8
VALENTINA
Me: Lucy. S.O.S. Are you free tonight?
Lucy: Yes! Finally! Do you need me to bring my waxing kit? You don’t want any stubbies getting in the way of that fine man chowing down.
Me: WTF Luce! What is wrong with you? You know what, nevermind. You’ll only make things worse.
Lucy: No. Come back. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good friend. When and where?
Me: A good friend? That’ll be a first.
Lucy: Hardy-har-har.
Me: Chachi’s at seven?
Lucy: ándale, chica. Nos vemos a las siete. Besitos.
Me: I’m kicking myself for teaching you Spanish.
Lucy:
“ C hachi’s, huh? Is it any good? I’ve never been.” I darken my phone and look over my shoulder.
Nico stands there, a giant grin on his face and still shirtless.
Apparently, a shirt with huge gaps on either side was still too stifling to be working out in.
The moment we stepped off the treadmill, the t-shirt got yanked over his head and my vagina decided to cross the picket lines where it has been protesting opening for a man for the fifth month straight.
Oh, and how about that little shock I got when I saw a small silver bar straight through his nipples. I diverted my eyes as quickly as they found him. I didn’t want to know when he got them, why he got them, or what pleasure they bring. All I wanted to do was forget I ever saw them.
“Excuse you. That was a private conversation.” I slide my phone back under the waistband of my shorts and prop my hands on my hips.
Sweat drips down my chest, puddling between my boobs as my heart works to regulate after the four minute plank Nico had me doing.
I was in pain for three of the four minutes, but I refused to let him see me struggle.
I used all the physical will power and brain power to keep me locked in. Mind over matter, right?
“Sorry, but I was calling for you with no answer. I thought maybe you put your earbuds back in and turned up the volume.” He pulls a towel that hangs from his shorts, and wipes it over his face and down his chest.
A chest that is custom built to every woman’s dream.
Hard, defined pecs. A smattering of hair, neatly trimmed.
Tattoos that only enhance the beautiful God-given canvas.
And he does this thing with his mouth that makes me want to scream.
His pink tongue pokes out and licks the corner of his mouth, hanging there like an invitation to find out if the rumors are true.
This is so incredibly unfair.
In the almost six years I have worked in PR crisis management, I have yet to see any of my clients as more than their problem.
Be it alcohol or prostitutes or running over people in golf carts, they were always just a case.
But now Nico bulldozes his way into my world and is dangerously close to toppling my well built wall.
One loose brick and the whole thing will come tumbling down, and my legs will fall right open.
This is not the man to break my sex-strike for. I’m done with playboys and guys looking for “just a good time”. If I’m going to spend what little free time I have with someone, he better be the right one and looking for end game. None of this “I’m finding myself” shit. Been there, done that.
“Oh, sorry. What did you need?”
“I asked if you would like to grab some breakfast. I always need a mad amount of protein afterwards. There’s this place, Clēn, that I love.” He throws the towel over his shoulder and grabs his t-shirt along with his now empty water jug.
I look down at my sweaty, sticky body, and imagine my face and hair don’t look much better.
“Um, not today. I’m a sweaty mess and I don’t think you want to wait an hour for me to shower and get dressed.”
Nico’s eyes travel up and down my body then back again, a simmering look in them that makes me self-conscience.
“You look absolutely fine to me. In fact, I’d say you’re perfect. Splash some water on your face and let’s go. Or…I can join you in the shower.” He waggles his eyebrows and I hide the way my body incinerates by smacking his chest.
Wrong move!
He grabs my hand and smacks his on top. “Great workout. Break on me, break on three. One, two, three…”
Nico stares at me, his words hanging in the air, waiting for me to pick them up.
“Uuh, what are you doing?”
“Waiting for you. Let’s try again. Break on me, break on–”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Then say it.” His bright white teeth shine under the fluorescent lights, and his eyes are filled with anticipation.
My eyes move between our hands and his face. Hands, face. Hands, handsome face. Hands, chiseled chest. Hands, rock hard abs. Hands, tented shorts.
“Break,” I say quickly, and drop my hand before scurrying off to the locker room.
I stick my face under the cold, running water but it’s still not enough to cool me down. This boy has me out of my wits, and I do not like feeling off my game.
I grab the oversized shirt I placed into the locker before my workout, and use the spray deodorant to mask whatever odor may be wafting off of me.
My hair is a mess, my cheeks burn red, and my body is coated with rapidly drying sweat.
I look like I stepped off the hot mess express but when I step out of the locker room, he stares at me like I’m a lingerie model.
And he doesn’t stop all through breakfast.
The tingle in my belly shoots to my nipples and I give myself a strict timeline on fixing this problem and filing him away, never to be touched again.
I need to get as far away from this man as I can, and quickly .
Chachi’s is jam-packed with patrons, all consuming their famous margaritas and delicious food.
I walk up to the hostess stand and spot Lucy before I can even open my mouth. The curvy blonde prances my way, her excitement to see me very apparent. Mind you, I saw her six days ago, but that obviously was too long ago.
My friend, Lucy Summers, is the most amazing woman I know.
When I first arrived in Houston, I knew no one but the PR company that hired me.
I’d done all of my interviews telecommute.
I spoke with endless people in upper management, but I never met or spoke to anyone else in the company.
So I was clueless about what living in Texas on my own would really be like.
It was lonely, at first, but I wouldn’t dare tell my parents.
Mamá would’ve been at my door with a moving truck and a gallon of arroz con leché, ready to move me back to California.
Then one day, a month into my new residency, I stepped into a jewelry store to buy myself the first of many celebratory items, and came face to face with an over-enthusiastic sales girl.
“Shut up. I love you, already. Yes queen. Let’s celebrate. I think you’ll love this.” That was her response after five minutes of talking.
Six years later, and the cute blonde with blue eyes and –as she says– an exquisite rack has become my soul sister.
“Buenas noches, mamacita. Mírate sexy. Ay.” She shakes her hand as if she’s touched fire.
“Eres ridícula, lo sabes,” I reply and she scrunches up her nose.
Someone hasn’t moved beyond basic phrases.
“You’re ridiculous,” I explain. “If you’re gonna go with me to Spain next summer, you better keep studying.”
“Why? I know everything I need to help me scour the beautiful country. Eres soltero?” She holds up one finger and continues to list phrases she’s mastered. “Eres rico. Tu casa o la mía.”
Are you single? Are you rich? Your place or mine? Well…I guess that’s really all you need to know as a single woman in a foreign country looking to land a hunky hook-up.
“Come on. I already ordered your favorite.” Lucy takes my hand and tugs me towards a small table where a bowl of salsa and chips waits for us.
We sit just as the waiter comes up to our table with two giant sized peach margaritas. This is definitely going to be a one drink night.
Lucy lifts the massive glass carefully and sips her drink, licking the honey and sugar rim.
“Mmm. These are so delicious. I could drink a bathtub full. And before you say it, my rebuttal is that margaritas and salsa taste better than skinny.”
I don’t disagree because these margs are to die for.
“So…tell me all about the new client. Did you let him go downtown to the all you can eat buffet? Does the camera really add five inches, or is the fit true to size?” She dips a chip into the salsa, overloading the thin tortilla, and shoves the entire thing in her mouth with one bite.
“Will you keep your voice down, loud mouth. Jesus. I don’t think the chef heard you.” I take my first sip of margarita and my eyes roll as I moan with pleasure.
Peach margaritas have quickly taken over the place of sex. The taste on my tongue is out of this world, and I don’t feel disappointed after drinking one.
“You are such a drama queen. I was not that loud.” I look over at the table just a foot or so away, and see the couple laughing, their shoulders moving up and down, and I wholeheartedly believe it’s all due to my bestie and her overly descriptive words.
“To answer your questions: I can’t give you details of my new client, he hasn’t eaten at the buffet, and from what I saw hidden by his shorts, it looks true to size and then some."
She chokes, chips and salsa flying out of her mouth, smacking me in the face like a cream pie at a carnival.
“Blech,” I gag, and wipe away the disgusting bits while trying not to disturb my makeup.
Lucy finishes choking and grabs the still full glass of water, chugging it down in big gulps. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand –real lady-like– and lets out an exhausted breath.
“You saw it ?” Her eyes are huge, the bright blue looking like giant marbles, and her mouth hanging open.
“No I didn’t see it , see it. He just…” I look to my left and right, then lean in closer. “He had a hard-on under his shorts and he was most definitely pitching a big tent.”