34
At eleven thirty, my friend Rocío comes by, and together, we go visit her nephew. By one o’clock, we’re back home and in the pool. The water is fresh and cool. Rocío tells me about her life, but she also tries to interrogate me about Fernando. When she sees I don’t want to discuss it, she drops the subject and we talk about other things. At two thirty, my friend heads home, but I linger in the pool. My phone buzzes. It’s Fernando, asking me out to eat. I say no and go lie down in the hammock to listen to music.
My cell buzzes again. I curse. I pick it up, but I gasp when I read the message: Would you come and have a drink with me? It’s Eric.
My heart beats faster.
Eric is in Madrid, and I’m way too flustered. My throat is dry. I take a drink of my Coke. The cell beeps once more.
You know I’m not very patient.
My hands are trembling so much, I can’t seem to text. Finally, I manage to string some words together: I’m on vacation.
I send it, and my stomach gets tied up in knots until the cell beeps with his response: I know. The red door to your father’s house is very pretty.
When I read that, I scream, drop my cell, and run like the devil to the front door. On my way, I hit my hip against the patio chairs and knock them over, but I don’t care.
Eric is here!
I quickly open the door, but I’m so blind, I can’t see a single car that could possibly be his. Then I hear a honk to my right, and I see a man on a monstrous bike. He dismounts, takes off his helmet, and reveals his smiling face. His eyes are sparkling.
Not really caring about anyone or anything, I race toward him and leap into his arms. I hug him and shiver when I hear his voice in my ear.
“Sweetness . . . I’ve missed you.”
Eric, my Eric! He’s in my arms. In Jerez. At my father’s door. He looked for me. He’s found me, and that’s the only thing I care about.
When I pull away from him, I sense his eyes all over me. That’s when I realize the state I’m in.
“Eric, you could have let me know you were coming. Look at me!”
He doesn’t answer. He just puts his hand on my neck and brings me to him so he can give me an impassioned kiss that will make all of Jerez tremble!
“You’re beautiful, love.”
Oh my God! He called me “love”!
“How’s your arm?” he asks abruptly.
I raise it and show him the mark the iron left.
“Perfect.”
He makes an approving gesture, and I invite him into the house.
He follows me, and I offer him a beer. He turns it down and asks for water. I make him wait near the pool while I get dressed. He resists but agrees to wait. I take all of five minutes to dress. Jeans, a top, and I’m ready to rock.
When I join him again, Eric draws me to him and kisses me in a very proprietary way. His kisses me and tells me he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him, and I like that (although he still has about a thousand things to explain). Between kisses, we step back into the kitchen. Eric sits me on the table and squeezes me to him.
I’m hot . . . especially when he lowers his head and bites my breasts through my top. Longing has brought us both to life, and it finally consumes us. Forgetful of where I am and oblivious to my father and the Virgin of Triana who overlooks the kitchen, I unzip his jeans and shove my hands into his briefs to touch him. But I need more.
Eric undoes my jeans, pulls them down, and takes them off me. He pulls off my panties too, and I feel the cold of the table under my butt. I wait, still sitting on the table, while he hurries to put on a condom. I see my tattoo, but he doesn’t, not yet.
He brings me to him. Our breathing rapid, he guides his penis to the threshold of my vagina and pushes it in just a little. Then he grabs me by the ass, and with one sure movement, he slams all the way inside me. I notice he’s biting his lip.
Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . I needed to feel Eric.
Without a word, he picks me up so we’re both at the same height, and he leans me up against the fridge. I kiss him . . . He kisses me back with a certain desperation as his deep, hard strokes make me want to scream. My skin burns, my sex throbs, and I gasp and come in his arms. I’m happy now, and I don’t want to think about anything else while he’s taking me.
After several powerful lunges that make me feel like I’m going to shatter, Eric leans back and grunts. He lets his head fall on my shoulder, and for a few minutes, we both stay like that.
“What are you doing here, Eric?”
“I was dying to see you again.”
I close my eyes when I hear that. I love hearing it, but I don’t understand why he didn’t come earlier. He finally kisses me, puts me down, and then we step into the bathroom to clean up. We leave my father’s house between kisses and laughter. He asks if we can go somewhere for a bite to eat.
“Is it yours?” I ask when we reach that spectacular motorcycle he rode in on.
He doesn’t respond, just shrugs and hands me another helmet.
“Are you afraid?”
I put on the helmet.
“Afraid, no. I just really respect these things.”
He grins. Then he climbs on and turns the ignition.
“Better hang on tight. If at any moment you get scared, you tell me, OK?”
I nod and we take off.
I tell him where to go as we ride through the streets of Jerez. We have lunch at Pachuca’s restaurant (she’s a friend of my dad’s). When we arrive and she sees my companion, she winks at me and gives us the best table in the place. Later, as she smooches me and scolds me because I visit so rarely, Eric texts something on his cell. It’s only after the kisses and the scolding that Pachuca lets us see the menu.
“Girl, you should have the salmorejo; today’s is scandalously good.”
I look over at Eric. “Do you like salmorejo?”
“What is it?”
“Look, it’s a kind of gazpacho,” explains Pachuca, “but more concentrated. If you like vegetables, I promise you’ll like Pachuca’s salmorejo.”
“Salmorejo for two!” we say in unison.
When Pachuca leaves us, Eric extends his hands across the table to take mine. We don’t speak. We just enjoy each other.
“I am a dickhead,” he finally says.
“Indeed. You are.”
“I just want you to know, I almost lost my mind when I got that last email.”
I let go of his hands.
“You deserved it.”
“I know . . .”
“But I was only doing what you asked me to do.”
His knuckles get white and tense.
“I recognize my mistake. But I didn’t like it.”
That surprises me. I lean back in my chair.
“You didn’t like seeing me play with someone else?”
Eric’s face turns somber.
“No, not if I’m not playing too.”
I won’t tell him that as far as I’m concerned, he was very much in the game.
“You’ll forgive me?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it, Iceman.”
“Iceman?”
I won’t tell him it was Miguel who gave him the nickname.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call all this time,” he says.
“Why couldn’t you call?”
“I promise I’ll call next time.”
He hasn’t answered, but I can’t get angry at him. I’m just so happy because he came searching for me and he’s here now, with me. I grin from ear to ear and let myself get carried away by this delightful turn of events. My cell buzzes. It’s Fernando. Eric sees his name on the screen.
“Go ahead, if you want to.”
“No . . . not now.” I turn off my cell.
The meal is, as Pachuca promised, wonderful. The salmorejo is exquisite. I check the time as we leave the restaurant. Quarter after four. I remember I have a date with my father at five.
“Would you be interested in seeing the Jerez racetrack?”
Eric pulls me toward him.
“Sweetness,” he whispers, “if interest is what we’re talking about, I’m interested in something else. I’ve rented a villa . . .”
“You rented a villa?”
“Yes, I wanted to be close to you.”
For an instant, I consider running off to the villa. But no. I can’t no matter how much I may want to.
“I agreed to meet my father at five at the racetrack. Would you like to come with me, and I’ll introduce you to him?”
“Your father?”
“Yes, my father. No worries—he doesn’t eat Germans or anything like that.”
He grins again. And after a little slap on the butt, he hands me my helmet.
“Then let’s go meet your father.”