50. Santiago #2
“Thanks,” I muttered, brushing a hand over my neck while thinking of those days.
“To handle the pain, or maybe just numb it, my dad started drinking, and that cost us just about everything.” With a sigh, I moved my hand up to my hair, pushing it back.
“Picking up gambling, he spent less and less time at home, collecting debts and whatnot. Now, I know this next part was on me, but instead of trying to help him, I blamed him for ruining our life, which caused him to disappear even more.” My heart clenched, remembering some of the awful things I said to him.
“It was during my second year in prison when he got caught up in a bar brawl, after some asshole hit his woman.” By now, I could feel my tears threatening to break free, so I forced them down.
“The idiot still thought he was his old self, capable of winning any fight, so he tried defending the girl, and those fuckers beat the shit out of him.” The pain that never truly went away settled deep in my gut, making me fume with anger.
“Once they were done, they left him to die like some dog in a back alley, as if he were yesterday’s trash. ”
It was much easier to blame his death on the drinking, rather than on the fact that he was truly a good man, down to his last breath.
After all, getting angry at him was better than beating myself up all those years, because if I wasn’t a complete fuckup, I could have been there to help him, and he would still be alive.
“Do you feel guilty?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“You know, there’s nothing majestic about guilt, only pain.”
My brows rose as I remembered where I’d heard that line before.
“You said that to me once, right?” I nudged closer to him. “Yeah, you did. Back when I asked you how you got this scar.”
He traced his hand over it. “You still want to know?”
“Only if you’re cool with telling.”
He shrugged, bringing his hands to his lap. “To be clear, this isn’t some pity contest over who had the most tragic life, okay?” He side-eyed me when I laughed.
“Sure.”
“Well.” He poked the inner side of his cheek with his tongue. “My mom was the one who did this to me.”
My eyes went wide because fuck.
“Why?”
“She… how can I put it… she didn’t have the easiest life, and having a child was probably the worst thing that could have happened to her, or so she kept telling me.
” Staring ahead, he pursed his lips while slowly moving his fingernails along his forearm.
“She was a prostitute, and my conception was the product of rape. And despite her decision to give birth to me, it seemed that my mere existence angered her. She was a miserable woman, living an awful life, who chose to blame it all on her child. Maybe it was her survival mechanism or just pure villainy, but she always let out her anger at me every time a client left the apartment we lived in.” He snorted, shaking his head.
“If you could even call that shithole an apartment. It was a crack house, filled with needles and the rotten peaches she left everywhere.”
That awful smell of peaches. Get rid of it.
His words from back then struck me like a slap to the face.
“Whenever I was home while she had a man over, I’d hide in a small closet.
You need to understand, it was a one-bedroom apartment the size of a shoe box, so there really was nowhere else to hide.
Not that hiding helped.” He paused for a moment and bit his lip.
“I heard every foul cuss thrown at her, every moan they forced from her, and every time they struck her.”
No wonder he hated it when I swore. Just hearing this awful story made my soul hurt, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he felt living it.
“There was this one client who was particularly mean to her. A doctor, if you’d believe it.
Anyway, she’d always lose it after he left, and if I were around, she’d come after me.
That day, it rained, so I stayed home, hidden in my closet until they were finished.
” He scratched himself harder. “After he left, she didn’t even bother putting on clothes and instead came for me, only holding the piece of glass she then used to cut through my face. ”
I shuddered, physically shuddered, but noticing he was now on the verge of hurting himself, I grabbed his wrist, stopping him from scratching his skin so hard. He looked down at my hand and then back up, almost as if he didn’t realize what he was doing.
“Ari—”
“You know what was the worst part?” His face was as cold as ever, not a single emotion showing on it. “The worst part was that one time wasn’t enough, and she went for another cut, digging the glass in much deeper the second time.”
Feeling completely at a loss for words and unsure what to do, I did the only thing that made sense at that moment and pulled him into my arms. He didn’t hug me back, but he also didn’t pull away, so I held him for what felt like eternity, even though it still wasn’t enough.
Eventually, I had to let him go, and we returned to sitting shoulder to shoulder like kids on a school break.
If only.
“I killed him, you know.”
“Who?”
“Her rapist, my father, whatever you’d call that piece of garbage. He was my second kill.”
I knew I should have been alarmed by his—yet another— murder confession, but instead, I was more curious to know—
“Who was the first?”
He turned to face me, a smirk on his face. “Looks like you’ve developed an appetite for asking questions, Mr. Rivas.”
Despite feeling utterly gutted from within, I somehow managed to smile. “You’re the only one to blame for that.”
“Such a kid thing to say.”
“Hey,” I grunted. “You’re only three years older.”
“You saying that just proves my point.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with facts, but most importantly—
“What happened to her?”
His whole posture stiffened, his demeanor changing in a split second.
“She’s dead now.”
“Did you—”
He shook his head before I could even ask. “No. She overdosed. I only found her body.”
Deadly silence followed his words, the type of silence that left no room for condolences.
“She’d often pass out after using—that’s why I knew to check her pulse since the age of five. That day, I couldn’t find it, so I just… lay next to her. I lay there for a whole week, holding her hand until the smell got so bad I knew the neighbors would call the cops. I only left then.”
The more he spoke, the more my heart broke for him. “How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
He seemed to sink deeper into his past demons, and hating being the cause of it, I was determined to change the subject. Not because I didn’t care, but the other way around. There was only so much a man could share about his past at a time.
“I do have another question, though,” I said, eyeing him.
“Yeah?”
“What’s your real hair color?”
“Excuse me?”
I pinched a strand of his hair between my fingers.
“I would have guessed myself, but you’re completely shaved down there.
” I gave him a knowing raised brow when he stared at me, shocked.
I was sure he’d hit me, or at the very least scold me, but instead, he burst out laughing.
Actually laughing, and I swear to fucking God, hearing him laugh was probably the best thing I’d ever experienced.
With his eyes closed and lips stretched wide, he held his stomach and laughed until he was out of breath, and tears studded his eyelashes like diamonds.
“God.” He paused for air. “My whole face hurts now.”
“Want me to kiss it to make it go away?”
Meeting my stare, I was struck by how gorgeous he was, and not waiting for his answer, I took the initiative and leaped in for a kiss.
Only for a change, it wasn’t a fight for dominance, nor was it a battle, but acceptance.
Slowly dragging my lips along his, I took my sweet time, enjoying this rare moment where his heart was open.
I deepened the kiss as he placed his hand against my jaw, giving me more access to his mouth, and hopefully, a hell of a lot more. And as if we were kids again, we just sat there and kissed until our lips turned dry and swollen. And even then, I struggled to let him go, so—
“Wanna stay over at my place tonight?”
Ari’s eyes darted to my lips and up before he nodded and leaned back in to kiss me, feeling closer than ever before.