9. Lina
NINE
Lina
I spend most of the day hanging out with Frankie and the rest of the Flores family on the beach, only sneaking away to answer work emails for one ( maybe two ) hours.
I end up doing principal-specific work for the entire ( okay, fine ) two hours.
Frankie makes up for it today, though. She’s genuinely fun to hang out with, and turns out her brain has an encyclopedic knowledge of both World War II and marine life.
“Did you know that horseshoe crabs are older than dinosaurs?
“Did you know horseshoe crabs have blue blood?”
“That’s an Atlantic White-Sided Dolphin.”
“Those are from sand crabs, actually.”
She’s also a veritable sponge, though, absorbing all the knowledge I throw at her about bioluminescent plankton and blue whales. About Roald Dahl and Junie B. Jones and Amelia Bedelia and Ramona Quimby and R&B from the 2000s and Dominican culture and the few Spanish words I know.
This all distracts me from thinking about Dom. Dom at the Pirate Plunder. Dom the Active Listener. Because of course he was amazing at these things. He’s good at everything.
After a few hours, though, I’m about ready to collapse from exhaustion. I pass out on the beach, grateful for the four other adults here to tap in.
* * *
I jolt awake when I get a chill, shooting up when I realize I’m suddenly in the shadow of someone standing over me.
It’s a sea god, I think initially. Or a lifeguard from Baywatch: Philippines , if there is such a thing.
No, it’s just Dom, God of Sweaty, Shirtless Men.
I eye-fuck the shit out of him, because I’m still a little confused from sleep. Or something.
I mean, I saw him yesterday, and while I did enjoy watching him wave his long tentacle arms around like a wacky inflatable tube man while sitting in knee deep water, gently flipping kids off their paddle boards—this is different. This second time, the two of us all alone, his family nowhere in sight, his sweaty body towering over me… I let myself gorge.
He’s not meathead jacked, but more lean, running muscle, the dips and divots of the planes of his chest and stomach and arms all places I want to run my tongue through. I try and rank the new things I’ve learned about his body, and I think my favorite discovery is that his tattoos extend up towards his torso and loop down over his pecs. Or actually, it’s that his skin is that deliciously smooth golden brown everywhere . Actually, no. It’s that Dominic in athletic shorts could very possibly be arrested for public lewdness, because ho-ly shit, there’s no hiding that thing.
My pussy spasms dramatically.
I finally meet his eyes, and I catch a flash of filthy heat before he smirks and his eyes grow gentle and serene again. He unconsciously wets his lips, and I track the movement of his tongue. He likes my eyes on him.
He is also apparently a man of strong conviction, because he only looks at my tits once, and I know they look fucking fantastic in this bikini.
“You can’t tell me you don’t want to get involved and then wake me up looking like that,” I inform him.
“Like what?” he dares me to tell him.
I take the bait. “Slutty. Asking for it.”
He bursts out laughing, his head tilting back and highlighting the lines of his neck. It makes me want to lick a long, wet line over his Adam’s apple.
I look around, and we’re alone on the beach. “What time is it?”
He takes a seat in the sand next to me, checking his watch. “About five thirty.”
“Holy shit. I was out for a while. Your daughter really tired me out. You’re a champ for doing this every day.”
Dom winces, untying his running shoes and slipping them off along with his socks, wiggling his long toes and burying his bare feet in the sand. “Sorry about that. I told you, you don’t?—”
“Stop telling me what I do and don’t have to do. I had a blast, and that was my first nap in years . It was amazing . And there were four of us to tag team, so it was fine. You should really consider getting some help. Like a nanny or something. Or maybe she can hang out with Gloria and Ben after school.”
“No,” he says finally, after long consideration.
“Wow, can’t argue with that logic. You’ve totally convinced me.”
“I really do want to spend the time with her, Lina. It’s okay.”
“ Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he says firmly.
I sigh. Not my place, I guess. “Do you know if there’s a dinner plan?”
“Probably, but Tita Gloria is in charge. I’m going to hop in the shower and then go see if they need any help,” he says, standing up and picking up his shoes.
“I’ll go now,” I say, and he reaches out a hand to help me up. Again, I like the look and feel of my hand in his. He seems too, too, which is such a damn shame. I pull my hand away and brush the sand off my legs. “I have a thing or two to teach your daughter about J-Lo.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Hmm,” he says, mouth twitching.
* * *
Gloria puts me and Frankie on salad duty, which involves a lot of confident chopping on Frankie’s part and nervous watching on mine. The children’s knife is a dull plastic but is serrated enough to cause serious damage with the wrong angle and pressure. “Can we turn on some music while we cook?” I ask the room, wincing when it looks like Frankie narrowly avoids a fingertip.
Oliver, who is on meat marinating duty with Georgia, points with his lips and his chin towards the speakers in the corners of the room, his hands currently covered in raw pork juice. “You can connect to those over Bluetooth,” he tells me.
I wipe my hands on my legs and grab my phone, connecting to the speakers and lining up the song I’d been singing in my head all day, since Frankie and my conversation about music from the 2000s.
The first few bars of the song play quietly, J-Lo and Ja-Rule alternating through the intro while I fiddle with the volume. I finally get it to an acceptable level and turn to Frankie. “All right, little lady. This one is called I’m Real , and it’s a duet by J-Lo and Ja?—”
“Oh,” she says, interrupting my impending diatribe on how this song would go on to influence future rap-pop collaborations and J-Lo’s beef with Mariah and how Ashanti actually probably recorded this song. Frankie tilts her tiny, five-year-old head. “It’s the Murder Remix ,” she states matter-of-factly, before launching into a seamless, perfect rendition of J-Lo’s every lyric in the first verse.
I blink repeatedly, my mouth hanging open. I look around the kitchen, and everyone is laughing. “Wh?—”
Frankie croons, eyes closed, head bobbing side to side, hitting every single word.
Dominic opens the back door and glides into the kitchen.
I whirl around and point at him accusingly, but his head is tilted just like his daughter’s was, listening to the music. He sidles up to his daughter, who shrieks, absolutely delighted and currently singing about their insecurity before Dominic growls in an almost perfect imitation of Ja-Rule’s voice in the pre-chorus.
“ Yeah, yeah ,” chants the rest of the kitchen.
I look around, wondering if I’ve entered an alternate universe.
The song enters the chorus, and Frankie takes J-Lo’s part, while Dominic and Oliver both start snarling all of Ja-Rule’s, and Dominic is rolling his body and dancing like he’s on a PG-rated version of Magic Mike or something, and he’s good and he’s got fucking moves , and what the hell is going on?
Georgia comes over to me, laughing her ass off. “Filipinos have what seems to be a genetic predisposition to two things: karaoke and dancing,” she tells me, as if that explains everything.
I glare at Dominic, daring him, when we get up to Ja Rule’s verse.
He smirks at me before dancing up to me and taking my hands, and with what could be considered a PG-rated lap dance, raps every fucking word of the fucking verse and sings it inches from my mouth while looking directly into my eyes, because it turns out he really is good at everything.
I’m both extremely unimpressed and wet.
The entire kitchen continues to sing every lyric, rubbing it in my face.
Mama Flores comes up behind me, rubbing her butt on mine to complete the grinding Flores sandwich, and that’s it .
I grab two wooden spoons from the counter and thrust one to Frankie, keeping one for myself to sing into, and we all take on the next chorus together and do PG sexy dancing, and Dominic and I have our eyes locked, and he’s smiling and this is all too much and not enough, this warm feeling like I’m filling up like a hot-air balloon.
“We have a whole playlist,” Frankie tells me afterwards. “Me and Daddy practice karaoke at home.”
I look over at him, and he’s still looking at me with a soft smile on his face. “Why am I not surprised?” I tell her.
“You should hear us do My Boo . That’s our best one,” she says smugly.
“I don’t think I could handle that,” I tell them both.
* * *
After Frankie goes down, we meet on our patio without ever discussing it. I bring the glasses, Dom brings the wine.
We turn the lounge chair so it sits parallel to the railing, so that we can both lay our backs on the length of the chair with our feet propped up on the slats of the railing.
We spend the next few hours laughing under the moon, the sound of the ocean our only soundtrack.
My pet rabbit gets some exercise that night.