THIRTY
ICARUS
If this was a movie, we’d be at the scene where the frame freezes with a record-scratch sound effect before my off-screen voice asks, “How did it come to this?” and then answers my own question with some snarky comment about terrible life choices and too much jungle juice.
So yeah, how did I end up in Angel Somoza’s dreaded basement—dirty, sweaty, bloody, stripped down to my underwear, and handcuffed to a steel chair? My bare toes curling on the dusty floor, I whimper through the rag gagging me as the razor blade caresses me, trailing across my chest, up my neck and then my jaw, slowly, leisurely. His fingers wrap around my throat and direct my face to the camera lens gleaming in the darkness.
Against mine, his cheek feels hot and rough, the bristles abrasive. I inhale his scent, something aggressive, made of spice and sweat. The blade threatens to bite into my skin as he speaks to the camera. His voice rumbles through me, raising goose bumps all over my body. “ . . . So now, my friend, we negotiate.”
I grit my teeth when chains rattle in a corner of the room, followed by the dull thud of a powerful punch. A coughing groan echoes in the concrete tomb as Antonio and another guy I recognize as Beatriz’s driver drag March and Dries in front of the camera, their clothes blood-soaked rags clinging to their flesh. Angel moves away from me, but my relief is short-lived: he delivers a few vicious kicks to March’s and Dries’s stomachs and sides while his goons film every growl, every gasp of agony.
After he’s wrapped his little home movie, Angel makes a note that it would have been more realistic if he’d castrated either of them. On my skin, the sweat now feels icy.
Antonio holds out his hand to Dries, who mumbles he’d sooner die. March gets to his feet and is at my side in an instant, unfastening the handcuffs locking my wrists to the chair’s bars. I spring up and wrap my arms around his chest. Behind me, I feel Dries pat my head briefly with a gruff reassurance that we’re done.
I squeeze March harder and feel his tension thrumming through me: it might all be a little act meant to convince the Lions that Angel caught their most wanted and wants to bargain for control over his territory, but the dirt covering our bodies is real, and I know this basement and the filthy clothes March is wearing are probably the closest thing to hell for him.
He locks eyes with Angel. “I appreciate your . . . dedication. However”—his hand wraps around my waist possessively—“that was perhaps a little more realistic than I expected.”
Antonio nods in agreement, and Angel ducks his chin, a smirk curling his lips through the dark stubble on his jaw. “The devil in love . . .” he drawls before his head snaps up. “You get one. Because if another man touched my woman like that, I would cut him up . . . slowly.”
Before I can ask what March is supposedly getting, he lets go of me, and the punch flies, lightning fast and powerful enough to send Angel crashing onto the chair I was strapped to less than a minute ago. A satisfied grin stretches the tattoos on Antonio’s cheeks, but none of Angel’s men otherwise lift a finger to help him up. I think they know better. Sprawled on the chair, Angel massages his jaw with a low, threatening chuckle. “Now all of you get out of here before I change my mind and kill you.”
•••
“You don’t worry about anything!”
Even if I wanted to worry, it’d be difficult to resist the hurricane that is an angry Beatriz. She ran to us when we reappeared in the villa’s lobby following our trip to the basement. Behind her, a young woman in a frilly red apron came to the rescue with three towels for us and is now rolling frightened eyes as she takes in our state of disarray.
“I-it’s okay, Beatriz,” I stammer, taking my towel. “Please don’t be upset . . . Stress isn’t good for your baby.”
“I’m not upset. I’m pissed!” she squeaks, glowering at Antonio, who stands behind us with an air of genuine contrition—behold, the power of an irate wife. “¡Vete y golpea a Angel por mí!” she orders. Go and punch Angel for me!
He cringes and raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Quizás no esta noche, mi vida . . . ” Maybe not tonight, love of my life . . .
Meanwhile, Dries has taken his towel and, in perfect Spanish, asks the young maid if she can lead him to his room. She nods eagerly, and I refrain from a face-palm when I overhear him compliment her hair as they walk away . . .
Beatriz eventually drags me to my bedroom while Antonio guides March down a hallway toward a secondary bathroom. I actually wanted to go with him and make sure he was okay, but I’m starting to realize Beatriz exerts the same kind of power as her brother, only through soft bullying rather than senseless violence. Less than a minute after my abduction, I’m standing in one of the cubes I saw from outside, a spacious bedroom whose glass windows open to the garden. Veil curtains protect our privacy, billowing softly in an evening breeze that carries the heady scent of grass and flowers into the room.
I look around at the king-sized bed and the minimalistic fifties furniture. I wonder how many guns Angel had to sell to purchase a Le Corbusier chaise longue . . .
Beatriz switches on a mile-wide flat-screen and selects a track on YouTube. “You like Delfin Quishpe?” she asks with a cute smile that would almost make me forget her previous outburst.
I have no idea who that is. Apparently that guy wearing a fringe leather jacket, a cowboy hat, and hopping around to the sound of what can best be described as . . . Andean techno. He’s not even really singing at first; he just yells stuff. Kitschy doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Beatriz gazes at the screen, her hands joined on her belly while her hips jerk instinctively to the rhythm. “I love him . . .”
“Me too,” I admit. It’s true. The guy’s bizarre dance moves and off-tune singing have . . . enraptured me. I watch him, slack-jawed, vaguely aware of Beatriz going to the bathroom to turn on the taps of a long stone bathtub. Jesus, his name is written in huge capital letters on his pant legs. This Ecuadorian hero is fearless.
“Your suitcase is in the closet,” she says, “and there’s a surprise for you in the bathroom.”
“Thank you . . . You really shouldn’t have.”
She comes closer and pulls me into a loose hug. “Antonio says I have to go. He’ll take me to the airport tonight. We’re going to his place in San Pancho.”
I pat her baby bump awkwardly. “Maybe it’s safer for your little lump. The man we’re looking for, he’s . . .”
“I know. Angel says Keasler is crazy. I think he’s actually afraid.” She giggles, but this time the joy doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I mean, Angel of all people . . .”
I understand then that it’s not just about telling me good-bye. She’s scared of losing that strange brother of hers, who sells antitank ammo but thinks the sloths breaking into his garden are after him, who gives and takes with equal ferocity. I return her hug in earnest. “It’s gonna be okay. If anyone can pull this off, it’s March and Dries. Plus Angel is gonna help us.”
“I know.” She sighs. “You’re still kids, all of you.”
I look at her curiously; it would have never crossed my mind to call someone like March a kid, much less Dries.
“Antonio, he understands,” she goes on, her gaze falling to the ample bump under her blouse, “that he can’t be a kid anymore.”
I’m tempted to contradict her, but maybe she’s not entirely wrong. Would I make the same choices if a little lump freeloaded on me? I think of my mother . . . who tried to flee with me to Tokyo, to escape Dries, to protect me. Did she decide to grow up too late?
“You should tell Angel that,” I eventually say. “Before you go, you should tell him you want him to leave the playground.”
Beatriz doesn’t answer. This time her nose bunches, and tears roll down her cheeks.
•••
She’s gone. Antonio dried Beatriz’s tears and took her to the car. Dries said he was a clown who once blew up his dining room with a bazooka, but the man who told me good-bye tonight was more than that. There was certainly a bit of playfulness in his brown eyes as he called me querida and made me promise to come to him if I ever got tired of March—thank God Beatriz took that joke well . . . But there was also gravity, when he asked me one last time if I wanted to change my mind.
I didn’t. I’ll stay a kid a little longer, but Antonio has officially become a dad.
After they were gone, I went to the bathroom at last. The tub was full and Beatriz’s surprise sat on a wicker armchair, wrapped in a red satin ribbon: an elegant black leather toiletry bag . . . filled to the brim with strange and wonderful things. I tossed a handful of bath bombs in the tub and dove in—or so to speak, because if you dive face-first into a stone tub, you die.
Soaking chin deep, lulled by the birdcalls echoing in the jungle, I relax completely. My body gives up, dissolves in the fragrant water. Through the sheer muslin curtains, I gaze at the darkened garden sculpted by the light of the torches, bloodred hibiscus flowers and leaves shivering in a soft breeze. It’s only been four days since my last bath, but those ninety-six hours have felt like an eternity. I died, and I was reborn since, so I indulge to celebrate this new start in life. I test every single product Beatriz gave me. Exfoliating gel, face cream, hand cream, foot cream: I spend at least an hour scrubbing and slathering every inch of my body with mysterious substances.
After I’m finished, I contemplate myself in the mirror with a sense of deep satisfaction, feeling clean, new. I wrap a fluffy white towel around my body and smile to myself when it brushes my now-baby-smooth legs. A blush creeps to my cheeks; I’ve shaved places I know I’ll sorely regret to have subjected to such treatment in a couple of days, but for now . . . the flat-chested, bruise-covered war prisoner looking back at me in the mirror is the epitome of sexy.
Prepare your old ass, Anies, for I wear pineapple lip balm and used a questionable Brazilian cream that claims it’ll make my nipples pinker: Island Chaptal is back!
When I step out of the bathroom, the first thing I notice is March’s navy jacket, neatly laid on the chaise longue. The window is still open, and through the milky veil of the curtains, I see him, standing on the terrace with his arms crossed, enjoying the garden’s quietude. He’s changed back into a perfectly pressed white shirt and dark jeans whose creases appear to have been ironed extensively—maybe to make up for the twenty minutes of hygienic hell Angel put him through. I tiptoe to him, but his sixth sense kicks in, and he turns around before I’ve even reached the window. Dammit.
A tender smile pinches his dimples when he sees me, and I feel myself melt a little. It’s the calm before the storm: by dawn, the Lions will receive the product of Angel’s directing efforts, and all the players will gather for a poker game where the loser gets nuked. Until then, I wish time could slow down. I want to be alone with him in that room forever, warm, safe. He walks to me and trails the back of his knuckles down my arm. Delicious shivers dance across my skin in the wake of his touch.
“Do you have everything you need?” he asks.
“Yeah, Beatriz spoiled me.”
“Excellent.” He’s still smiling, but there’s sadness lingering in his eyes, creasing lines on his brow. He knows it too, that we can’t stop time . . .
It could be the effect of the mysterious nipple cream, but gazing into in all that blue, I feel strong, happy, and I want the same for him. I want to share this feeling with him, reassure him that I love him, and that we’re gonna be okay, somehow.
I want us closer . . . connected.
I’m barely conscious of the movement of my hands undoing the towel. It slips from my body, falls to the floor with a whisper. The second after, the breeze raises goose bumps on my chest, and my shoulders jerk with the instinctive need to cover myself, but I don’t, because March is looking at my naked body, silent, his features frozen in an unreadable mask.
When he ducks his head and moves away, I think that maybe I was too bold and made a terrible mistake. He walks to the dimmer switch and grazes it. The light bathing me becomes comfortable darkness, dim rays streaking the room, licking my skin. Then he takes his phone from his jeans pocket and taps the screen twice before setting it on the desk. A faint buzz signals that the volume has been turned off. I swallow softly.
He returns to me, and this time I’m no longer afraid. His hands glide around my waist, down to the back of my legs, to pick me up. I look up at his jaw, outlined by a ray of light, as he carries me to the bed and lays me down on the mattress carefully. My pulse is thrumming fast under my temples in breathless anticipation.
March sits by my side and bends to brush his lips to my forehead, trailing down my nose, my lips. He pauses to kiss me deeply before his mouth resumes its journey. I arch against him when he reaches my neck. My hands fumble blindly for the buttons of his shirt; he helps me, and soon it slides down his shoulders. I smell soap and warm skin, something that’s just him. The moment my palms splay on the warm rug on his chest, an ecstatic grin tugs at my cheeks. I stroke those silky, springy curls over and over while, in a moment of pure transgression, March tosses his shirt on a nearby armchair. It lies in a heap, wrinkled. I register the rustle of his belt sliding out of the loops of his jeans before it joins the shirt, similarly discarded.
When his mouth finds mine again, there’s no longer any doubt that we’re past folding things. Past self-control. I wrap my arms around his neck as his lips seek mine, tugging and nibbling. I taste the mint on his tongue, and I want more. Slowly, he lifts me up until I’m straddling his lap. I caress his hair and let my fingertips trail down to the lion on his shoulder while we break the kiss to catch our breaths.
I smile against the corner of his mouth. “I love you, Mr. November . . . and I really want you naked.”
March buries his face in my neck, his voice down to a husky sigh as he replies, “I love you too . . . I love you . . . so much.”
Those precious words wash over me like a warm wave, seep under my skin, and I hold on to him as he moves atop me. His lips barely leave mine as the rest of his clothes hit the floor. It’s official: I’ve introduced a little spark of chaos into the perfect order of his life, and I have no regrets.
It’s exactly the way I dreamed it, his skin merging with mine, heated kisses and soft bites as he works his way down, exploring sensitive territory that’s entirely his. I throw my head back, and my fingers dig into his scalp when his head disappears under the covers. His hands linger on my breasts, unwilling to let go of the prize, but his mouth . . . Oh my God . . . Yes, it’s definitely going down. A trembling exhale makes my stomach dip when his lips graze my inner thigh. My hands reach for his, gripping them tight.
An appreciative growl rises from under the comforter, before I see stars and fuzzy unicorns. Disjointed thoughts collide in my mind like a chime; I wonder if he knows exactly where and how to touch me because we’ve done this before. Then I can’t think anymore. There’s pure sunshine between my legs, pulsing through my veins. Bright spots dance under my eyelids, and inside me, something coils and coils . . . My mouth parts in a silent scream until sounds overflow and spill from my lips, culminating in a high-pitched moan. It’s over too soon, and I crash back to Earth, in the bed, still holding March’s hands with a trembling grip.
As he emerges from under the covers, a knowing smile on his lips, I take several gulps of air. My body goes limp, spent from the high—except for my legs; they’re still shaking a little. March molds his body to mine, nuzzling my neck and stroking my thigh while I recover.
“How do you feel?” he asks, his voice laced with a suave undercurrent that tells me he already knows the answer to that question.
“Eeek!”
A thick silence falls in the bedroom. We look at each other.
“Th-that wasn’t me,” I stammer. The endorphins clouding my brain are now dissipating, quickly replaced by confusion.
March blinks. “I know, biscuit . . .”
“Eeeek!”
This time the plaintive squeak whips us both to a sitting position. We look around the room for the source of the noise.
I roll to the edge of the mattress. “I think it’s coming from under the bed.”
March gets up to check, and I indulge in some shameless ogling in spite of the gravity of the situation. That’s a damn fine butt . . . on a body that a Greek sculptor would have carved in marble for posterity. He kneels by the bed with a frown, his eyes scanning the shadows, until his eyebrows jump. I peer anxiously as he reaches under the bed and the squeaking intensifies. What the hell?
When March rises to his feet, my mouth falls open in silent shock, and two thoughts flash through my mind. The first one is that we are indeed cursed: dark forces work against us to ensure that I’ll never lose my virginity, and March will forever tread a path of thorns and utter frustration. The second one . . . is that someone needs to come up with a calendar of hot, naked men holding sloths. That stuff would sell like fake piercings at Hot Topic.