Chapter 17
TOMáS
This is all the gummies fault. Though I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. Tino was right, it did relax me, but it also made me impulsively contact Sarina, when I technically didn’t need to.
Granted, the deadline I told her earlier when she stopped by my place did in fact get moved up, but it’s nothing that would warrant me bothering her on a Friday night. I’m embarrassed to admit that I wanted it to seem more urgent than it was just so I could have an excuse to talk to her.
I want so badly to be able to talk to her again.
Like we did when we first met. Things felt so much easier, more carefree, when we were strangers with nothing but the night ahead of us.
I wanted nothing more than to be able to see her again.
Though I didn’t anticipate the domino effect that would happen once our paths crossed.
Everything feels, and is, more complicated now.
For the first time in a long time I’m having difficulty suppressing my feelings to push through.
I don’t know how to flip the switch in my mind that’s begging me to pursue her.
I know if I confided how I’m truly feeling to my friends, they’d laugh and chalk it up to the pussy being so good that I’m still drunk off it.
They wouldn’t be wrong.
Her pussy was good. More than good. But that’s not what has me caught in the chokehold I find myself in.
What has me is the way we both melted around each other. The way she seemed to shine in my presence, and the way I was able to breathe around hers.
I’ve never felt that way around anyone before.
It felt like comfort disguised as lust, and it’s a high that I feel like I’ll be chasing indefinitely, until —and unless— I’m able to explore more of that feeling with her again.
And now, as I stare at the work cluttering my kitchen island, I can thank myself for adding more onto the never-ending task list, since, out of embarrassment, I took on the assignment I was calling Sarina for.
Maybe it’s for the best. I seem to do my best disassociating when I can bury myself in work. That’s what I need right now —to distract myself.
I spend the next couple of hours sorting through emails, organizing myself for a meeting I have coming up, and finish reviewing some zoning regulations for a client.
I work through the exhaustion, ignoring it until I can’t anymore and my glasses feel useless against the eyestrain-induced headache I feel coming on.
Closing my laptop, I walk it over to the charger I keep on the kitchen island and grab my personal phone so I can head up to bed.
Out of habit I press the side button to see if I have any notifications.
There’s none. Unlike my work phone that’s still chiming with emails that I don’t have the energy —or desire— to look at until the morning.
A ping of accomplishment bursts through my chest as I stare at the digital clock on my lock screen.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve gone to sleep before midnight.
Usually, work has me occupied until at least one or two a.m., and then I take a four-hour nap impersonating as a full night’s rest so I can get my workout in bright and early.
I’m halfway up the stairs to my room when I receive a FaceTime call… from Sarina.
I blink a few times, convinced that my exhaustion is playing tricks on my eyes, but sure enough, there’s her name flashing across the screen.
Excitement. Nerves. Nausea. All of it goes to war within my body. Each battling to determine my next move, and while they are warring with one another, I’m rendered motionless with my thumb ghosting over the answer button.
Answer it.
Maybe something is wrong.
She needs you.
Fuck it.
What if she’s in trouble and really needs me?
That’s all I need to consider to break the nervous spell I’m under and get over myself to answer the call.
Though if I thought the nerves were bad prior to answering the call, they are nothing compared to my pulse swishing in my ears as the screen shifts to a distorted one and the video call connects. My ears are then met with a very unexpected sound.
Heavy, muffled breathing filters through the speaker, followed by my name. My. Fucking. Name.
On repeat.
“To-más. To-más. To-más. To-más.”
My name becomes trapped in a delicious cycle of whimpered breaths and relentless moaning.
It sounds so sensual so perfect falling from her wanton lips, that it makes me feel unworthy of hearing it.
She needs me all right, though not in the way I thought.
This is somehow both better and worse.
The more she screeches my name, the more I feel helpless and want to jump through the screen.
It’s obvious this call, despite my name being front and center at her pleasure, isn’t meant for me.
I know the right thing to do is to hang up.
But the more she says my name, the more I become lost in it, and that pesky lack of willpower I’ve been fighting to maintain vanishes, as does my ability to disconnect the call.
Gripping my phone like a lifeline, I plop myself down on the step I’ve been standing on, allowing myself to take in not only the sounds but the sights, distorted and unclear as they are.
Crumpled linens cloud the screen, and my vision is gifted with a sliver of her tanned skin.
Desperate for more, I lean forward, as if that’ll improve my vantage point.
It doesn’t. What does, however, is a quick shift in her movements.
From what I can make out through the heated chaos unfolding before me, she’s lying on what I’m assuming is her bed, riding what looks to be a pillow.
The sight causes a fervent heat to explode in my veins, traveling directly to my dick.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so honored —and jealous— all at once.
Of a goddamn pillow, of all things.
Before I know it, I’m holding my phone in one hand and lowering my sweatpants with the other.
My dick bobs upward, practically begging my hand to latch onto it and get to alleviating the ache she’s caused in me.
A stream of saliva falls to my dick, and I coat my shaft with it as I fist myself, matching the tempo of her cries.
My imagination runs wild thinking of the mess she must be making on the pillow and I desperately wish I was there to lick every drop of it.
Visuals of our night together consume me as I glide my hand up and down.
Those blue eyes taunting me in memory, having me crave the effect their contact has on my body.
I want to see them. Fuck, I want to see her.
See how pretty she looks breathless and satisfied, with flushed cheeks, and that pretty pussy dripping for me, but I need to be discreet.
I don’t want her realizing that I’m on the other line.
Even if it were an accident, she’ll think I’m a creep.
I can’t have her thinking that of me, although the desperation that I’m fucking myself with my own hand begs to tell a different tale.
Sounding like she’s on the brink of orgasm, my name is reduced to the last syllable, Más, Más, and that’s all I need to come along with her.
Cum streams from my tip, spilling onto the steps as silence creeps over us.
I hold my breath and move gingerly, afraid that any sudden movement will create a sound that draws her attention.
I’m able to end the call without her noticing, and it’s then that I let out an exasperated sigh, disguised as a grunt, that I’ve been holding in.
That felt good.
Too good.
I head to my bathroom to clean myself up and as I do, I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink.
The scar on my right shoulder is on full display.
Despite me injuring it years ago, it hasn’t bothered me until recently. Ironic, since I earned that scar when my default was recklessness And right now, without her knowing, she’s bringing out that reckless side in me that I haven’t felt in years.
Something that should scare me.
Nothing good ever came from me being reckless.
But fuck does it feel almost as good as she makes me feel.
Almost.
“You’re late,” my dad mumbles as he winds up his right arm for a practice throw.
I grab the baseball glove from his duffel bag, wincing as I put it on.
He whips around, anger drenched in his stare as he looks me up and down. “Really? You have nothing to say for yourself?”
I shrug as he moves closer.
“What was it this time?” The irritation in his voice cracks his tone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Pops.”
“Cut the shit, Tomás. It’s close to ninety degrees out and you’re wearing a sweatshirt. I’m not fucking stupid, I know that you’re covering up something. What happened this time?”
My lips part to speak, but I can’t seem to get the words out.
Talking has never been a strong suit of mine.
I’ve always found it easier to bottle everything up, which usually leads to me exploding at some point.
But this time is different. I didn’t get into a fight unprompted, this one was arranged with a cash prize.
Not that hearing any of that will get him off my case about it.
“I’m not going to ask you again. What made you snap this time?”
“Money,” is the first thing that flies out of my mouth, a response he was not expecting to hear. His brow furrows, urging me to continue. “Dante and Tino know this guy that arranges…”
“Enough!” He cuts me off, shaking his head. “I don’t care what the Amato boys influenced you to do.”
I don’t understand what’s going on. My dad loves Dante and Tino. He’s acting off.
“They’re my best friends.”
A dry, exhausted chuckle falls from my father’s lips and I brace myself for what I know will come next, a lecture of some sort, but to my surprise, he walks in the opposite direction to a bench near the pitcher’s mound. I follow, taking a seat next to him.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Let me rephrase, what was your motivation to get into a fight for money this time?”
I don’t want to say, but if there’s one thing about my father, it’s that once he’s onto something, he won’t let it go. My options are that I tell him now, or he’ll pry it out of me eventually.
“Art lessons.”
He perks up, seemingly surprised by my response.
“Lessons?”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks. “Yeah, you know how I like to draw. I want to take lessons so that I can become…”
“An artist?” he interrupts with a long, drawn-out sigh.
“Yes.”
He mutters under his breath.
“Is that a problem?”
The muttering continues until it eventually reaches an audible volume.
“It’s just that I thought you wanted to become a lawyer.”
My head juts back, recalling my own words.
I mean, I’ve mentioned it in passing that it would be nice to become one.
Though I’ve always wondered if I had the intellect to pursue it.
I do okay in school. I’d be lying to myself if I said that I’d likely do a lot better if I applied myself, but I haven’t given it much thought.
Though with me about to enter my senior year in high school, I guess I need to start putting more thought into my future.
The mumbling continues and I’m not quite sure where to jump in. It’s not until he mentions my mom and sister as tears stream down his cheeks that, as confused as I am, I take it as my cue to speak.
“Pops, what’s wrong?”
“They are going to need you, Tomás,” he says, vague and cryptic.
I shake my head. “Who is going to need me?” Worry captures my throat, tightening it as he bows his head, and the tears are no longer silent in a singular flow, they are pouring down.
“I thought I’d have more time,” he mumbles.
“Dad.” I say his name as a plea. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
I grab onto his shoulder to shake him, needing him to look up at me, to tell me what’s wrong, but instead he falls forward, wailing. I catch him, bringing him back onto the bench, and for the first time in my life, I see my dad cry. He buries his head into my shoulders, unable to speak.
Not sure what’s happening and afraid to know, I hold him as he cries.
I lose track of time, and it isn’t until the church bells go off in the distance as they usually do at six p.m. sharp that I’m aware of how long we’ve been here.
An hour.
One whole hour.
Sixty minutes of uncertainty.
Finally, he grabs the handkerchief he keeps in his back pocket and wipes away his tears, composing himself enough to speak.
“I’m going to need you to do me a favor.”
“Yes, Pops, of course. Anything you need. Just please, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I need you to get it together, Tomás. No more fighting, for money or otherwise. No more fucking around. I need you to take your senior year seriously so you can get into a good college and take my place.”
My stomach drops.
Take his place?
What the fuck is he talking about?
It’s then, as he continues to speak, that my world crashes and burns before my eyes.
It’s the wake-up call I needed, but fuck do I wish it didn’t have to be like this.
I hear what he’s saying. Even if I couldn’t, I can read his lips, but my hearing becomes lost in a funnel as a sadness creeps over me that I didn’t know I would ever be capable of feeling.
“Wait, so there’s a cure?” My voice is full of hope, but my heart sinks as I ask the question.
He grabs hold of my hand, squeezing it. “No, hijo, I’m past that point. Doctor said I don’t have much time left. The tumor went undetected and now the cancer has spread.”
“Dad. No… What… What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I need you to take care of your mom and sister. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” I breathe before breaking into tears that feel like knives cutting at my skin. “I promise.”
I promise.
I won’t fuck it up.
I’ll change.
I have to.