Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Not a single part of Marisol didn’t hurt. Her scalp was sore, her thighs were aching, and her throat was raw. When she awoke without opening her eyes, she considered that maybe she’d been hit by a truck.
Or the flu. It could be the flu. That would explain why her skin was sweltering and her body felt like one huge bruise. When she shifted her weight, every single muscle in her body screaming, the reason for her sweat covered chest became obvious.
Blinking, her eyes adjusted to the faint morning light seeping in through the slivers of space between the tarps. With her back to her, Elena was on her side, one leg thrown back between Marisol’s thighs and her arms around Zuri who was in front of her. They were spooning like the most regular couple in the world.
That’s how they’d be sleeping if I wasn’t here . The thought invaded her mind before she could think about how beautiful Elena’s back was and how she loved the steep curve of Zuri’s hip where the sheet had slipped below her waist.
The weight of their bodies, the warmth of their breath, the tangle of limbs… It was intimate. A secret Marisol wasn’t meant to be in on. She was on the outside looking in. A guest. A ghost.
Elena and Zuri fit together so perfectly. It was like they’d been sculpted from the same clay. Even in her sleep, Elena held Zuri like she belonged only to her. They had a shared history. A love that didn’t need to be spoken to be obvious.
Marisol’s heart joined the rest of her aches. She wanted that connection, that sense of belonging, that unshakeable certainty. She wanted to know Zuri and Elena the way they knew each other. But she’d always be behind. Always be on the outside.
She slipped out of bed, her movements silent and careful. Elena would probably hear her, she wasn’t even exactly sure she was asleep, but she did her best not to disturb them. She found a T-shirt on the edge of the bed and pulled it on. The combined scent of the three of them was trapped in the fabric.
Tiptoeing out of the room without groaning every time she moved was a feat. At least the souls of her bare feet didn’t hurt where they met the worn wooden floor.
The kitchen, bathed in the pale light of dawn, was a haven of normalcy. Marisol leaned against the counter, her chest tight, her thoughts a tangled mess. She pushed them aside. Elena was almost back to herself; they’d be leaving soon. This was on the verge of over.
Starving, she opened a cabinet, her gaze scanning the shelves, searching for something she could eat without waking up the whole house. Without pulling Elena and Zuri out of their sweet moment.
She found a box of Pop-Tarts, the familiar packaging a strange comfort in a place where everything was new. She pulled it out, rolling her eyes when she noticed the expiration date was six months ago.
Deciding that the food was probably so processed the additives and crap kept it edible far outside the date stamped on the side, she went on the hunt for a toaster. She’d eat them straight from the wrapper, but decided the heat might kill toxins.
She almost laughed to herself. A few days out of the hospital and you’ve forgotten how the heck food poisoning works . Deciding she was going to risk it anyway, she was crouched and scavenging deep inside the lower cabinet most likely to hold a small appliance when she heard movement behind her.
Pulling her head out so fast that she slammed it in the same spot Elena had left her scalp sore, she cursed before dropping a big mixing bowl.
“What are you doing?” Zuri asked, voice hoarse and reminding Marisol of how she’d spent all night cursing and moaning and calling both her and Elena’s names.
Marisol froze, her hand hovering over the fallen bowl and wondering when exactly she’d become this nervous person. She’d once caught a baby with the mother laboring in the back of a pickup in the parking lot. And she’d done that without breaking a freaking sweat.
She gathered herself—convinced she was cooler than this—and then she saw her. In the doorway, Zuri’s silhouette was framed against the pale light streaming in from the living room. Wearing a short, silky robe, the deep emerald green a stark contrast to her warm skin, she was stunning. The fabric clung to her curves, revealing the generous swell of her hips, the tempting glimpse of full cleavage peeking out from the steep neckline.
Zuri wasn’t just out of her league, she was playing a different sport on a distant planet. Dark eyes, sharp and intense, met Marisol’s, pinning her in place.
“I asked you a question,” she said in the same authoritative way she said everything and all Marisol could think about was crawling to her. About staying on her knees and tugging the robe open. “What the hell are you doing down there?”
“I—uh...” she stammered, words harder to formulate than they should be, her gaze dropping to the fallen bowl. “I was looking for a toaster.”
She arched her eyebrow, expression skeptical. “A toaster?” she repeated in open amusement. “At six in the morning?”
Marisol’s cheeks flushed, heat creeping up her neck. “I was hungry,” she replied. “And the Pop-Tarts are expired.” She stopped herself on the precipice of rambling.
Zuri’s gaze lingered on her for a beat, expression unreadable. Then she shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Bambi, that’s not food,” she said in English, the exact sentiment Marisol had heard a million times in Spanish. “Come on, let’s get you something with nutritional value.” She moistened her lips, gaze floating over her sore right bicep. “You earned it.”
Getting to her feet after putting the bowl back in the cabinet, Marisol dumped all of her nervous energy into a laugh. “You sound like my grandma every time I asked if we could have pizza for dinner.”
Zuri chuckled as she opened the fridge. “Mine too. Like, okay Grandma, you tell the Italians that pizza isn’t food.” She closed it without taking anything out, slipping into her gardening shoes by the back door instead. “I’ll be right back,” she added without inviting Marisol to follow.
As soon as Zuri was outside, Marisol went to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Warmed up, her body didn’t hurt nearly as much as it first had. It didn’t hurt at all.
Marisol slipped into Elena’s shorts and had the percolator going on the stove when Zuri returned a few minutes later, basket in hand. Without being asked, Marisol rinsed the mangos, warm from being outside, while Zuri started slicing the bright yellow star fruit into little stars.
Bowls of fruit salad in hand, they sat at the table together. Marisol had popped the last chunk of mango in her mouth when Zuri leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.
“I fed you, now tell me what’s actually bothering you,” she demanded, rich, dark brown eyes boring into Marisol.
“What?” Marisol’s nervous laugh bubbled out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Why would anything be bothering me?”
Zuri tipped her head to the side, oozing disappointment. “You’ll fuck me but you won’t talk to me? That’s cute. Can’t say I expected that, but I suppose the best fuckboys don’t advertise?—”
Horrified, Marisol dropped her fork. “Elena said that you were only interested in sex?—”
“Oh, you think Elena speaks for me now?” Her throat bobbed when she laughed. “I didn’t think you were so bad at paying attention, Bambi.”
“That’s not what I meant?—”
“You’re in my home,” Zuri pointed out. “You think I let just anyone be here?”
“Well, it’s not like you had a lot of choice.” She looked away, feeling small and in the way.
“I only do exactly what I want,” Zuri replied, forcing Marisol’s attention back to her with the sharpness of her consonants. When Marisol was holding her gaze again, she added, “My talents are world-renowned, babe, but they don’t include mindreading. Tell me what’s wrong. This shit only works with nauseating amounts of open communication and honesty.”
Unsure of Zuri’s meaning, Marisol confessed. “Everything is suddenly so new,” she admitted, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing, where I belong... I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
Zuri watched her, expression softening a fraction. She reached out, her hand hovering over Marisol’s before she gently rested it on her arm. The touch was warm, reassuring, grounding.
“You’re still you, Bambi,” Zuri said, her voice firm but her eyes kind when they met Marisol’s. “You just happen to know a little more about yourself now.”
“But I’m not.” Marisol shook her head. “I feel like a stranger in my own skin. If I’m not a nurse?—”
“No one should be defined by the place that issues their W-2, okay?” She squeezed her arm. “You’re a brave little bitch and the blood in your body has survived against all odds. We carry that shit in us, you know.” Her words pulled Marisol into ancient, borrowed memories. She hadn’t wanted to think about what Lilith had shown them. It was too big. Too terrible. “And that spirit in you”—she stood and pressed her warm palm to Marisol’s chest—“is full of fight,” she added, a flicker of pride in her eyes.
Marisol stood, gaze cast down at her feet. “But that’s not me. I mean, I still don’t know how to call on my ability. I can’t?—”
“Stop telling yourself you can’t.” Zuri stood next to her, finger hooked under her chin and lifting Marisol’s face back to hers. “You can do any fucking thing you want.”
The message echoed in Marisol’s chest as if Zuri had cast a spell. The powerful words branded on her skin where her skin was pressed to hers.
Zuri leaned closer, her lips hovering inches from Marisol’s, her breath sweet and warm. “You have the power to defy fucking death . How can you not see that you can do anything? All it’s going to take is a little time.”
And then, Zuri’s lips were on hers. Her mouth was fire and honey and Marisol kissed her back like she’d been starving for her. Hands tangled in Zuri’s hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. She wanted to absorb Zuri’s strength, her confidence, her magic. Wanted to take and give. Lose and find.
Zuri’s tongue swept into Marisol’s mouth, tasting her, exploring her, claiming her. Marisol moaned, the sound swallowed by Zuri’s lips. She wanted more, but not like this.
Breaking the kiss but leaving her forehead pressed to Zuri’s, Marisol tried the open communication thing. “I wouldn’t want to be left out,” she confessed, eyes closed and skin hot. “If I walked in on you and Elena without me… I’d feel like crap.”
“Both of us, Bambi?” Zuri chuckled but her hands roamed down Marisol’s back. “Every time?” She slipped under her shirt, sending a rush of heat skittering across her skin. “Do you think you can handle that?”
Biting her own bottom lip, Marisol grabbed Zuri’s jaw-dropping ass with borrowed confidence. “If I can’t handle you…” she whispered against her parted lips, “then I don’t deserve you.”
Zuri gasped when Marisol squeezed her hard and possessively. “Full of surprises,” she replied, lips grazing Marisol’s mouth. “Let’s go then.”