was there for a reason and there I had agreed to stay.

Blooming heck.

“What if we want popcorn? We can’t eat popcorn in your bed,” I told him, sounding maybe an
eensy
bit desperate.

He twisted, I got a look at the King of Skulls on his back shoulder again, he tossed his jeans in the general direction of the hamper (they hit the target but also rolled off and fell to the floor and he didn’t care about that either). Then before I knew what he was about, he’d turned around, doubled at the waist and put his fists into the bed, close to my thighs.

This meant his face was close to mine.

“First of all,
mamita
, I don’t have any popcorn. Second, you barely touched your dinner. Now you wanna eat?”

I thought fast (this, by the way, was
not
easy).

“My mind was occupied at dinner. Now, I’m feeling
peckish
,” I lied. I would probably throw up if I ate anything, I was so nervous.

He shook his head laughing low again then lifted up, pulled back the covers and slid in.

My heart stopped.

He arranged the pillows behind his back (I will note, he completely devastated my efforts at equal pillow disbursement of not ten minutes before). His arm curled around my waist and he pulled me backwards so my back hit his side, my legs uncrossed and my shoulder and head were pillowed on his chest.

Oh, I
got
it. I didn’t
need
pillows. I was using his chest as a pillow. So
that
was why he could hog them all.

I felt him move, saw his hand holding the remote in my peripheral vision and the TV snapped on, a ballgame appeared and the hand disappeared.

As if he hadn’t just settled us comfortably in his bed like we’d be sharing our golden wedding anniversary the next evening and not doing this for the
very first time ever
, he continued the conversation.

“Your mind at dinner was occupied with an attempted freeze out which,
mi cielo
, is cute, I gotta admit, but it’s only fair to let you know, it’s not gonna work.”

My body went still. He thought the Ice Princess was cute?
Cute?

The Ice Princess was
not
cute! I knew grown men that feared her!

Well, maybe not feared, perhaps they just disliked her and gave her a wide berth.

It was good I was moving to Crete because if he thought my Ice Princess was
cute
then I was in a mess of trouble.

“We’ll order a pizza if you’re hungry,” he told me.

I crossed my arms on my chest, stared at the TV and contradicted my earlier lie, “I’m not hungry.”

His arm came around me, his forearm resting on my chest, his fingers curled around my opposite shoulder.

“You want something, let me know,” he said and he sounded distracted.

Obviously the game had called his attention.

So I thought it might be safe to ask an eensy, teensy, tiny, little personal question just because I was dying to know and since I didn’t get the gift I intended to give myself that evening, I was going to go for something different.

“What’s the tattoo on your chest mean?” I asked casually like whatever answer to a brokenhearted tattoo question would mean nothing at all whatsoever to me.

“Belinda,” he replied, still sounding distracted.

I was not distracted. My body went still again.

“Belinda?” I asked.

“My ex,” he answered.

Oh… my…
God
.

He had a tattoo of a broken heart on his chest. No, he had a tattoo of a broken heart over his heart on his chest! A tattoo he got for Belinda!

“Was it a bad break?” I was still going for casual but my voice sounded breathy.

Now, why did I ask that? Why? What was wrong with me? Now I was punishing
myself
and getting
myself
into stupid, terrifying situations.

“You could say that, since she broke it off three months before the wedding.”

Before I could think better of it (or, say, think
at all
), I shot up to a seated position and twisted to look at him, my mouth open.

Then I snapped it closed.

Then I spoke. “She broke up with you three months before your wedding?”

Oh my God!

Hector had been engaged. He’d nearly been married!

Oh my
GOD!

He didn’t move, his body still reclined on the pillows, the sheets to his waist, his chest displayed, only his eyes came to me.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Why?” I asked.

“She wanted a nine-to-five guy who mowed the lawn on the weekends. I’m not a nine-to-five guy who mows the lawn on the weekend. She couldn’t handle me being on assignment, away for days or weeks or even months not being able to contact her. She tried to talk me into a desk job. I told her the man who put the ring on her finger was a field agent for the DEA and that’s who she’d have to marry. She saw I was serious, pawned the ring, got her Mom to call the church, hall and guests and took a vacation at an all-inclusive in Acapulco.”

My eyes narrowed.

“She
pawned
your
ring?
” I spat, sounding frighteningly like Ralphie.

But seriously. Who would pawn Hector “Oh my God” Chavez’s ring? Who would try to make Hector something he was not? Who would go to Acapulco alone when they could go to Acapulco
with
Hector?
On their honeymoon even!

Was she nuts?

I realized belatedly that Hector was smiling a huge, blinding white smile at me.

Oh no.

What had I given away?

He did an ab crunch, his hands came to my shoulders, twisted me so my back was to him, his arm went around my chest and he pulled me into my earlier position. But this time his arm was wrapped tighter.