Chapter 16
ELIJAH
“Whiskey sour, please.”
I tap two fingers on the bar top while pulling out a chair and admiring the view of the ocean from the resort’s outside cantina.
The orange sun hovers above the waves, and the salty, soapy scent of the sea eases my tight muscles and refreshes my soul. Honestly, it feels pretty amazing.
“Sure thing, brother,” the bartender replies.
With an easygoing smile, he places a coaster in front of me and finishes wiping down the countertop before tossing the rag off to the side and reaching for a shaker.
Trading my usual bourbon for something different isn’t all that surprising while on vacation. I like to keep things interesting when traveling, even if it’s just back home on my beloved island of Puerto Rico.
Puerto Rico is a friendly, laid-back island, so different from the constant hustle and bustle of the States.
That’s what draws me back here every time.
Well, that and my parents. But here, everyone lives on island time.
No one rushes, yet somehow, everything still falls into place.
It’s a pace that feels right, a quiet happiness that hugs you.
And the locals are a joyful bunch, with their boisterous laughter echoing through the streets.
Whether working or playing a game of dominoes outside a bodega, the vibes are all the same. It’s a happy island, for sure.
I really do miss living here. Every corner of this oasis holds a fond memory.
The warm weather, abundance of sunshine, and the way food and drink are shared so generously—it all feels like home.
As it should. The island is deeply rooted in family values.
Puerto Ricans are proud people, no doubt about it, and there’s a special joy they feel in seeing others appreciate the blessings their island has to offer.
“Amigo.” The bartender grins as he passes over a dressed-up whiskey sour.
Wasting no time, I take a much-needed sip of the drink, savoring its refreshing taste while slurping the frothy head, which softens the bite of the lemon.
Delicious. Citrus zings across my lips and over my tongue.
It’s the perfect combination of sweet and sour.
Alex would enjoy the flavors in this particular drink.
I’ll have to remember to order him one when he arrives…
which is tomorrow, and my parents are already busy preparing an authentic Puerto Rican meal for us.
Taking another sip, I think back to when I spoke to him last night. Poor guy. He sounded thoroughly exhausted. I hope he got a good night’s sleep.
A soft pink hue sweeps across the sky as I let my gaze drift down the beach.
With the sun setting, a full orb of orange sits atop the ocean waves like a bouncing ball of fire.
It’s absolutely breathtaking. I can’t wait for Alex to experience these spectacular sunsets.
There’s truly nothing like them anywhere else in the world.
Of course, I might be a bit biased when it comes to my native island.
A warm, balmy breeze flutters off the ocean, filling my nostrils with a waft of salty island air. Humming contentedly, I kick back and relax into the wicker barstool, taking another leisurely sip of my cocktail, motioning for the bartender to shake up another.
“Mmm, you must be enjoying those.” A familiar voice brushes across my ear, deep and unmistakable, just as a large hand settles on my shoulder. My breath catches as I turn toward the voice.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp. Gabriel’s beautiful smile lights up his handsome face, and for a moment, it rivals even the sunset. Both are spectacular, but his smile might just be my favorite.
“I’ve come to join you,” he purrs, dropping into a seat beside me. His bare thigh brushes lightly against my leg, and goose bumps spring from my flesh as the bartender strides over and slaps down another coaster.
“Two shots of Bacardi, and… one of those fancy drinks with the umbrella,” he slurs, tapping his finger against the glass of my freshly made whiskey sour.
“Why are you here?” I ask again, confused by this unexpected visit. The last I knew, he was still in Spain.
Returning with two shots of Bacardi and a whiskey sour, the bartender places them down in front of Gabriel, who proceeds to slide a shot glass over to me and raises his own.
“You come to Puerto Rico, Elijah, you’re supposed to enjoy the fruits of the island.
” He taps the bottom of his glass against mine with a grin and a wink, then knocks back his shot in one go.
Shaking his head, he lets out a dramatic hiss as the alcohol scorches his throat.
The rum is not as harsh as he makes it seem—he’s just being extra—and I toss mine back as well, allowing the smooth spirit to glide deliciously down my throat.
I grew up drinking this particular brand of rum. It’s made right here on the island at Casa Bacardi in Catano, and my father had cases of it in the cellar. Probably still does.
I sit back and lick my lips, listening to Gabriel order another round of shots in that smooth, melodic Spanish of his. Even though he’s from Spain, our Spanish isn’t all that different. Although his has a sultry slur to it, which I happen to find very sexy.
Aware that he’s deliberately avoiding my question, I press on. “So, what’s the occasion, love?” I swivel around on my stool; eyes locked on him as he struggles to find the right words. His hand runs through his thick, shoulder-length hair, betraying his hesitation. Something’s not right.
“I needed to be here, Elijah… with you.” He stares straight ahead, reaching for his glass, and takes a hearty sip of the whiskey sour.
“Ptuh! How can you drink this?” He coughs, scrunching his face as he swallows the tart liquid. When the bartender brings over a shot of rum, he immediately grabs it and quickly tosses it back, chasing away the sharp tang of the whiskey with the sweet burn of the rum.
I laugh, knowing Gabriel has never been a fan of citrusy-tart drinks. “Get him a Bacardi and Coke,” I instruct the bartender as he places the other shot down beside my cocktail.
Gabriel makes a reach for it, but I quickly lay my hand on top of his. “You never drink like this, chulo. Tell me what’s going on?”
His jaw tightens, just barely, but I catch it.
His shoulders look stiff, like he’s holding something in—or holding himself together.
Even the way he moves feels off, like his body’s too tight in its own skin.
I’ve seen him relaxed. I’ve seen him reckless.
But this—this is different. This is Gabriel trying not to fall apart.
And now, the alcohol on the table is starting to make sense.
Turning his hand over, he slots our fingers together, blowing out a long breath. His gaze lingers on our joined hands for a long moment before looking up—stunning gray eyes locking onto mine.
“I need to be here, Elijah.”
“You already said that,” I remind him. “Where are you staying?”
He shrugs, just as his Bacardi and Coke arrives. His hand trembles ever so slightly as he brings the glass to his lips. “I fucked up,” he says, and I wait, watching his throat work as he swallows. “I fucked everything up with Noah.”
A single tear escapes from his right eye. He lifts our joined hands to his face, lets the tear slip onto my knuckles, like a confession he doesn’t know how else to give.
“I fucked up,” he says again, voice breaking around the edges.
All I can do is sit here, holding the weight of that tear, of those words… of him.
“Oh, Gabriel—”
“Don’t,” he whispers urgently, sliding his fingers over my lips, bringing my words to a halt. “Because I’m about to fuck up again.”
His mouth slams against mine, sudden and fierce, fracturing my guarded disposition.
For a second, I’m stunned. Shocked beyond belief.
And then I fall victim to the familiar feel of those lips pressing against mine, and all common sense takes a back seat.
Our mouths move together with effortless urgency, lips dancing in perfect sync, as if they’ve spent a lifetime longing for this reunion.
His lips are like putty, becoming more pliable as I suck, bite, and lick the tender flesh, swapping saliva as our eager tongues push past our lively lips.
My fingers dive into his hair at the back of his neck, threading through unruly waves, making him hum, and I tighten my grip on those silky strands, holding his mouth more urgently against mine—the paired sensation of hair and lips causing me to tremble all over.
“I need you,” he moans into my mouth, and I deepen our kiss, addicted to those rum-flavored lips. “Te necesito, Elijah. Te necesito.”
?Carajo!
Those Spanish words slice right through my hyped-up state of arousal. I rip my lips from his, breathless and stunned. The realization of what just happened rocks me to my core.
“Gabriel…”
“Don’t,” he pleads, grabbing my hand as I try to pull away. “Don’t stop this… this…”
His forehead drops against mine, heavy, like he needs the contact just to breathe. His fingers trail down my cheek, slow and shaky, unbearably tender. “Give me one night with you, Elijah,” he whispers. “Please. Just one night.”
A pause. A breath.
“Te necesito,” he says again, softer this time.
And it ruins me.
Pulling away, I slap two fifties down on the bar and stand.
“Alex is coming tomorrow and—”
“And we have tonight,” Gabriel cuts in softly, taking my hand before I can finish.
Gently, I lift him from his seat and begin walking, but my voice is firm, almost brittle. “There is no ‘we,’ Gabriel.”
His gray eyes darken like a gathering storm, the weight of my words crashing down on him. A single tear slips silently down his bronzed cheek.
Without hesitation, I reach up and brush it away.
I hate seeing him like this—stripped bare, hollowed. His pain isn’t just something I witness; it’s a living thing that coils around my chest and squeezes tight. I feel it all the way to my soul.
“Tell me what happened, love? What happened with Noah?”
He draws my hand to his face and keeps it there, his tears warm, seeping into my skin, one after another, as though they might explain it for him.
“H-he touched me…”
I stay silent, my thumb gently brushing his cheek, urging him to keep going without words.
“There,” he says, barely above a whisper.
In that single word, everything falls into place. Exposing a part of him that only I was supposed to know. Only I was supposed to ever touch.
“It’s okay, chulo.” I let my hand fall to his waist, running my thumb across his hip bone. A shiver ripples through his body, sliding through my skin like a live wire.
“And then what?”
He looks up, eyes raw and searching, tears streaming freely now.
“I thought he was you.” He sobs, voice collapsing. “I called out for you. God—I called out for you.”
“Oh, chulo.”
His head lands heavily on my shoulder, and I wrap him up in my arms, feeling his heartbeat pound against my chest. Tears soak my shirt as he nuzzles his nose into my neck, and he hiccups softly. It’s all I can do to watch him fall apart.
I breathe into his hair, inhaling the soft notes of coconut, vanilla, and spice.
It’s the same scent it’s always been for the past fifteen years, blending nicely with his natural masculine warmth.
A quiet moan vibrates against my throat, and I swallow the vibration as my hand travels along his waist and my fingers slip into his.
“Come with me, love.” The words leave my mouth gently, but they don’t land that way inside me. I exhale, wrestling with my slipping insanity, squeezing my eyes shut tight in the hopes of blinding my twisted thoughts.
Because what I’m thinking demands a whole lot of forgiveness and a fucking tidal wave of holy water.