Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Mac
Anew guard shows up right as E and I slip out of his dad’s office, bringing the count to four. Sliding the ledger into the back waistband of my pants, I cover it with my jacket and stand beside E until the guard stops, his eyes moving from us to the now-closed office door.
He’s mustachioed, with hair that’s more salt the pepper. Unlike the other guards, he’s older than me, so I assume he knows E, which he confirms when he asks, “?Qué haces, Senor Miller?”
“We’re going to my room,” E starts in English but then switches to Spanish and I lose the plot. He’s gesturing towards the stairs and smiling, so I don’t interrupt in case it’s working to get us home free. “?Cinco minutos?”
The guy narrows his eyes but then he smiles, “Cinco minutos, no mas.”
“Gracias,” E smiles back at the man and adds a few words as he takes my hand and moves us towards the employee stairs.
When we’re on the third floor again, I ask, “What did you tell him?”
E opens the door where we were first dropped off and walks inside. “I told Jose I had mojitos with my boyfriend and wanted to show him where I grew up, but hadn’t shown you my room yet because I got turned around.”
“So I’m your boyfriend and you're drunk?” I clarify, leaning on the doorframe to keep an eye on the hall as E moves into the room. “And is there anything important for you to show your ‘boyfriend’ in your room?”
“Not really,” E shrugs. “Dad didn’t believe in sentimental attachments.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say E’s childhood bedroom is any old guest room, so his statement makes sense.
His room has almost no personality, and doesn’t match the bright man before me.
The walls are a beige plaster, with wooden beams in the ceiling and a wooden fan overhead.
The art is all generic, the kind you might find in a hotel room.
While the bed is a four-poster, the posts are obscured by fabric that has been drawn to show the plain white comforter.
No sentimental attachment indeed. Even in my house, I try to make it look lived in, since I host meetings there on occasion.
E doesn’t open drawers or rifle through his things like I expect. Instead, he crouches down and reaches under a nightstand. With a grunt and some scratching, I hear something come loose as E pulls his hand out holding a picture frame.
The back had duct tape, but the glass side reveals an old picture. There is a beautiful woman who looks around twenty with a toddler in her arms. She’s not looking at the camera, but instead has an expression of love and devotion for the child.
“My mom,” E explains, running a finger over her face through the glass.
“Jose, the last guard, has a wife who works in the kitchen here. She gave me this picture when I was eight and had been crying about how much I hate it here. Celeste, the cook, told me about how important it was to remember my Cuban side of the family.”
“How do you know she didn’t give you a random picture of a Cuban woman and her child?” I asked.
“I considered that,” E admits, turning the picture over to remove the frame. On the white back, there are words scribbled in faded red ink. “But for one, I recognized my mom, and she also wrote on the back.”
Holding it out for me, I read the words: Mi hijo, Mi vida, Emanuel Gonzalez, 2001.
“My son, my life?” I guess and E nods. “Is this all you have of her?”
“It is. The only picture. The only proof I have that she existed and I was loved by someone. Even if she did leave me with my father.”
Every time E speaks about his father’s treatment, his lack of people who care, I believe him a little more about being on my side. He opened his dad’s safe and handed over the ledger without a second thought, though I still don’t know if it will be useful.
We only have another minute or two until they kick us out, but I have a strong urge to reassure E. I can’t love him. That’s not possible for me. He is important in my life and I care about his existence. But we don’t have time for that conversation.
Gripping E by the back of the neck, I pull him closer, tucking the picture into the back pocket of his pants. His breath comes out in a ragged exhalation, eyes locked on mine.
“I’m going to kiss you now, pet,” I tell him as a warning, not waiting for him to reply before I swoop down and press my lips to his.
Keeping my eyes open to watch his reaction, I’m not disappointed when his eyes flutter closed and his cheeks darken in a blush. Nibbling his lower lip, E moans and I can feel the vibration.
My body reacts to the feeling like his mouth is on my cock and not kissing me chastely. Sparks of arousal shoot from my lips to my fingertips, lust swirling in my belly. I pull E flush against me, holding him tight as his arms come around my back and I deepen the kiss.
Licking at the seam of his lips, E sighs and opens for me. I dip inside, touching his tongue with mine as I feel his cock hardening to match my own erection. Something about this man turns me on like no one else.
Pounding footsteps reach my ears and I push E behind me as the guard from the door rushes in with Ignacio behind him. The bigger guy yells at E in rapid Spanish, but I only catch the words for ‘no’ and ‘house’ along with Mr. Miller, who I take to mean E’s dad.
“Ya, ya. We’re going,” E huffs from behind me. “I didn’t even take anything.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door, but I keep my head on a swivel in case the guards try something.
They follow us out to the hall, down the grand staircase and out the door.
Let them think E just wanted to hook up with me and had no ulterior motive.
I’m sure his dad has us on camera opening his safe, if it wasn’t also on a silent alarm.
No one speaks until after Ignacio closes the gate behind us and whispers, “Lo siento.”
E tells him goodbye and we walk quickly back the way we came. The driver is waiting in the same spot we left him, and we’re breathing just fast enough to sell the long walk if we’d actually gone the whole way to the tourist destination.
Maybe the driver senses we need quiet, because after E tells him something about the Castle we didn’t actually see, we’re left with only the quiet music on the radio.
Catching my eye, E takes my hand in his and gives me a half smile.
I can tell he’s glad we got out alive, but I think he also wants to talk about our kiss.
I’m not sure what there is to talk about.
He revealed something painful from his past, and I wanted to kiss him so he didn’t think about it anymore.
When I want something, I take it. Within reason. I avoid doing things that will land me in jail if I don’t have a plan for how to get away with them. And I want him.
Even though E claims he could have escaped from my guest house or tried to reach out for help at any time, I’m not sure it’s true. I want to believe he won’t try to leave me, and I know kissing him increases the chances he’ll want to stay.
Kissing him was the logical choice. Nothing more.