Chapter 6
ANNA
“Don’t you dare fail me now.” I smack my barely-hanging-by-a-thread handheld mixer. The only beater I have gets stuck in the mountain of dry ingredients before it stops working altogether. “Pinche, pu—” It releases a soft whir before stuttering awake and spinning like its life depends on it.
I blow out a heavy breath, fanning my bangs away from my face. They land back on my forehead, making it itch. I blow at them again in hopes they’ll move direction, but like the last seven times, they land in the same spot.
Note to self: hide scissors before drinking.
Brushing them away with my wrist, I draw my gaze to the TV where The Great British Baking Show: Holidays is playing, then let my eyes roam over my small apartment.
It might as well be called a cardboard box because of the limited space. It’s embarrassing how much we’re paying for 750 square feet. Not to mention the view is…substandard at best.
But on the positive, the rats are friendly and the neighbors are nice-ish. All things considered, this is New York, so I can’t complain. I’ve always wanted to live in the big city. I came from Nowhere, North Carolina, so I’m living the dream, if you ask me.
“Te juro—” Jenny bursts through the door, grumbling and mumbling a string of curse words in Spanish.
“If they don’t fix that goddamn elevator, I swear I’m not paying rent.
Fuck Jerry.” Our landlord. “Fuck the elevator.” It’s been breaking down every three months.
“Fuck Christmas.” She doesn’t mean that.
“Fuck the rich.” She definitely means that.
“Fuck everyone.” Not everyone. “Fuck the elevator again. And fuck me for agreeing to live on the eighth floor.” We were two desperate and broke college students trying to find a decent apartment close to the university and our jobs.
We took the first thing that worked for us without realizing it wasn’t as great as we’d initially thought.
Her frustration shouldn’t amuse and somewhat alleviate my stress, but it does.
She slams the door shut, kicks her shoes off, and sucks in a breath. Her furious light-brown eyes meet mine then skid to the baked goods scattered across the kitchen and living room.
I touch my nose in an instant, shouting, “You first!”
A millisecond later, she’s mirroring what I’m doing and saying, “Dammit, Anna, no. I had a shit shift, I don’t want to—”
I give her a pointed stare. “You know the rules. You’re the one who set them.”
We’ve only known each other for three years, but in that short time, we’ve become very good at reading the room.
A tiny facial expression or a single word is all it takes for us to know something is wrong.
Though right now it’s a given with all the pastries I’ve got laid out.
There’s so many, I could feed all the tenants in our complex, and she’s cursing in Spanish, so I know it’s serious.
“Wait, before you start.” I turn the mixer off and place it down as she removes her puffer and all the layers she’s got on to keep her warm. I grab a glass and pour her favorite drink. “I made you coquito.”
Her bottom lip juts out and her entire body softens, the tension dissipating like it was never there. “You are one of a kind. I love you and I didn’t mean any of those things I said about you in my head just a second ago.”
I grin as she takes it from my hand and inhales it. She sighs, and when she takes a sip, her brows hike up and she takes another.
“I figured you would need the extra alcohol.” I didn’t hold back when I added both rums. Not only because I knew my Puerto Rican best friend would need it, but because I also need it. “Oh, and I made flan.”
“It’s unfortunate how much I like men because I would make you mine in a heartbeat.”
“I know…” I grab my own cup and chug the remaining half of the white liquid.
“Jesus, is it that bad?” She eyes me incredulously as I pour myself more coquito.
I’d never tried or made this until I met Jenny. Usually during the holidays in my Mexican household, we’d make champurrado, ponche, atole, or abuelita chocolate. So attempting coquito was like opening a treasure chest full of gold.
“Wait, does this have something to do with Sylas?”
I turn to hide my face as it burns. I’m sure my cheeks are pink, and that never happens. I’m usually good about hiding my emotions, but ever since Salt two days ago, my face feels like it’s been set next to a furnace.
“Well…” I take a sip, but the cold drink does nothing to cool my insides.
“Wait!” I hear her run, footsteps heavy as she shuffles her things around.
“Don’t tell me anything. I’m going to shower!
You’re going to finish doing what you’re doing and then we’re going to drink and put up the rest of the decorations!
” She slams our shared bathroom door shut before I get to respond.
She’s done with her shower in record speed. Though she did wash her hair yesterday, so she got to skip that step.
Jenny tells me everything she endured today. I’ve experienced my share of shitty customers, from working at the restaurant, housekeeping, to tutoring rich college students who couldn’t give a single fuck about school and the customers I sell my baked goods to.
Despite that, I’ll take it over having to work in retail during the holidays. Unless things worsen, then I’ll find myself at the register next to her.
We finish setting up the cheap little decorations we bought at the dollar and thrift stores and finally start on the tree.
The fireplace on the TV crackles and “Christmas Eve/Sarajevo” by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra plays. It feels sort of fitting to how everything played out that night.
Three sips for liquid courage, I recount in full detail what happened because TMI doesn’t exist in our friendship. With every bit of information I give Jenny, her lips and eyes widen, and her hands stop working.
A few minutes later, I’m finished with my coquito and feel buzzed and turned on.
“Say something.” I grab my cup and pour the ice into my mouth. I anxiously chew on it, waiting for her to give me a sign of life. She’s so still, she could pass as a statue. “Jenny!”
She presses her lips together and brings her hand to her mouth, covering it as her squeals of yes, yes! slip out.
“What?” I pour the rest of the ice into my mouth, chewing faster. “What?”
“Anna Maria Lopez!” She exhales a breath and squeals again. “I’m sorry, I’m—wait.” She drops her hand, her face the most serious I’ve ever seen it. “But you wanted this, right? Because if you didn’t, I don’t care who he is, I’ll kill him.”
I drag my pullover off and put my hair in a ponytail, stalling. “What would you think of me if I told you I liked it a lot.” I whisper that last part.
I’m never nervous about opening up to Jenny. I know whatever I share with her, she won’t make fun of me. So, it’s not that I’m wary of her judging me, but rather it’s me accepting what I’ve been denying since that night with Sylas.
“Bitch.” She stares, perplexed and taken aback. “Do you know who I am? I don’t view you any different because you enjoyed it. Is this why you’ve been acting weird?”
I go and grab the rest of the coquito and flan, knowing I’m going to need it. The ornaments are long forgotten as I hand her a spoon and we sit on the floor and pour more of the white liquid into our cups.
“Yeah…”
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” she says before she stuffs a mouthful of the flan in her mouth.
Funny, he said that too. “Kinks are normal. Sure, they’re not deemed that by society because you know they have a ‘standard’ for what is.
” She rolls her eyes. “But it’s not like you’re hurting anyone or committing crimes.
You’re just getting off by getting used and being called a whore. ”
This is why I love her. There’s no judgment; just a girl making her best friend feel at ease.
“I know…” I try to formulate the right sentence to express how it made me feel, but there are so many words wanting to come out all at once.
I grab a spoonful of flan and then another before the words finally settle into a sentence.
“When he pinned me to the wall, it didn’t feel like he was caging me.
It felt like he was making sure no one else could see me.
And he was careful when he pulled my shirt back.
” My pulse thickens and drops between my thighs.
Another sip and I carry on. “And his words…” I huff out a wanton breath.
“They were demeaning, but I liked them so much, I wanted to hear him say more. Call me more names.”
I squeeze my thighs once, remembering what he said word for word.
“‘Who needs a pet when I could have you. I should get you a collar, maybe a leash, walk you like a dog, fuck you like one too.’” I take another sip, but this feels heavier than the last because warmth courses through my veins and I don’t feel as tense as I did a second ago.
An image sparks in my head, a picture I was doing my best not to visualize, but the alcohol is good about drowning my ability to care. I can see it clear as day.
A collar. Sylas fucking me doggy-style.
“Goddamn, Anna.”
I drop my hands to my lap. “Did you picture it too? Is it wrong that I want that? Jesus, that can’t be okay, can it?”
“It’s very much okay, as long as you’re enjoying and consenting. Don’t be embarrassed,” she scolds. “Tell me more.”
A sluggish smile curls my lips. “‘You’ve got a great body. Just look at how I’m using it’ is what he said while he was rubbing his dick against me.
” I bury my flushed face in my hands and grin before continuing.
“You know how disgusting it would be if anyone else would have done that? But he does it, and I’m fucking melting and begging for more. ”
“Dios,” Jenny mumbles, fanning her face as she drinks half of her cup. “And all of this happened inside Salt?”
I nod. “It was dark and no one was around. He moved my hair, and you know how the saying goes: one thing led to another.”
“Does this mean you and Sylas are going to…” Her black eyebrows perk up, a sly, lopsided grin stretching across her face.
“No, it was a one-time thing. It also doesn’t change who he is. I’m sure he’s already forgotten about me by now.” Like he did three years ago. “It’s better that way. For all I know, I could’ve been some sort of bet or God knows what.”
Now she sobers up. “You don’t think he—”
Something heavy settles in the middle of my throat and suddenly my body feels tight and my head spins. “No, but you know how weird rich people are. When they’re bored, they play games, and athletes love their games.”
Jenny snorts. “Okay, you’ve been watching too much TV. I really don’t think it’s like that. I’m sure if that had been the case, we’d know about it now.”
“I know.”
I don’t want to use the poor girl, rich guy cliché bullshit and pretend a girl like me couldn’t be noticed by a guy like him.
Because I’ve been noticed and I’ve fucked around with said rich guys, but one cliché that remains is that they’re all the same.
Same entitled dicks who think they’re untouchable.
And unfortunately, they have the kind of money that makes them untouchable.
Which is why it was a one-time thing that can never happen again. Whatever I felt must’ve been a blip, a necessary deviation to distract me from how stressed and broke I am, and from how close I was to calling my parents. I would’ve hated myself if I’d called them.
Jenny must know I’m done talking about it because she veers the conversation to my journal on the coffee table. She picks it up and opens it right where I left the pen.
“Can’t wait for the day all these recipes are in a cookbook.” She drags her finger along the page, probably tracing over my drawings.
If I love something I’ve cooked or baked, I draw it in my sketchbook. I don’t know if I’ll ever have my own book with recipes, but that doesn’t stop Jenny from hyping me up and making me believe I will.
“And when they are, you’ll get the first copy.” I grin, imagining it actually happening.