Chapter 29
DIEGO
I can't believe we just fucked.
My stomach churns with something that isn't quite regret but sits right next to it, and my body hasn't gotten the message yet. My cock traitorously hard under my jeans, still wanting her in a way that doesn't care how complicated this already is.
This changes everything. I knew it would. I did it anyway.
I drive to Raul's on instinct, needing to talk it through with the one person who's seen me at my worst and never flinched.
His Cadillac’s headlights cut through the humid night when I pull into the gravel drive. He's waiting outside the trailer, cigarette glowing orange in the dark, arms crossed like he heard my engine from the road.
"Hey, cuz." He flicks the butt into the dirt.
"We need to talk." I kill the engine and slam the door.
"Oh shit." He reads my face. "That serious?"
"Did you fuck her?" He asks it before I can say anything else.
"Dude—"
He barks a laugh and claps me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth. I punch his arm. He winces dramatically, grinning through it.
"Knock it off." I step closer, dropping my voice. "I'm serious, Raul. I think I need to turn myself in."
The grin dies. "Why the fuck would you do that?"
"Because I can't live like this anymore.
Watching over my shoulder, waiting for the door to come off its hinges.
And I cannot let anything happen to her.
" Her face surfaces in my mind, flushed and unguarded in the storage unit light, looking at me like I was something other than what I am. "I just can't."
"We can find someone else to take the fall," he says. "Burner call, fake witness, easy."
"No." I drag a hand down my face. "She was there, she vanished, they've got her name and her prints on everything. It's too tight."
"Let me handle it." His hand lands on my shoulder, grip firm. "You trust me or not?"
I look at him. My cousin. My brother in everything that matters.
We're six years old again in my head, rolling in the sand at South Beach while Ma and Ernie set up a picnic behind us, Raul pinning me down and laughing with dirt on both our faces.
Ma snapping a Polaroid and calling us mis diablitos.
The day I broke her seashell necklace, Raul told her it was him without hesitating.
He's always done that. Always will.
"Yeah," I say. "I trust you."
"Then go be with her. Keep her close. I'll call when I have something." He holds my eyes. "Do not turn yourself in. You understand me?"
"Okay." I pull at my hair, grounding myself. "Don't make me regret this."
He nods once. "Never."
My phone rings before I've cleared the block. Hospital number on the dash.
I answer it, knuckles white on the wheel.
"Mr. Mendez." The nurse's voice is calm and professional in the way that precedes bad news. "Vitals are stable, but her kidney function is dropping. Acute failure setting in. She'll need dialysis within the week."
The words land like a sledgehammer in a hollow room.
"Okay. What does that mean for us right now?"
"We're still working with insurance on authorization. We should have more information by morning. Your mother is very spirited — it's important she stays in good spirits."
I end the call and sit at a red light and slam both hands into the wheel. The horn blares into the empty street. I let it. "FUCK."
The rage that moves through me has nowhere useful to go. Rage at the medication. At the insurance company. At myself for not catching it sooner. Ma's face swims up — pale and worn, the woman who raised me on nothing but stubbornness and Cuban coffee, now hooked to machines in a hospital room.
I text Raul one-handed:
Ma's kidneys failing. Dialysis soon. NO MORE OF THOSE MEDS. Fix this NOW.
Then I drive to the storage unit.
She's curled on the couch with a paperback when I push through the door, legs tucked under her, hair loose from its bun with a few strands falling across her cheek.
She's changed out of the soiled clothes into an oversized ripped t-shirt from one of the old boxes, one shoulder slipped down to expose her collarbone, the hem riding high on her thighs. The room smells like her.
She looks like a girl reading on a couch anywhere in the world.
The sight does something to my chest I wasn't prepared for.
I forgot to chain her back up when I left. I register that and don't move to fix it.
"What's with the dramatic entrance?" she asks, folding the page corner and setting the book down. Her eyes move over me the way they do, sharp and already reading past whatever I'm showing on the surface.
"It's Ma." I drop onto the couch beside her, elbows on my knees. "She needs dialysis. Kidneys are failing."
She's quiet for a moment. Then her face drains. "Plex?"
I nod. My throat is too tight for words.
"DJ." Her hand lands soft on my arm, hovering first like she's asking permission. "I'm so sorry." A pause. "You did something right, you know. Stopping him."
I look at her hand. Cover it with mine.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Maybe."
The silence stretches, but it's not empty. It's thick, heavy with everything we're not saying. Her hand stays warm under mine, fingers curling slightly like she's anchoring me too.
I become aware of her breath first — soft, even, brushing against my shoulder where she's shifted closer.
The faint rise and fall of her chest, the way her tank top clings just a little from the humid air.
My own breathing slows to match hers without me realizing it, the room narrowing to the space between us.
She smells like sweat and a hint of vanilla still lingering. But there's something sweeter underneath, something that's just her. My eyes drop to the curve of her collarbone, still flushed pink from earlier, then lower to where her thighs press together under the book she abandoned.
Her thumb moves, a tiny, unconscious stroke against my knuckles.
My grip tightens on her hand. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say I feel that.
She inhales sharply, aware now too. Her gaze flicks to my mouth, lingers, then back up to my eyes. The air hums, electric, every inch of space between our bodies suddenly unbearable.
I shift closer, knee brushing hers. Neither of us pulls away.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," I say, voice low, rough.
"Like what?" Her breath hitches, but she doesn't blink.
"Like you want me to forget everything I just told you."
"Maybe I do." Her free hand lifts, hesitating before tracing the line of my jaw, fingertips light as a dare. "Just for a little while."
My hand slides to her thigh, thumb finding the soft skin just above her knee. Her leg twitches under my touch, parting slightly like an invitation.
The book tumbles forgotten to the floor.
Neither of us moves to pick it up.
My hand traces slowly up her thigh — searching, yearning, fingers dragging over soft skin like I'm mapping territory I've already claimed but can't stop exploring. I need to touch her. To feel her shudder under me. To taste the salt on her skin and hear that little gasp she tries to hide.
I lean in closer, burying my face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in deep.
Her scent hits like a drug, intoxicating enough to drown out the concrete and chains and every bad decision that led us here.
My fingers keep learning her body, skimming higher under the loose shirt, parting her thighs just enough.
My thumb finds her entrance, slick and bare, and I realize she's no longer wearing panties.
"Good girl," I coo against her throat, voice rough with approval, my own control fraying at the edges.
Her breath catches. A sharp, needy little hitch that punches straight through me, making my cock twitch hard against the tight confines of my jeans, begging for friction I'm barely holding back from giving.
I don't rush. I drag my lips over her neck first, slow and deliberate, tongue flicking out to taste the wild thrum of her pulse.
Down her collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to raise goosebumps, nipping the flushed skin until she arches into me with a whimper.
I kiss every inch I can reach. The sharp line of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the soft swell beneath her breast where the shirt's ridden up, fabric damp and clinging now from her heat.
Worshipping her like she's holy ground I've defiled, like I'm begging forgiveness with every press of my mouth.
Then I drop to my knees on the gritty concrete, the rough bite against my skin nothing compared to the fire in my veins.
My hands slide up her calves, thumbs digging into the tense muscle as I start at her ankles — soft, open-mouthed kisses trailing wet paths up the insides of her legs.
Behind her knees, I linger, sucking lightly until her thighs quake, breath coming in ragged pants.
Higher — up to her bare hips, teeth scraping the delicate skin where thigh curves into hip, so close to her core that I can feel the heat radiating off her and smell her arousal thick in the stale air.
She's trembling now, fingers twisting in my hair, pulling me closer like she's afraid I'll stop. I won't. Not until she's shattered. Not until she's mine in every way that matters.
"Please," she whispers, voice broken, hips canting forward on instinct.
I look up the length of her body, eyes locking on her beautiful sage green eyes — desperate, pupils blown wide with need, framed by those loose blonde strands from her messy bun.
"Not yet, doll," I murmur, my breath ghosting hot over her slick folds, close enough to feel her shiver.
"I want to taste every fucking inch first."
Her hips buck involuntarily toward my mouth, a desperate, broken whine spilling from her parted lips, but I hold her thighs steady with a bruising grip, spreading her wider, keeping her exactly where I want her.
My tongue flicks out again — deliberate, torturous — circling her clit with featherlight pressure before I seal my lips around it and suck.