9. Dominic
CHAPTER 9
Dominic
HAVING LOTS OF SEX
PRESENT
A nother night of sleeping like shit. Except this time, it wasn’t Ellie haunting me—it was the nightmare. The same one I’ve had since the shooting.
It always plays out the same way. I step into the convenience store, my eyes locked in on the perp, his back is turned to me. Then he spins around, and I recognize him instantly.
He recognizes me, too.
My gun is raised. So is his.
And he’s just a fucking kid.
I wake up the second my gun goes off.
The sheets are soaked from the sweat coming off my body, and it takes me a few deep breaths before I feel ready to move. I glance at the clock on my nightstand, seeing it reads three in the morning. Fuck me. Flopping back onto my damp pillow, I groan, staring up at the ceiling. My heart is practically banging against my chest, racing so fast it feels like I just worked out. Why won’t this go away ?
I went through the mandatory counseling, passed my fit-for-duty eval—this shit should be over. But it’s not.
The counselor suggested I keep seeing a therapist, but for what? Talking about it isn’t going to change anything. It’s not like I’m Adrian, who’s been in the Middle East, in active combat and witnessed things no human should ever have to see. I was in one messy shooting, and somehow, it’s still fucking with me. Not just physically—mentally, too. And that’s the part I can’t stand. The part that makes me feel weak.
Forcing myself I get up out of bed, I slip on a fresh T-shirt, but I don’t make it two feet out of my bedroom before I hear it. The drip, drip, drip coming from the bathroom across the hall, the one right above the kitchen.
Gritting my teeth, I scrub a hand over my face as I head for the bathroom. Fuck this fucking house. The damn faucet has been dripping for days, and I’ve ignored it, thinking I’d get to it, eventually. But now, with my nerves already shot and my skin slick with sweat, the sound is unbearable—like a ticking clock counting down to my breaking point.
I flip on the light, step inside, and glare at the sink. The steady drip, drip, drip taunts me.
With a sigh, I reach under the cabinet, grab the wrench, and crouch down, twisting at the pipes. It doesn’t budge. I adjust my grip and try again, harder this time. Nothing.
My jaw clenches. My pulse pounds in my ears as I try again. Harder.
Still nothing.
“Goddamn it!”
I slam the wrench down on the tile, chest heaving, frustration crawling up my spine like a vise. I should be asleep.
The drip continues.
I grab the mallet from the cabinet.
One hit. Clang.
Two. Crack .
Three—then the faucet breaks clean off, and a burst of water explodes in my face, soaking my shirt, spraying across the bathroom like a goddamn fire hydrant.
“Shit!”
I scramble back, slipping slightly on the wet tile, lunging toward the pipes to try and stop the flow. Water is everywhere, pooling, dripping down into the vent that leads straight to the kitchen.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I leap up, tear out of the bathroom, and bolt downstairs, nearly eating shit on the soaked floor. I skid into the kitchen and drop to my knees, yanking open the cabinet beneath the sink and frantically twisting the shut-off valve.
The pipes groan. The water slows.
Then, finally—mercifully—it stops.
I sit back on my heels, drenched, breathing hard, the house silent except for the distant drip of water making its way down from the bathroom.
I run a hand through my wet hair and let out a bitter, breathless laugh.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect. One more thing to add to the list of things I haven’t quite figured out how to fix.
By four, it’s too late to go back to bed and too early to get ready for the day. Despite exhaustion creating a mental fog I can’t seem to shake, I get to work on the kitchen.
With the water shut off, I’m not in danger of anything leaking again. I hope.
I strip the old, bottom cabinets and properly seal the ancient pipes so I don’t risk another leak before the plumber can come out and modernize the plumbing. Once that’s complete, I work at forming the boxes for the new cabinetry. In an attempt to save money, I opted out of the pre-made ones and now I’m regretting having to tediously put together each one.
Halfway through the first one—because I’m still on the first one and it’s been over an hour—my mom calls.
Before answering, I check my watch, calculating the time in Monterrey. It’s two hours ahead but still early, even there. Ever since my dad died, a knot of dread coils in my chest whenever my mom or Adrian calls, like I’m on the verge of hearing the worst news of my life and tumbling into a black abyss.
Still, no matter the panic simmering beneath the surface, I always answer with an intentional lightness in my voice. My mom doesn’t need to worry about me; she doesn’t need to know I’m still deep in the trenches of grief. I lost my dad, but she lost the love of her life. A loss I understand, though in a different way.
“You’re up early,” I greet.
She blows out an exasperated breath. “It’s so hot here. Has it always been this hot?”
The tension in my spine immediately dissipates. She’s in a good mood and that’s good enough for me. “I don’t know ‘amá, you tell me. You’re the one who grew up there. You should be used to the heat, it’s hotter than hell in Phoenix most of the year, can’t be much hotter there.”
She laughs softly and the sound fills me with relief. She’s starting to come back into herself.
“Maybe I’ll cut the trip short, go back home.”
I’m predicting a phone call with Adrian soon. Neither of us wants her to go back to an empty house without family nearby. Adrian and his wife Celia live in Portland and now I’m even further than I was from her when I lived in L.A.. She shouldn’t be alone.
“I think my tía would be upset if you left early.”
She sighs, but I hear her agreement.
After my dad passed, my mom’s sister invited her to come stay in Mexico for an extended visit. It’s been good for her.
“How’s your shoulder?”
As if my body heard the question, a heated jolt radiates through the area—painful and nearly impossible to ignore. I shift slightly, wincing as I try to find a more comfortable position.
“Still hurts,” I admit, because there’s no sense in lying. “It’s worse in the mornings but gets better once I start moving.”
She exhales loudly. “Mijo, you need to keep doing the exercises the physical therapist told you to do. What if something happens at work and you can’t defend yourself?”
I want to argue, but she has a point. I can’t afford for my shoulder to get locked up in an altercation. Not that I’m anticipating anything happening, the crime rate is very low throughout the county.
“I know. I’ve been slacking lately, but I’ll get back into the routine.”
I know she hates that I’m in law enforcement, and she hates it more now after what happened. It’s part of why I decided to relocate somewhere smaller, a small part, but it still factored in. The bigger reason can’t seem to stand the sight of me. I can’t fix the house, and I can’t fix the past. I’m fucked.
“Mijo, are you still there?”
She was speaking and I was too buried in my thoughts. “Sorry, yeah, I’m here. What were you saying?”
The other end of the phone is quiet, a silent eye roll passing between the line. “I was saying that I talked to your brother, and I guess they’re trying for a baby. ”
Now my eyes roll. Adrian has been married for five minutes. Not only that, they met less than two months ago. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s already trying to get her pregnant. He said when you know you know , and even though I get it, I still think it’s too fast.
“What am I supposed to say to that? Thanks for telling me they’re having lots of sex, I guess.”
She makes a disgusted sound. “Ay, why would you say it like that?”
She’s probably twisting the gold cross around her neck, too Catholic for such crude conversation.
I snicker. “Sorry ‘amá.”
The noise of a vehicle approaching makes me pause. The only traffic I get is from delivery drivers. I flick my wrist, checking my watch. It’s seven in the morning—way too early for something like that.
“I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
We say our goodbyes, and I slip on a hoodie and sneakers. Whoever it is, they weren’t invited.