2. Beatriz
Beatriz
I may be twenty-six, but I've only ever been tipsy a total of maybe three times.
Tonight being the third, if I'm counting correctly, anyway.
So it doesn't peg me as strange that Alejandro would ask why I'm in such a state, that he would look at me like he doesn't know me, when he used to know me best.
“Because I want to be.” I shake my head, which is a terrible idea, spinning everything around me again.
“You and I both know that's not true. So start talking.” His eyes linger on mine for a second before returning to the light.
“I don't want to talk about it.” I wring my hands on my lap, feeling childish as I tuck my chin into my chest.
“Fuck, no. You don't get to randomly text me, drop your location with a vague message that you could really use me, and then clam up. So spit it out already.” He’s upset, peeling out as the light turns green.
He shifts gears hard enough to make my head hit the back of the seat with a jolt that lingers in my neck.
“It's stupid.” I bite my lip, not really wanting to admit any of this to him, of all people.
Not him.
Not the one ex that broke me apart.
“Beatriz Evangeline Ayala,” he says my full name in warning, freezing my body.
With a sigh of defeat, I keep my gaze fixed on the road as I start. “My boyfriend cheated on me. Actually, he's been cheating on me for two years and I only just found out.” Anger swells, mixing with the heartache and booze that's twisting in my stomach and around my heart.
His jaw clenches as he lets out a low, angry growl at my words. “Two years, huh?” He snarls, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Fucking piece of shit.” After a long pause he says, "I could handle him for you."
“No. I don't need that.” I may be inebriated, but even I know that's a terrible idea. Alejandro was never one to handle anyone. “I can handle this myself.”
“Of course you can, Killer Bee.” He winks at me, using that nickname again.
A pang of nostalgia hits me right in the gut, pulling my already tattered heart down, wanting to return to those simpler times. Times when it was just him and I against the world, so damn in love, until he wasn't, until he left me out of nowhere.
After another stretch of silence—with my tongue still loose from the alcohol— I ask, “Why did you come get me?”
“You texted.” He says it so plainly, as if it should be obvious, as if the simple act of me texting was enough to bar years of no communication.
“Well, I meant to text my sister. But also we haven't exactly been on speaking terms since you left me, you know?” My head turns to meet his gaze, stopped at yet another red light.
I swear there's a moment of regret that flickers in his gaze, but I'm sure I'm hallucinating it.
In fact, I'm probably hallucinating this whole thing.
“Ni modo,” he says, because I guess it really doesn't matter to him that he wasn't the intended recipient of my text. “Yeah… I know,” he admits gruffly, running his fingers through his damp hair. “I fucked up and just bailed without an explanation.” His voice drops lower, filled with a sudden vulnerability I’m not expecting.
“It wasn't easy for me either. Being with you… it was different. You made me feel things no one else ever has.” He white-knuckles the steering wheel, gripping it so tightly that I think he's angry.
It's almost as if he resents the fact he left me.
I twist uncomfortably in my seat, feeling my broken heart shatter further. Tonight is total hell. My eyes avert his gaze, turning to look out of the window. The tears spill slowly down my cheeks, stopped by the casual touch of my hand as I brush my hair away.
A few minutes later, we pull up to a beachfront property framed by tall white cement walls that serve as a fence, promising privacy.
Alejandro leans out the window, taps a quick code, and the massive black gate slides open.
The driveway stretches into a wide, rectangular space that looks more like a private lot than a driveway, anchored by a towering fountain that sprays silver under the night lights.
He pulls his car next to a neon blue Corvette and cuts the engine, turning his body to face mine.
“Look, no matter what happened in the past, for tonight, you're my problem. I don't know what made you text me, but I'm glad you did.” He engulfs my hand with his own, allowing me to see the tattoos he now sports on them.
My chest tightens further as I notice the different styles of mustaches inked along the sides of his fingers. I used to draw those on him, and my own. As children, we would hold them over our lips and play, pretending to have different accents for each one.
“Let's get you inside. We can have a real conversation when you're sober.”
Just as quickly as he grabbed my hand, he releases it, getting out of the car and making his way around.
He helps me stumble out, supporting my weight as we make our way up the path to his front door.
I watch as he fumbles with the key, eventually opening the thick, dark, wooden door with a frustrated sigh.
His home is just as extravagant inside as it is outside.
Tall white archways open to a den on the right, a circular living room in front, and an eight-seater dining room to the left.
Everything is neatly organized, almost to the point I think it's all staged, as if a realtor put it together and he bought it this way without changing a thing.
It's obviously not his style, or so I think, but what do I know? It's been years—many years, actually—since I've seen or spoken to him.
“Come with me.” He no longer bears my weight, instead lifting me up from under my knees to carry me with ease—bridal style—toward the dining room.
But he doesn't stop there, veering right toward the kitchen.
He sets me on the tiled kitchen island, steadying me before he makes his way to his coffee pot.
The aroma of ground coffee beans wakes my senses well before the warm liquid does.
He hands me the cup—black, no sugar, no cream…nothing. I frown, needing things to be sweet in order to digest them. Alejandro notices, tipping the bottom of the cup up to encourage me to drink.
“It'll help clear your mind,” he persists, as I take my first sip of bitterness.
I whine, sticking my tongue out in disgust. “Yuck.”
“Complain all you like, but you better drink it all.” There's that commanding, strong voice of his, the demand laced with care.
Clearly, I'm still affected by the alcohol as I mockingly salute him, cringing at myself as I do it. “Yes, sir.”
Thankfully, Alejandro doesn't say anything else, only rolling his eyes in response.
He takes the cup from my hands once it's empty, rinsing it before he helps me off the counter.
His hands linger on my hips, his chest pressed flush against my own.
The tickle of his breath fans over my face, sending a warmth to rush through my body, pooling in my stomach.
Between the alcohol and the sudden lust, my brain can't keep up as I brace myself against him, my hands lingering on his chest. We're suspended in that moment for a while before Alejandro pulls away, leaving me suddenly void of warmth.
“Let's get you to bed.”
He grabs my hand, pulling me along behind him as he leads me up the stairs and to the right. At first, I think he's taking me to a guest bedroom, but the moment we pass through the doorway, his scent hits hard.
There’s a large king bed pushed against the corner of the wall, unkempt, with half his blanket dangling off the side and onto the messy floor.
His clothes are sprawled all over the place, covering every surface, some carelessly stacked on the chair at his desk, others hanging from the handle of his drawer, and a few even dangling from his closet door.
The laughter bubbles in my stomach and I can't hold it back, giggling like a small child. In response, he mumbles something I don't quite catch as he hurriedly picks up some of the clothes and kicks the rest away.
“I see you haven't changed,” I remark, recalling how busy he'd always stay, leaving no time for cleaning up.
He's too proud to hire someone to help. Maybe because he once was the help. But it leaves for a messy place, although this is the only room I’ve seen so far that looks lived in.
“Old habits and all that.” He shrugs his shoulders, cheeks tinged red with embarrassment that he pretends he's not feeling. I let him. “Now come on, let's get you in bed.”
He grabs the blanket, flicking it in the air so that it haphazardly lays over the whole bed before he lifts a corner as a gesture for me to get in. My body already feels a thousand degrees hotter, so getting under those thick covers is a larger task than he realizes he's asking of me.
Still not entirely clear-headed, I find it easy to peel my shirt off and unbutton my jeans before he finally snaps out of his shock long enough to stop me.
“Jesus, Killer. What are you doing?” His hand flies over mine, holding it still over the waist of my pants. “We're just going to sleep.”
“I know that.” I smile, loving the sudden display of his bashfulness. Alejandro has always been a bit bumbly when he gets flustered, but it's been a while since I've seen this side of him. “It's just too hot.”
Alejandro curses something under his breath, dragging his hand over his face.
Inadvertently, his eyes drag over my body, landing on my breasts for a second longer before meeting my eyes.
The way his tongue darts out to lick his lips tells me so much more than he realizes.
I swallow the feelings threatening to surface, to take over my body and make me make a horrible decision.
You can't sleep with Alejandro.
“Okay, take those off and I'll get you a shirt.” He reluctantly peels his eyes away from me as he rummages through his dresser, grabbing one of his shirts.
When he turns back toward me, I'm standing in the middle of his room in nothing but my bra and underwear, breathing heavily under his hungry gaze. Slowly, too slowly, he walks toward me, shirt in hand, until he's a mere few inches away.
“Here, lift your arms.” He scrunches the fabric together, waiting for me to do as I'm told. When I do, he pulls the garment over my head, slowly trailing his fingers against my bare skin as he lowers it over my body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “Now come on, let's go to sleep.”
He guides me to the bed, laying me down before he turns off the lights and I feel him climb in behind me.
Despite my body screaming at me to reach over and touch him, I hold as still as a statue, staring at the ceiling.
It feels like an eternity before I hear the faint whisper of his voice.
“I'm sorry,” leaves his lips so unexpectedly I think he's talking in his sleep until he turns on his side and stares right at me. “For everything.”
How long have I wanted to hear those words?