Once More Con Emoción

1. Beatriz

Beatriz

“I'm cutting you off, Miss Ayala. Your father would kill me if he knew I let you get this drunk,” the new bartender informs me with a nervous voice, taking the drink from my hands midway to my lips. I frown at the sudden loss of weight, needing that amber liquid like I need air to breathe.

He knows I'm drowning my sorrows right now, so what gives?

“I'm fine,” I retort, futilely reaching for the drink as he holds it further back over the bar. I lurch forward, nearly toppling off the bar stool in a desperate grab for my drink. The embarrassment serves to humble me, sobering me enough to realize he may be right.

My dark lips pout in disappointment. I’m not ready to leave the nightclub just yet, but I know he's right.

My father may own the bar, along with many others on South Beach, but that only serves to hinder me.

Every bartender is too afraid to let me get shitfaced when I want to. And man, do I want to tonight.

I'm sitting alone, because every friend I've ever made has only ever been my friend because they're looking for connections. They get close to me to get close to my father. The men I meet are no different.

“Need me to call you a ride?” he asks, eyes watching me with concern as I wobble just the tiniest bit.

I sigh as I slide off the stool, my body reluctant to leave but my mind made up. “Don't worry about the Uber. I have someone who can pick me up.”

I nod at him, hoping he will leave me be, which he thankfully does without much protest. Now, I just hope he doesn't tell my father anything. Not about me drinking a little too much. Not about anything I may have told him as I spilled my guts out.

He's a good bartender.

Probably needs a raise.

It's hard not to let today’s cheating discovery get to me.

I mean, for God's sake, Martin and I were together for two years.

I thought I had finally met someone I could trust, who loved me for me and not my money.

Boy, was I wrong. Turns out he was using me the entire time, cheating on me with his real girlfriend, until he got what he needed from me.

He's not the only guy to have done this to me. In fact, every boyfriend I've ever had has committed this same betrayal, with the exception of one. But that one just left me without a word.

So… not any better.

Martin, however, fooled me the best, and only because I stupidly let my guard down, let myself be made a fool of. I would have given him anything he asked for, but ultimately, he never loved me.

I steady myself a moment longer until my legs are secure enough to walk on and march my way outside into the brisk night air.

The cold breeze brushes against my skin, helping clear the fog in my mind as I pull my phone out.

There's only one person who'd be willing to come get me now, in this sorry state, without giving me grief about it —my sister, Andrea.

Beatriz

Hey. Can you please come pick me up? I could really use you right now.

I shoot the message, dropping my location before sliding my phone back into my jeans pocket, because screw dressing up just to get shitfaced.

My body feels heavy, leaning against the brick exterior wall to keep myself steady.

I yank the scrunchie out, letting my long, brown hair fall over my shoulders in a tangled mess, massaging my scalp to ease the headache that's already brewing.

A good ten minutes pass as I wait. All the while, my dark brown eyes watch Ocean Avenue at its peak.

It’s buzzing like it always does—neon lights flashing, music bleeding from every bar, a mash-up of reggaeton, salsa, and EDM that somehow works when you’re drunk.

Tourists wobble down the sidewalk with fishbowl margaritas, girls in dresses way too short for the breeze, guys revving engines in rented Lambos like anyone cares.

The air’s thick with saltwater and fried food, cologne that’s trying too hard.

Sleek sports cars, loud motorcycles, and a few limos zoom on by, but there's one in particular that catches my eye.

It's not the fact that it's a Lamborghini that attracts me, more the fact that it's painted a glossy black, reflecting every bright neon light on this strip.

To top it off, the rims are a bright red, accentuated by one thick, long, red stripe of paint that runs over the hood, onto the roof, and down the trunk.

Normally I'd find it tacky, but as it pulls up to the curb in front of me, I can faintly see that the strip leads to some kind of painting on the roof of the car.

I'm so captivated by the Lamborghini, I pay no mind to the driver that exits it, my eyes glued to the vehicle.

My body twitches with need, wanting to drive that car, certain it handles like a dream.

I'm sensible enough to know I can’t drive in this state .

Another day. I mentally ease my need, reminding myself I'm now free of any plans, considering Martin is no longer my problem.

He can go marry himself.

The saddest thing about tonight is that Martin is none the wiser.

He has no idea that I saw him with his mistress in his bedroom this afternoon when I was meant to be at work.

I had left my lunch at his place, so I rushed over to get it, never expecting to find his car in the driveway.

Needless to say, I found more than just him.

Too shocked, I didn't say anything and just ran out, their moans and grunts chasing after me. He doesn't know I know. And he's been blowing my phone up nonstop. Hence the reason I put it on silent.

I should have been suspicious when he asked me to marry him but didn't want to move in together until after the wedding. It was so he could keep cheating on me without me being any wiser to his scumbaginess.

Hijo de puta. Son of a bitch.

Deep in the midst of my pity party, a rough hand on my arm snaps me back to reality. Fear grapples in my stomach, thinking the worst, because this is humanity and I am just a tipsy girl outside, alone. Dragging my eyes up, I find a face I never thought I'd see again.

What the hell is he doing here?

“Alejandro?” I squint, trying to make sense of this—like I’m in some kind of twisted nightmare.

He's grown, muscles lean against the black Henly he sports.

His jaw is firm, strong, and tight as he clenches his teeth in what I can only presume to be annoyance.

He always got this way whenever he thought I was doing something stupid, something unsafe.

Which I guess, standing alone, inebriated, late at night by a bar isn't exactly the safest thing I've done.

His deep blue eyes hold that familiar fire that entices me like a moth to a flame, gazing at my dark brown irises with such intensity, I actually wince.

He's clean shaven, but something tells me he'll have no problem growing out a full beard if he so chooses.

His hair, however, is shaggy, that glossy black that reflects the neon lights around us so well.

A strand dangles over his forehead so perfectly, you'd think he placed it there purposefully.

His hair is much like the car he just emerged from—the very one I was just admiring—a glossy, healthy black.

“Don't act so surprised, Bee.” His eyes flash with concern for a moment, a quick crack in his mask, before it disappears and I think I made it all up.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to pull my wrist from his grip, finding it an impossible task.

“What do you mean?” His brow furrows a centimeter, a short second of confusion before he brushes that off, too. “You're the one who texted me to come get you.”

My stomach drops.

I freeze, then awkwardly fumble with my free hand to pull my phone from my back pocket. The screen lights up with damning proof—his name, my message.

Heat floods my face while the rest of me goes ice cold. I blanch. Or maybe I turn red. Probably both.

God. I really did text him.

I swallow down the embarrassment, kicking myself for never deleting his number. I’ve told myself a thousand excuses over the years—too busy, too tired, maybe I’d need it one day. Lies. The truth was always simpler.

I just couldn’t do it.

Because even after everything, he’s never really left me. He lingers at the edges of my thoughts, in the what-ifs that still keep me up sometimes, in the ache of every quiet moment when I let myself imagine what life might’ve been if he hadn’t walked away.

And now here he is.

“I,” my gaze lowers before I whisper, “didn't mean to.”

“Don't play coy now. You dropped your damn pin.” He's pulling me toward his Lamborghini that's already garnered the attention of quite a few strangers, all gathering around the vehicle curiously.

“It wasn't—” I can't get the words out, feeling his fingers tighten as he has to forcibly part the crowd.

He opens the door and shoves me in, waiting for me to pull my legs in before closing it.

My lungs are instantly assaulted with his scent, something I'd been avoiding for years.

It's a mixture of sweet and spice with his signature musk, earthy and cool.

I can't get enough of it, inhaling deeply just so I can fill my lungs to the brink with it.

Memories I've long since tucked away, assault my mind, threatening to open a chasm in my chest again. But I swallow it down along with the bile that's risen to my throat.

I watch as he rounds the hood, my heart thumping in anticipation. Alejandro has always been a bit of a wild card. I mean, come on, he's a pro-soccer player now when no one thought more of him than our gardener's son. No one but me, anyway. Who would have thought he would be here now… saving me?

I force the lump in my throat down, swallowing it as he takes his seat, hands tight against the steering wheel.

“Seatbelt,” is all he says as he starts the car, not bothering to look my way.

“Sober up a bit, would you? Next time, don't stand outside alone like this.” His voice is gruff, but there's an undercurrent of concern hidden beneath.

The V12 roars to life beneath us as he revs his engine in hopes of dispersing the crowd.

It takes a moment, but eventually they clear, allowing him to merge into traffic and race us out of South Beach.

His fingers drum an inpatient rhythm on the steering wheel while we make our way to— where exactly are we going?

Getting too heady, too nostalgic for him, I roll the window down, inhaling the salty ocean air instead. I close my eyes, focusing solely on the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the feel of the cool air against my skin, and the smell of the ocean mixing with Alejandro's scent.

“Why were you drinking, Killer Bee?” He finally breaks the silence as we approach a red light.

God, that's a loaded question.