Chapter Eight
The morning shift at the diner dragged slower than a snail trail but when my boss gave me the high sign at eleven forty-five, I shed my apron, reported and pocketed my tips and jumped in the car, heart trip-hammering with anxiety and anticipation.
A date. I have an honest-to-God date. And I initiated it.
Shivering in the heat, I parked my car and jumped out, determined to put the final, perfect touches on the meal we’d share while watching La Liga—two of my favorite things. Now all wrapped up in the possibility of a third favorite thing—the delicious possibility of Trent Hettinger.
I ran into the kitchen, checking the pork roast covered in spices and oil I’d put into the slow cooker at four that morning, before my diner shift. I’d spent the hour before that chopping onions, mixing up homemade salsa and soaking the beans for the soup I’d planned as a side dish. This after four restless hours of sleep, after a long day at the office and a quick shift behind the bar. The manager had cut me early due to slow business and my somewhat less-than-ideal visage.
“No offense, chica. You know I think you’re beautiful and I’d take you out to dinner in a minute if you’d let me.” His sad eyes had sagged even more. “But you’re scaring the locals, you know? You look like you were in a damn cage fight.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go.”
“There’s a girl,” the old-school guy had said, ever the pseudo-gentlemen.
“I’m hardly a girl, Bob,” I’d reminded him, not insulted in the slightest. Some people would never change and were, essentially, harmless. The key was to know who’s a true misogynist and who’s too old to understand that what they say to women is wrong.
I’d tried to sleep, and had managed some but had jumped up ten minutes before the alarm to prep the food. Hoping that the diner manager wouldn’t feel the same way about me and cut me—not earning money during a time I was used to earning, it made me twitchy—I’d slathered as much makeup over my nose and under my eyes as I could. And luckily, one of the other servers had called in sick, so they had to let me stay.
I’d fended off plenty of growly regulars making threats about “the asshole who did that to you, sweetheart. Just give me his name. I’ll find him”. Floating around on a bubble of anticipation over having Trent in my space again, I’d waved them off, poured the coffee, slung the breakfasts, and now was home, chewing on my lip and wondering if he’d like the meal I’d prepared.
Too bad if he doesn’t. Right?
Right.
I took a quick shower, taking special care to wash the diner smell out of my hair. While I was shaving my legs, I noted that I had neglected my usual bikini wax regimen. When you don’t pay a lot of attention to yourself down there, it’s something that gets left behind in the daily rush to make a living and not make waves, or be noticed by too many people. I stood under the cooling, weak stream of water, pondering the general state of unkempt fuzziness.
I made a few swipes at it around the edges, wondering why in the hell I was even bothering. I had no intention of letting El Guapo near my furry girl bits today, if ever.
Liar, liar, fuzzy pants on fire. At least tell the truth to your own sorry self.
I climbed out, shivering as the water had gone totally cold by the time I’d made a dent in the fur barrier. Even as I cursed myself while doing it, I found my manicure scissors and did a bit of extremely careful clipping at the longest pieces, making a mental appointment at the waxer Evelyn had told me about. “He uses the hard wax. You barely feel it.”
“He?” I’d reared away from her, honestly horrified at the thought of a man waxing anywhere below my belly button.
“Yep.” She’d patted my hand. “He’s a true artist.”
Fine, I thought, as I flushed the pubes down the toilet. I’ll visit the man and let him clean up the chaos down there. Maybe. Depending.
I slathered on my favorite lotion, leaving a mild, fresh floral scent on my skin. I never wore cologne—couldn’t stand it actually. But I did like to smell clean. After pondering the clothing options for so long I got mad at myself for acting stupid, I grabbed a pair of dark blue jeans and my lucky Real Madrid jersey. A few waves with the blow dryer and enough makeup so my beat-up face wasn’t too scary—he’d seen me at my worst after all—and I declared myself primped.
When I checked the time, the rush of anxiety over this whole, misguided thing almost knocked me into the wall. But I had food to prep so I let that steady me for the next half hour.
Limes—cut.
Onions—diced.
Cilantro—ditto.
Meat—perfectly spiced and shredded.
Tortillas—waiting in the oven to be warmed.
Soup—simmering.
I pondered the beer options I’d purchased, decided it would have to do and sat down to wait.
One p.m. came and went, as did one-fifteen. When the numbers on my phone approached one-thirty, the doorbell rang, making me jump up and run to the door, pulse racing so fast I felt faint. “You’re late,” I called through the door. “I hate it when people are late.”
“I have a note. I swear it. Please let me in.”
“I don’t know….” I leaned against the door, willing my heartbeat to slow.
“Have you ever had to ride herd on a teenager?”
I frowned and peeked through the peephole. Until that minute, I’d forgotten Evelyn’s drunken complaint about Trent’s baggage. “No, can’t say that I have.” I unhooked the lock and opened the door, keeping it half closed so I could determine his mood. He sounded not so great, to be honest. My innate need to help was lurching well ahead of my compulsion to keep him at a safe arm’s length.
As usual, he looked devastating. Today his no doubt perfect bod was clad in dark jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Nothing more was needed to highlight the width of his shoulders, the firm terrain of his torso, the bulky strength in his upper arms. “I’m sorry. Come in.” I opened the door all the way and stepped back. He brushed my cheek with his lips, which made me sway on my feet a second, before putting a bottle of Patrón on the counter, alongside a riotous bouquet of summer flowers.
“Pretty,” I said, picking them up and reaching for the single vase I owned. “Thank you.”
As I arranged them, he stood, tapping his fingertips on the Formica, his stress and anger coming off him in near-visible waves. “There,” I said, putting the vase next to the expensive bottle of hooch. “I’ll handle this too.” I put it in the freezer, for later. Maybe. “Hungry?” I gestured at the spread I’d made.
He glanced at it, then at me, then he turned away and stuffed his fingers into his jeans pockets. Confused, and getting a tad concerned, I stepped out from behind the counter and put my hand on his arm. He flinched, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Melody. I…I may not be the best company today.”
“Well, you have to at least eat. I’ve been up since four a.m. making this, so it would be completely rude not to.” I turned him gently and tugged him into the small kitchen space, put a plate in his hand and plunked a tortilla on it. He eyed the buffet and his smile appeared, warming my heart. “Go on. There’s the meat.” I pointed to the slow cooker.
I made myself turn away from him so I wouldn’t get caught drooling or with my stupid tongue hanging out as he did such an innocuous thing as making a couple of tacos.
“Hey, where’s the cheese?” He dropped a dollop of guacamole on top of the salsa he’d put on the meat and onions.
“No cheese. These are authentic, Guapo. Only Anglos think an overpriced, overstuffed burrito from a fake fast-food place is how you’re supposed to eat these things.”
He rolled his eyes, then stuck his finger in the guac before putting it in his mouth. I watched, mesmerized by his full, perfect, lips. “Damn, this is good.”
“I know that.” I smacked his arm, embarrassed by my need to touch him. “Go sit. I’ll bring the soup. What beer do you want?”
“Something like a pilsner if you have it.”
“Of course.” I ladled up two small bowls of black bean soup, sprinkled cilantro and squeezed lime juice over each. I set them on the table in front of him then grabbed two local pilsners from the fridge and poured them into pint glasses.
“Cheers,” I said, handing him one and holding my glass out. My heartbeat had calmed a little, as I’d distracted myself with making him happy or at least less worked-up over whatever was going on with his kid.
His smile widened, as if he’d only just now realized what was going on. “Cheers,” he said, touching his glass to mine.
We drank. I sat, leaving plenty of air between us.
I took a few spoonfuls of my soup, watching him tear into the tacos like a hungry lion. Which made me happy. And, perversely, horny—a sensation I’d avoided, shut down, cut off or otherwise ignored for the better part of fifteen years.
A shiver shot down my spine, nestling in the small of my back and making me shift in my seat.
He grabbed the remote and handed it to me between bites. “Well? I thought I was getting subjected to that horrible game.”
I took the remote, stuck my tongue out at him and clicked on the telly. The match flickered on after a few seconds.
“Ah, right,” he said, sipping his beer, then tucking into the soup. “The pretty boys game.”
“Damn straight,” I said, taking a bite of my own carnitas creation. Pretty damn good if I say so myself. “These men are fine.”
“Guapo?” He raised a dark eyebrow at me, which intensified the heat gathering in areas of my body I’d forgotten I even had.
“No. They’re too prima donna to be truly guapo.”
“Good. I like that word being reserved for me.” He stood. “I need another one of those amazing tacos. And you’re right. I hardly miss the cheese.”
“Of course I’m right.” I winked at him, then felt my face flush so hot I put my hand to my cheek.
We sat in companionable silence, regarding the game and eating for a while. As we leaned back, our feet up on the table, finishing our second beers, the match got more intense. At one point I leapt up and started cursing a stream of Spanish at the official.
“Calm down, already. What happened?” Trent asked, amusement on his face.
“That hijo de puta claimed offsides and called back that goal! Are you blind? Mierda!”
I flopped back onto the couch, this time so close our thighs brushed together when I propped my feet back on the table.
“Offsides, eh?” Trent put his glass to his lips and eyed me over the rim. “I have no idea what that means, at least in this game.”
I shoved our plates aside, grabbed the salt and pepper shakers and the empty beer bottles and attempted to explain it. After ten utterly frustrating minutes, I gave up and threw my napkin at his face after he asked one more stupid question. “Mierda! El burro sabe mas que te!”
He leaned back in mock horror. “Did you just call me a burro? Is that like an ass?”
I dissolved into giggles at the look on his face. “¡Mira qué cabrón! There, I just called you a smartass.”
“Neat,” he said, grinning widely. We stared at each other for a few seconds too long, then both turned to the match.
“For the record, I did say a burro was smarter than you.”
“Ah, of course,” he said, getting up and stretching right in front of me. I swallowed hard and made myself not look at his ass. When he turned around again, his face had gone pensive. “Your poor, beautiful face,” he said, out of the clear blue. “It’s all I can do to look at you and not run out of here and kill that motherfucker.”
I blinked fast, covered by grabbing my beer and totally missed my mouth. A dollop of the brew landed right on my best Real jersey. I stared down at it in horror. Trent chuckled. I glared up at him, daring him to say anything. He tried to stop laughing, but that made it worse. By the time I’d gotten up for a towel and maybe a shot of that tequila, he was practically rolling around on the floor in hysterics.
“Are you quite finished?” I asked, brushing at the stain, my face so hot I could have warmed a whole house in the middle of winter. I’d kept my back to him, the tall counter between us. Mortification was making my vision blur. Or was that tears? Shit, I’d never get this right. I was ruined. Ruined for relationships with real men, anyway. I whirled around to tell him to take his funny bone and get the fuck out of my apartment.
“I think…oh…”
He was there, in front of me, too close for it to be in any way considered casual. His broad, black-cotton-covered chest filled my vision. His scent—a clean, fresh, outdoorsy odor—filled my nose. His voice—deep and musical—filled my soul.
“Melody,” he said, as he took my hands in his and brought them to his lips. Mi Dios, those lips! He kissed each one of my knuckles softly, keeping his eyes on mine. Then he turned my hands over and pressed his lips to first one, then the other of my palms.
“Trent,” I whispered, my mind awash with images and sensations, all of them good for a change.
“Sh,” he whispered, placing my hands on his shoulders, then sliding his hands around to the small of my back. “Sh, no talking.” His smile lit up my entire universe—corny, but true and I’m not ashamed to admit it. “I have wanted to kiss you since I saw you across that diner.”
“When… Oh, right,” I said, my voice breaking at the end like a silly virginal teenager’s.
Surely he won’t want me, when he finds out I’m spoiled goods. Surely he won’t…Surely he has got to be the best kisser in the entire known universe.
I sighed and melded my body against his as he slanted those amazing lips over mine, caressing, teasing, licking my lips with his tongue then breaching to explore the inside of my mouth.
I honestly felt as if I were on a cloud, up in the air, weightless, brainless to be certain. But no matter. I was being kissed by a god among men. And although I was sure it wouldn’t last I was determined to enjoy it.
He broke our contact, and his hands moved up my back and into my hair, tangling there, until one hand cradled my cheek and other remained wrapped up behind my head. “This is okay?”
“Yes,” I breathed, nodding. “It’s…very nice.”
His grin turned slightly wicked. “Just nice? I need to up my game.”
He pressed me back against the counter and dove in again, owning me with those lips, that tongue, his hands, which remained innocent but at the same time drove me wild with lust. He tugged my hair, forcing my head back as his lips found my jaw, then my neck, then my shoulder. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Sensed my breathing getting raspy as he licked and nibbled and teased his way around to the other side of my neck, ending with a quick bite on my earlobe.
“Mi Dios,” I muttered again. I could sense my nipples—for the first time in my life I could say this—straining against the inside of my bra. I was warm all over and a serious melty sensation was forming low in my stomach. “Ah, guapo, don’t stop.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, trailing my fingertips along the bare skin of his scalp. I saw the goosebumps raise there, and felt him shudder as his lips found mine once more. He groaned into my mouth as our tongues met, and clashed, our teeth clicking together in an unpracticed, amateur way. He broke from me, his breathing coming in ragged gasps, like mine.
“You taste like chocolate and cinnamon,” he whispered in my ear. “I love it.”
I sighed and the melty sensation traveled in a southerly direction, making me want to spread my legs, to feel his touch there. An alarm clanged in my head, replacing the woozy, lusty, fogginess. I fought it. God help me I did, but all of a sudden all I smelled was old beer, saltiness, mildew and rot. Gagging, I pushed Trent away, hand over my mouth. He stood there, his hands out as if he were still holding me close.
Tears clouded my eyes as I shoved past him, running for the bathroom, desiring nothing but escape. And hating myself the whole time for being such a complete loser. As I rounded the corner of my bed and was about to slam the bathroom door behind me, a hand shot out, denying me.
“Melody, what the hell? Did I hurt you?”
Hand still clapped over my mouth, I shook my head, backing myself into the corner. He loomed over me, but instead of being afraid, I felt soothed. My hair flew as I kept shaking my head, speechless with embarrassment. I took a breath as he moved my hand away from my mouth.
“Come on,” he said, his musical, perfect voice filling me again, making me feel safe. “Let’s go sit. That went too fast. I thought so too.”
“No…I mean. Yes. Dios. I’m such a loser.”
“Hardly,” he said, kissing my hand, then tucking it into his elbow. “Let’s put a dent in that tequila, mamacita.” He waggled his dark eyebrows at me.
“Don’t call me that. It’s demeaning.” I leaned into his shoulder, sucking in greedy breaths of him, forcing out the old, scary, nasty odors that had haunted me for years.
“What should I call you then?” He guided me to the couch, eased me down, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead then headed back to the kitchen. “What’s the best word to go with what you call me?” He grabbed the limes and found some small glasses.
“I don’t know. Bella? It means beauty.” I touched my nose. “I’m hardly that anymore.”
“Okay, that’ll do for now. I’ll figure out something better later.”
“You could also go with angelita. Or even querida.”
“I like those. But I like how you say them more.”
He popped the cork on the expensive bottle, poured a couple of hits and handed me a lime wedge. “Bottoms up,” he said, his eyes bright. I held up my glass.
“‘¡Salud!’ you mean.”
“Yeah, that.” He grabbed my hand, licked the soft spot between my thumb and forefinger, sprinkled salt there, then licked it again, took a drink and squeezed the lime into his mouth. “Your turn,” he said, holding out his hand.
I took it, touched my tongue to his skin, closing my eyes at the sensation. I salted it, licked it, drank and squeezed the lime. The booze suffused my entire body. Or, more likely, the fact that I had tasted the skin of his hand and it was like nectar. I leaned away from him, smiling, trying not to feel self-conscious about my busted-up face.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I didn’t mean to make such a…such a fuss, before.”
His arm had been draped across the back of the couch, so he reached out a finger and touched my cheek, tucked my hair behind my ear, and sighed. “I didn’t want to rush, so I don’t mind taking it slow. That’s new to me, to be honest with you. I’m game.”
I looked down at my lap. “It’s not that, exactly.”
He tilted my chin up so I had to meet his eyes. “Then tell me what, exactly, that it is.” His voice had dropped lower, taken on an odd sort of edge. It made me sit up straighter, and sent a shot of something equally odd through my nervous system. Courage? Maybe.
“I was raped when I was eighteen. Gang raped. By a bunch of boys I thought were my friends. After I got drunk with a bunch of girls I thought liked me but who set me up for the whole thing.”
Trent leaned away from me, crossing his arms. His jaw clenched in that way I’d noticed before.
“I was…well, it was bad. I was passed out at the end. I have no idea how…” My throat clicked with anxiety. “How many of them…did it to me. My mother found me. She took me home, put me to bed and made me promise I wouldn’t ever tell anyone what had happened. I hid in my house for weeks, waiting for the bruises and shit to heal.” I touched my nose. “I’ve had one of these before too.” Taking a deep breath, bolstered by him somehow, I plowed onward. “That was the summer before college, so luckily I never had to see them again. I went to Grand Valley,” I said, naming the small university here in town. “On academic scholarship. Got my degree in business.” I bit my lip and looked away.
His silence in the face of my confession spoke volumes. I stood and headed for the kitchen. “You don’t want any of this. I’m a mess. You have your own issues. What with the teenager and all.” I started putting the food away, blinded by tears. Always with the stupid tears.
Warm hands on my shoulders made me shiver and lean back, finding him there, his strong, comforting form. He wrapped his arms around me and held me, how long I couldn’t even say it felt so amazing to be treasured this way.
“What happened after college?” he asked, still holding me tight from behind.
“I got a job. A pretty good one, considering. At a bank, in mergers and acquisitions. I had to buy a whole new wardrobe.” I sighed and closed my eyes, unwilling to revisit this, but knowing full well I had to. Trent stayed silent, letting me proceed at my own pace. “I’d been there three years. Was in line for a promotion to manager. I loved it—every power-suited, high-heeled, salad-for-lunch moment of it.” I let myself slump into him more, unsure if I could finish.
I felt his lips on my hair. His arms tightened. “Go on, Melody. You can trust me.”
I took a shuddery breath.
Trust. What a concept.
I put my hands on the counter, pressing down as if holding myself up. “My b-b-b-boss called me into his office, told me we had an offsite, where we’d talk about how things were going to change around the office. I believed him, of course. I’m stupid that way.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“Whatever. So, like a dummy, I agreed to meet him, thinking it would be a bunch of us, you know, for a legit offsite. But all I saw was him, sitting at a table in the hotel bar. I sat, let him buy me a drink. Then two drinks. He…uh…oh God, Trent. I can’t.”
“I want it all, Melody. Give it to me. Share it. It will help.” His lips were at my ear. “I promise.”
I froze. I smelled him—his overpriced cologne, the booze on his breath. I felt the rasp of his stubble on my face. His disgusting tongue practically down my throat.
“He…he…he told me that I had to do it. That I’d only gotten hired to fulfill their minority quotient. That I wasn’t any good but I looked good in my skirt. That I…had to let him fuck me. Or I’d get fired.”
I heard Trent suck in a breath. Horrified that I’d actually told him, much less that I’d actually believed the sorry asshole, I tried to disentangle from him. But he wouldn’t let me go.
“Afterward, he locked me in the bathroom without my clothes for the night. Then…before he’d let me leave I had to…suck his dick. Now do you believe me when I say I’m a fucked-up mess? That you don’t need my crap in your life? Jesus. Let go of me.”
I shoved his arms off me and turned around, gripping the counter behind me. Tears were pouring down my face, and my nose was stopped up and hurt like a bitch. “God, I’m gross. Get off me.” I pushed his chest. He didn’t budge. He grabbed a paper towel and held it under my nose.
“Blow.”
I shook my head.
“Blow, god damn it.”
I blew.
“That’s good.” He tossed it into the trash, got another one, held it under warm water and wiped my face. “That’s better.” He tossed that one too, then pulled me into his arms. “I’m so sorry all that happened to you, bella.” His voice caressed the word in a way that made he all shivery again. “My poor, sweet bella.”
I leaned into his chest, wrapped my arms around his waist, filling my brain with his smell, willing it to cancel out all the others that had haunted me for so long.