27. Wolf
“What is this place?” Serena shakes her hair out as she places her helmet on the handle of my bike.
“Best taco place in Jersey.” I nod toward the food truck I discovered three years ago. If it were brick and mortar, I’d describe it as a “hole-in-the-wall,” but since it’s mobile and leaves every night at ten, I’ll call it a hidden gem. She eyes me skeptically, disbelief warring with excitement over my statement.
“The best tacos I’ve had in this state are from Ranchero.” She pauses, looking at her surroundings as we stand in line at Comida de Los Vivos, or Comida for short. I was starving after a gym session one night and in no mood to go to Starbound or some other bar in the area, so I stopped by the food truck with historically long lines. One bite was all it took for me to realize that any other tacos I’ve eaten in the past paled in comparison.
“Just trust me, okay?”
She looks at me, tilting her head in consideration before shrugging and staring at the menu on the side of the truck. I watch her closely, taking in her features as she reads the offerings. Just like every time I’m in her presence, the quiet, understated grace and beauty she exudes astound me.
“Oh, they have pozole. I haven’t had that since I visited my grandparents before COVID.”
“That’s the stew, right?”
“Soup or stew, depending on whom you ask. My abuela tops it with a lot of cabbage, radishes, and avocado. I’m excited to try this one.”
“Where do your grandparents live?”
“Mexico. My mom moved to the United States for school, but her family is in Puebla. My dad was born in the States, but his mother is from Mexico City. His dad was American and in the military; they met shortly after my Abuela Pia immigrated with her parents in the sixties. His family was Spanish, from Spain. That’s where my last name comes from.”
I nod, listening to her as she talks about her heritage and background. We spend the twenty minutes in line talking about her summers spent in Mexico before she started to take on more school responsibilities, and I tell her about my love of jiu-jitsu, how Celeste and I started in karate before transitioning to grappling, and then MMA.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you walking away from MMA? I don’t know much about it, but aren’t you, well, good at it?”
I look away from her face, letting the bittersweet emotions crash over me as I think about the end of my fighting career. “Tattooing, art, it’s my life. Jiu-jitsu was always an outlet, and I used to love to train with Celeste and a few of my other buddies at my original gym. When Jedd, my coach, recruited me for MMA, I did it solely for the purses; you can win a shit ton of money in the circuit, and I always knew that one day, I’d own the shop. MMA made it a reality I was able to achieve. But if I had to choose between MMA and tattooing—which I did—I’d choose my art every damn time. I can’t tattoo if my hands are busted or if I’m in so much pain that sitting in a chair for thirty minutes, hunched over a client, is an impossibility. I knew I had to get out, and luckily, I haven’t had much pushback from my coach. My parents are relieved that their only child will stop beating the shit out of men in the cage, and I don’t have to feel like my body is a weapon anymore.”
“I—” she begins but stops as the person in front of us finishes their order and steps aside, putting us at the head of the line.
“Hi, what can I get you?”
“Hola. Yoquiero un pozole por favor. ?Y tienes tostones?” Serena asks, the Spanish sounding soft and lyrical in her voice.
“Sí.”
“Excelente. ?Puedo tener esos también?” Turning to me, she asks, “Wolf, what do you want?”
I clear my throat, surprised that she’s trying to order for me. Gently, so that she doesn’t think that she’s in charge but also doesn’t get offended or think that I’m dismissing her, I grab her arm and pull her to my side, effectively tucking her under my arm. “Hi. Can I have two carne asada tacos and a barbacoa? The name is Wolf for the order.” I offer my credit card and stuff money in the tip jar next to the window.
“Thank you. Gracias,” the woman calls out, looking past us to the onslaught of new customers who have arrived for late-night Mexican street food. I lead Serena over to my bike and lean against it as she paces back and forth.
“You good, princess?”
“Just a little cold,” she offers, sheepishly rubbing her arms in explanation. Shrugging off my leather jacket, I hold it out to her, nodding toward the fabric wordlessly. “Oh, no. I have a jacket; you’ll just be in a sweatshirt, and I can’t make you go cold a second time. The party was bad enough.”
“Princess, take the goddamn jacket. I’ll be fine, but you look like you’re shaking.” Her shoulders drop, and she reaches out, grabbing the jacket and quickly putting it over her frame. She huddles into the coat as though it’s offering her a hug and inhales deeply. “You smelling my coat?” I tease, savoring the redness of her cheeks as she reacts to my jibe.
“Wolf!” Looking past Serena, the woman who took our order calls out my name and holds up a bag containing our food. Pushing from the bike, I walk to the front of the line and grab the bag before circling back to Serena. Despite the late hour, there are no available picnic tables in the lot.
I weigh our options: eat standing up or go to someplace with a table. Taking in Serena’s body dwarfed by my jacket and her obvious discomfort from the cold, I rule out eating outside.
“Put your arms through the sleeves. We’ve got a ten-minute ride. Will you be okay?”
“Where are we going?”
I shake my head, not answering her question. “That’s not what I asked. Will you be okay, or do I need to call a car service?”
She rolls her eyes and slips her arms into the sleeves of my jacket. “Don’t be dramatic. I’ll be fine. I’d feel bad about making you ride without a jacket, but you’re the one who prevented me from driving home in a nice, warm car, so I guess this is payback.”
Scoffing, I stow the food in the hidden storage compartment, grab my spare helmet, and pull it over her head. “You mean a car, to a party, to a car, to your apartment with a guy who wants to fuck you?”
“Jack and I discussed that we are just friends, thank you very much. Stop painting him out to be a bad guy.”
“And if I weren’t there tonight to stop his advances?”
Her eyes are hidden by the visor of the helmet, but I can almost feel the anger in her glare. “We would have arrived at the same conclusion. You’re under the misconception that I needed you to swoop in; I was handling Jack fine, and we were having a nice conversation before you stormed over like a disgruntled bear.”
“Just get on the bike, Serena.” She huffs but throws a leg over the seat and slides back, getting into position on the back of my bike like a seasoned old lady. It disorients me how good she looks with the metal between her legs and how right it feels to have her there.
Whenever I would ride with Kelly, I felt itchy and claustrophobic despite the open air surrounding us. Her hold was always too tight, her posture too rigid to make it comfortable. With Serena, none of the discomfort I expected is there, and the reasons why I’m holding myself back—our different seasons in life and the fact that she’s Celeste’s friend—seem like convenient excuses. Something about seeing Serena with another man tonight pissed me off. I’m trying hard to identify the feelings as something other than jealousy, but I’m coming up short. When Jack leaned over her in that shitty booth, I wanted it to be me pressing against her. When she walked him out of the bar and hugged him goodbye, I wanted it to be me whom she wrapped her arms around. Somehow, this woman has embedded herself under my skin, and it both annoys and excites me.
Taking one last survey of her form, I clip my helmet into place and straddle the bike. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when her slim arms wrap around my stomach. Without thought, I glide one hand over her thigh, just above her knee, and squeeze. I can feel Serena’s body shudder against me and tighten my hold, silently warning her to stop moving.
Kicking up the stand, I twist the throttle and slowly pull out of the lot and onto the main highway. I’m a careful rider and cautious driver; all too often, there are stories of deaths due to motorcycle collisions and unsafe operation of bikes. But with Serena on the back, I take extra care, going slower than I typically would and signaling my turns earlier than necessary.
The ten-minute ride turns into twenty with my measured speed, and by the time we pull up to my house, a modest but modern bi-level, I’m fucking frozen. Tapping on the garage door opener attached to my left handlebar, I pull into my garage before kicking the stand and shutting off the engine.
In the absence of my bike’s engine, the silence between me and Serena is deafening. Unlatching my helmet, I pull it off and hang it over the handle before standing up and turning to her.
“You going to get up, princess, or are you planning on sitting there for the rest of the night?”
“Wolf,” she stops, pulling her helmet off and holding it between us like a life preserver. “Where are we?”
“My house.”
“Why would you bring me to your house?” Her brows are furrowed, and she looks genuinely confused.
“You showed me yours, so I figured I’d show you mine.”
“That’s not funny, Wolf.”
I shake my head, reach for the helmet, and tug it from her hands. “I’m not trying to be. Now get your ass up; I want to eat my tacos before they get too cold.”
“Wolf.”
“Fuck it,” I mutter when she still doesn’t move. Tossing the helmet on the bench by the door that leads to my kitchen, I circle her waist and throw her over my shoulder, leaving her legs dangling by my torso and my jacket drooping over her head. Keeping one hand on the back of her thighs, I lift the seat to reveal the hidden storage where I stowed the food and grab it.
With long strides, I reach the door and throw it open, pausing to close the garage before I kick my shoes off. The entire time I walk, Serena beats at my back, demanding that I let her down and stop manhandling her.
Walking into the kitchen, I bend down and deposit Serena on the counter, clenching my jaw to keep from laughing at her red face and furious expression.
“I told you to get up.”
“You could have given me a freaking minute, Wolf.”
“Sure, and then another minute and another. You were taking too long, and no amount of overthinking is going to change the outcome that you’re here, in my house, and we’re about to eat Mexican food I paid for. Call it a date, call it a consultation for your tattoo; I don’t give a shit. But I’m hungry, I’m tired, and the only thing I want to do is eat a fucking taco. So—” I pause, stepping back from the counter. “I’m going to eat my food. If you want to join me, you’re more than welcome to, but if you want to sulk on my countertop because I carried you into this room like the princess that you are, then have at it.”
Skirting around the kitchen island, I pull out one of my stools and sit before pulling out the contents of the bag. Setting Serena’s food in front of the second stool, I dig into my food, savoring the way the meat, onions, and cilantro melt against the tortilla. “Fuck, that’s good,” broadcasting my enjoyment by taking another large bite. Part of my behavior is performative, an enticement to have Serena share a meal with me, but a larger part is because I’m truly enjoying the food. I’m about to take another bite when she slides off the counter and stomps to the vacant seat.
“I am not a princess,” is all she offers before she sits and peels the lid off her stew. My eyes lock on her mouth as she blows on the still-hot liquid before taking a careful sip of the broth. She swallows the mouthful, and I have to tear my eyes away from the column of her throat and the way her muscles move.
It’s fucking pathetic.
“Mm, this is good.” She repeats the process over and over again, blowing on the steam before placing the spoon inside her mouth until her container is half-empty. “I am going to eat this entire thing.”
I hear her words but can’t formulate a response; a bead of liquid lands on the corner of her mouth, and she licks it, pulling her tongue back into her mouth before she sucks on her lower lip.
Her eyes shift from her plastic container to my eyes, then to my lips, until finally settling on a point over my shoulder.
“On second thought, I can pack this up and call an Uber now.”
“You can,” I agree, taking another bite of my food. I chew slowly, considering my next words. “Or you can eat it while it’s still hot.”
She nods, looking back down at her food. “Don’t tell my mother, but this might be better than my abuela’s.”
“Will that get you kicked out of the Castillo household?” I tease.
“I think I’m already disowned by them,” she responds with a shrug. “I’ve been on the outs with them since I was twelve, I think.” If I wasn’t watching her closely, I’d think she was unaffected by her words, but I am watching her closely. I don’t miss the quiver in her jaw or the way she draws in her bottom lip like she’s holding back more words.
Before I can think better of it, I place a hand on her forearm, still drowning in my leather jacket, and squeeze through the fabric in a show of understanding. I haven’t forgotten how she went off on her father’s voicemail when she was in the shop or the visceral reaction she had at his messages. It’s none of my business, but for some reason, the thought of this woman upset makes me see red.
“You okay, princess?” I ask, a bullshit question when she’s very obviously not okay.
Her head tilts down, letting her hair cover the side of her face, and she nods frantically. “I-I’m fine. I should get going now.”
“Probably.” My voice is soft, barely a release of breath and sound, but that’s all it takes to set Serena off. Soft whimpers escape her mouth, and she twists on the stool, bringing one hand up to muffle the sounds.
“Hey, princess, it’s okay.” Abandoning my food, I push off the stool and walk around her body until her face is level with my upper abdomen. “Shh, it’s okay, Serena, I got you,” I murmur, pulling her into my arms and letting her tears soak the front of my shirt.
Standing in my kitchen, surrounded by food and the soft sobs of the beautiful woman who’s been a reoccurring presence in my thoughts, I know I am absolutely fucked because, at this moment, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to destroy the fucker who hurt her.