Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
SPENCER
M y sexcapades with Zane have left me torn. Obviously, I enjoyed the hell out of it, but shouldn’t I be mad at him? Can I be mad and still want him at the same time? The back and forth is giving me a headache. To be fair, what was I supposed to do when he took my shorts off? My body had a mind of its own and then his tongue . . .
Oh God. His tongue.
Now I’m taking an extra-long shower, and I hope I use all the hot water.
Petty? Yes.
Do I care? No.
I’ve been handcuffed to a bed so they can deal with cold showers. I don’t care that the handcuffs may have been fun in the end. I stand by the principle that you don’t handcuff someone you claim is your girlfriend to your bed without her permission.
Once the water starts to decline from scorching hot to lukewarm, I deem my mission accomplished and towel myself off.
Before Zane left to give me privacy, he said my clothes were in the closet. Opening the doors, I first dig to find my duffle bag and check to make sure I still have Abuela’s urn. As my hand finds the cool ceramic, I’m able to breathe easily again.
Stepping back, I focus on getting dressed, but the plethora of women’s clothing pulls me up short. The clothes I packed are here and displayed on hangers, but there’s more than just my clothes.
There are women’s clothes that are most definitely not mine.
Am I expected to wear the clothes of their previous hook-ups? Are they fucking kidding? Is this another one of those times I think they’re joking but then it turns out they actually aren’t?
If I had matches, I’d set the lot on fire and watch it burn. They want it to be this way? Fine. I can play.
I refuse to touch the other clothes even though I’m tempted when I spot a tank top that looks soft—it would hang on my frame perfectly.
Fuck that perfect material. Not happening.
I reach for a pair of jeans and a simple scoop-neck tee that I know are mine. I don’t need those clothes to feel confident.
After a quick swipe of makeup and styling my hair, I’m ready to go.
We cram into Zane’s clown car, and thank God, I’m sans handcuffs. Although Zane made a show of putting them in his pocket, letting me know that he has them on hand if I misbehave.
His words, not mine.
Just seeing the handcuffs had my heartbeat picking up and an ache forming between my legs. But the feeling diminished as soon as Asher came into view.
Asher still isn’t speaking to me even while he’s jammed into the seat next to me. I guess we’re playing the quiet game again. The asshole didn’t even visit me in my prison cell—also known as Zane’s bedroom.
Rio is acting like this is a normal Sunday, as if we do this all the time.
Me? I’m freaking the fuck out.
It’s not like I found the men I’m falling for torturing a couple of guys in their basement.
Was. Was falling for.
Gotta keep that straight in my head.
But two of the three did give you the best orgasms of your life . . .
Ugh.
“You’ll love Carmen. Ignore Elena and Mariela when they start in on each other, and Solana may not talk much. My mom may seem like a lot at first, but you’ll get used to it. She likes to make sure we’re taken care of, so we’ll probably be taking half of the leftovers home with us.” You’d think it was his birthday or something with how he’s practically bouncing in his seat.
I blink at Rio’s enthusiasm and the fact that this man has four sisters. Four. One, two, three, four. Four! I’m an only child, but holy shit!
Dear God, please don’t make them mean sisters. I’m already confused enough as it is about all this shit.
My eyes wander to Asher. He’s staring out the window, and it takes more effort than I care to admit to not take it personally. Maybe he just likes the scenery and isn’t purposefully keeping his attention as far away from me as possible.
But the probability of that is low.
His disinterest only fuels the anger that started when I looked in Zane’s fucking closet.
Fuck these guys.
I mean, you’ve already fucked one of them.
I internally roll my eyes at the annoying voice in my head that may or may not be correct.
The rest of the drive goes by in silence except for the Latin Pop music lightly streaming from the speakers. Rio had won control of the music in a game of rock, paper, scissors with Zane.
We come to a stop in front of a modest, two-story home with light gray vinyl siding and white shutters. A short, chain link fence marks the property lines, and a few simple brown brick steps lead to the front door. The rose bushes along the fence give the home an extra touch of welcome. I imagine a little Rio with dark hair running around the small front lawn, giving his mother grief and laughing while he does it. I smile at the image.
“I love it when you smile like that, Angel.”
A frown immediately takes over my face, but my protest has the opposite effect when Rio and Zane chuckle. Even Asher is smirking.
Fucking men.
I lean back in my seat, fold my arms over my chest, and ignore the idiots around me.
While I’m stewing in my anger, my door opens, and I’m hauled into a warm firm chest. Horny Spencer swoons, but I keep a scowl on my face even though I’m dying to lean into the solid body. But when I glance up and see blond hair, it’s not that hard to keep the scowl in place.
Asher doesn’t let me pull away. “Calm down, Princess.”
With a tight expression, I retort, “Don’t you know not to tell a woman to calm down? She will always do the opposite.”
The challenging look Asher gives me would probably terrify me if I didn’t know him better. But I do know him . . . kind of. Either way, his “I’m a badass FBI agent” face doesn’t make me cower.
“ Vamos, tórtolos ,” Rio says in jest. Come on, lovers. “If we don’t go inside, my mom will come out looking for us.”
Another tug and I’m free, but my breath hitches at the loss of his warmth. I follow Rio and Asher up the front steps with Zane trailing behind me. Nice and secure between my captors—also known as my boyfriends—where I’m sure they’ll keep me for the foreseeable future.
When we enter the house I’m overwhelmed with smells of cilantro, cumin, and chili powder. Tears threaten to make an appearance as I’m assaulted with a flood of memories of Abuela making dishes like pozole and chicken enchiladas. I keep my head down, eyes glued to the light wood flooring, hoping no one will notice, because this is not how I want to be introduced to Rio’s family.
Talk about embarrassing.
Before we get through the entryway, Zane snags my hand in a gentle grasp and spins me around. I don’t flinch or try to yank away as he checks me over from my glossy eyes to my sneakers. I don’t know what he’s searching for, but it’s like he gives my heart a hard tug with his attention.
Zane reaches a hand to my face and cradles my cheek in his palm. “Don’t cry, Angel. Everything will be okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
I don’t like that he always knows what I need and what to say to make me want to jump into his arms. But then I remember what I found in his closet, and the moment abruptly ends.
Zane’s brows pull together, and his head tilts to the side. “What?—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off in a firm tone and stomp away in the direction I think Asher and Rio went.
I find myself in a simple, updated kitchen with white and gray marble countertops, light gray cabinetry, and signs that say things like “Kiss the Cook,” “I Can Fix Anything but Stupid,” and “Made With Love.” A golden oak table sits by the back window, with matching chairs surrounding it.
Rio stands at the stove, tying on a simple apron. But the words on it are not simple and not what I was expecting. It reads, “Once you put my meat in your mouth, you’re gonna want to swallow,” with a picture of a steak at the bottom.
I belt out a laugh, and Rio laughs along with me. “I’m so happy you like it.”
“You keep this here, at your mom’s house?”
“What do you mean? I brought it with me.”
I compose myself as the reminder that I’m supposed to be pissed pops into my head. If it’s going to be this difficult to stay mad at them about the damn clothes, how am I going to fare when it comes to the dead bodies in the basement? Literally. I’d like to think I’m able to hold my ground, but I can’t help how my body responds to each of these men. The constant turmoil in my chest subsides, and peace spreads to every limb.
Zane enters the room and responds before I can. “Your mom is going to freak when she sees you wearing that again.”
“Nah,” Rio counters, but doubt enters his face.
“Rio, mi hijo ! You better not be burning my caldo de pollo !” A voice booms from upstairs.
Rio smirks, rolls his eyes, and turns back to the pot. Zane moves past me, grabs a stack of plates from an upper cabinet, and heads for the back door of the kitchen.
Each of these men works seamlessly together.
They want me here, but I’m not sure what my role is.
My feet shuffle side to side. “Umm. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Rio turns off the burner and grabs a set of pot holders. “You’re good, Mama. The caldo de pollo is finished so we can take it outside. Hold the door for me?”
“Uh. Yeah, sure.” Clumsily yanking the door open, I allow him to pass by.
The easy nature with which Rio navigates this fucking hornet’s nest makes me envy his optimistic disposition. I wish I could be the same way.
Optimism shouldn’t be expected of someone who recently caught their boyfriends torturing two guys . . . right?
Did I ever really accept the title they gave themselves in my hospital room?
Well, you were ready for another round with Zane. The same will probably be true of Rio.
Oh, fucking hell. Not now, Horny Spencer.
The backyard of the Flores home is as cozy as the rest of the home. It’s well taken care of with trimmed grass, maintained bushes, and a few potted plants that look like they contain herbs. There are a couple of picnic tables that have been pushed together to make one long table, and it’s surrounded by mismatched chairs, giving the whole setup a homely feel. The table is covered in a mountain of food.
I don’t think I’ve even seen this much food at a buffet.
A few of the chairs are occupied by women who all look like they’re related to Rio. They all have the same eyes, hair color, and nose.
One looks to be in her teens and her face is buried in a book as she sits curled in a ball in a white lawn chair. Her long, dark hair is braided to one side and rests over her shoulder.
Another looks like a young adult with enough moxie for everyone in the room as she types away on her phone. Her hair is curly and wild in a gorgeous, “I just came off the runway,” kind of way. She’s sitting opposite the first girl, and her breasts look ready to spill out of her top while her skirt looks like one little breeze will give everyone a show we didn’t ask for.
Power to her. Wear what you want, honey.
The last of the unknown women scurries around the table and adjusts all the bowls and platters of food, muttering to herself about flow and space. Her hair is cropped short and a pair of simple glasses rest on the end of her nose. She has an air of maturity and superiority around her. An aura that screams, “You better do what I say, or there will be hell to pay.”
Zane shuffles his way around the table setting the plates down while Asher sits in a chair at the far end, glowering at his phone.
Then it hits me. I’m about to meet his family and I have to pretend as if everything is normal.
Shit. Do I want them to like me? Do I even care? If I care, does that mean I want things to work out with my murderous boyfriends?
Fucking hell. I was not ready to answer the questions swirling around in my head.
The backdoor swings open, and out walks, who I assume is, Rio’s mom. She’s an older, short woman with long, curly hair streaked with gray. She’s wearing jeans and a white tee covered by a plaid, floral, embroidered apron. The wrinkles around her eyes and the corners of her mouth are light and endearing.
“My boys!” she shouts and holds her arms wide.
Zane, Asher, and Rio stop what they’re doing and make their way to her as if this is routine. She hugs and gives each of them a peck on the cheek, leaving behind a pink lip print. Asher wipes his away immediately, Rio makes a fuss that’s clearly fake about his mom’s kiss, and Zane beams at the show of love and slowly cleans off the lipstick.
This really is a home filled with love.
My mother loves me, I know that, but she showed it differently. She was what people would call a “helicopter mom.” She was a bit emotionally distant, but she hovered. She always wanted to be involved, know where I was going, who I was with, and how long I’d be gone. She was protective and worried, but she didn’t support my art until I was almost done with high school, when I finally sold my first sculpture.
Rio’s mom seems to take a different approach to parenting. She appears to shower her kids, even those that aren’t her own, with love—a lot of love. My mom doesn’t hug me when I get home or kiss my cheek, but I know she cares. She just shows it in her own way.
Rio’s mother’s eyes connect with mine. She frowns and she smacks each of the guys upside the head.
Oh shit. Am I supposed to be here?
Rio rubs the back of his head. “Ouch, Ma! ? Y por qué fue eso ?” What was that for?
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a girl! I would have dressed nicer!” She chastises them as she smooths out the wrinkles in her apron.
“You look great, Paloma,” Zane reassures her.
I fiddle with my hair and bite the inside of my cheek as Rio places an arm around his mother and leads her over to me. “Má, we would like you to meet Spencer. She’s the one who has been teaching me pottery. Spencer, this is my mother, Paloma.”
Paloma raises her brows when he drops the “we” and I cringe, waiting for the judgment that never comes.
Turning on my southern charm, I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Flores.”
She ignores my hand, steps forward, and wraps me in a warm embrace. She pours her maternal love through our brief physical connection, and once again, I hold back tears. The only other person to hug me this way died three years ago. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed Abuela’s hugs until now.
“We hug here. I’m so happy I get to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head as I look to Rio over Paloma’s shoulder. He smirks and shrugs guiltlessly then nods towards Zane whose cheeks turn a little pink.
“Y’all talk about me?”
Zane nods while Rio blurts out, “Of course I do, Mama.”
During all of this Asher hangs back, refusing to be part of the exchange as if he doesn’t want to be associated with me at all. The thought stings, but I’m a big girl.
He wants to be an ass? Fine. He can be an ass. I’ll do the same.
When Paloma and I part, Rio says, “Spencer moved in.”
If I was drinking something, it’d be all over everyone right now.
I can’t believe he just said that.
“No—I—It’s not?—”
Paloma’s smile brightens her face even more. “A whirlwind romance. How beautiful,” she comments wistfully.
Is this real life? Someone pinch me. What planet are these people from? How can they accept a relationship, that I’m not even sure is happening , like this so easily?
Everyone ignores my shock, and I’m led over to the other three women by Paloma with Zane, Rio, and Asher trailing behind. “Come meet Rio’s sisters.”
“Where’s Carmen?” Rio questions with a hint of worry as he scans the yard, even though he knows she’s not here.
Paloma waves off his concern. “She’ll be here soon, don’t worry. She had a test to study for.”
“Spencer, this is Elena.” Paloma gestures to the sister with short hair. “And Mariela.” The one with the club clothing. “And Solana.” The sister with braided hair and a book.
My weight shifts side to side and a tingling sensation sweeps up the back of my neck as I remember where I’ve heard the name “Solana” before.
Well, I feel stupid.
I glance over at Zane, and he gives me an easy smile that says he knows what I’m thinking of.
“Hi! It’s nice to meet y’all.” I give a small wave.
Solana gives a small smile and returns to her book, Breaking Dawn .
“Y’all?” Mariela snickers.
My cheeks pinken slightly. I haven’t been mocked for my southern drawl in years. The first time I said “Y’all” in front of Hayes, he thought I was being sarcastic. I quickly realized my Southern slang would give away my roots, and I couldn’t have that. So, I stopped saying things like “Bless your heart,” but I have never been able to shake “Y’all.”
“Mariela! Manners,” Paloma scolds.
Elena gives Mariela a pinch on her arm.
“Ow! What the fuck!?” Mariela rubs her tender skin.
Elena doesn’t look remorseful. “You don’t have to be a bitch. Rio’s never brought anyone home.”
Wait. Never?
Then she turns to me and gives a quick smile. “It’s great to have you here.”
“Thanks! Dinner looks delicious. I don’t get home-cooked meals often.”
Mariela rolls her eyes and goes back to scrolling on her phone.
“Ignore her. She isn’t out of her teenage phase.” Elena comforts me after Mariela’s dismissal and I try to not to stress over Mariela’s obvious dislike.
Do I want their approval? If I do, does that mean I want them ? Can I live with knowing what they’ve done and, what I assume, they regularly do?
While I debate over my little existential crisis, Elena leads me into a chair in the middle of the table, and Asher plants his grumpy ass in the seat right next to me. My heart equally warms and stirs. Rio claims the seat on my other side and gives Asher a stern look while Zane looks at us with his lips turned up in a soft smile.
What the hell is going on with these three?
As I’m consulting my manual, How to Decipher the Grunts and Gestures of Cavemen , the back door bangs open, and another woman with long, dark, curly hair comes through in a hurry. She’s in gray sweats and a cropped NYU T-shirt and has a frantic energy about her.
“I’m here! Sorry I’m late!”
“That’s Carmen. She’s studying to be a lawyer like Rio,” Elena whispers to me and my heart warms at the idea of Rio’s sister following in his footsteps.
Okay, maybe not all of his footsteps.
Carmen rushes over to Rio and hurries out an unsolicited explanation. “I didn’t invite them. I swear it, Rio. I didn’t.”
Rio, Asher, and Zane’s faces go hard while I tilt my head to the side and blink. Asher stands, pulling me with him and positions his large body between the door and me. Rio reaches under his shirt and pulls out a knife in each hand and faces the back door as well. Guns suddenly appear in Zane and Asher’s hands.
Are we preparing for the apocalypse or something?
When the door swings open again, three, tattooed, bronze-skinned men walk through, and I recognize them immediately. My whole body locks up and a cold sweat breaks out on my neck even though the New York heat hangs in the air.
With arms open wide the one in the middle says, “ !Hola, Mamá Flores! ?Qué pasa? ”
Zane growls. “Oh, fuck no.”