Ryan
I look at the girl standing in front of me, this girl who’s risking everything just to be by my side. Her usually shiny hair is messed up and dull from our journey. She’s wearing ripped, dirty shorts paired with a top that’s seen better days. Her cheek has a streak of dirt on it from sleeping on the boulder two nights ago. She’s a hot mess.
And she still takes my breath away.
I realize at this moment that I’d love nothing better than to take a shower with her. I should run right out that door and never look back, because the more time I spend with her the more I don’t want to let her go. I’m just torturing myself at this point.
“Wherever you go, I go.” Dalila leans in close and kisses me. Man, I could kiss her forever and never get tired of it. “Make me forget reality, Ryan,” she whispers when she pulls back the slightest bit. “Make me forget the world outside this room exists.”
I never knew I could feel this way about another person. When she looks up at me, the love reflected in her eyes is enough to make me want to shelter her until the end of our days.
There’s desire reflected in Dalila’s eyes too, but I can’t help but notice the sadness that the events of the past two days have inflicted upon her. She wants me to make her forget the outside world. I’m going to do everything in my power to make that happen.
I turn the shower on. Steam quickly fills the room and our eyes cling to each other’s. She’s leaning against the tile wall and her dark, smoldering eyes roam down to where my body is reacting all on its own. She swallows, hard.
“You undress first, Mr. America,” she says. I can almost feel her pulse beat harder and faster as the words leave her mouth.
“Don’t you want to make out first?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
The side of my mouth quirks up as I slip my T-shirt over my head. I work hard on being fit, but the appreciation showing on Dalila’s face as her eyes roam over my chest and abs makes me feel like I’m superhuman.
I place my hands on the zipper of my jeans and pause. I want to make sure she’s present in this moment and isn’t worrying or thinking about anything else but what’s happening in this room. I can feel her eagerness as the seconds tick by.
Her tongue darts out and she licks her lips. “You’re teasing me.”
“Yeah, I am.” I undo the button and slowly move the zipper down, the entire time watching her reaction. I pull my jeans down and kick them away. “You’ve already seen me,” I tell her as I expose the rest of myself.
“I know, but I was too nervous to really pay attention.” Her eyes gaze over me and they brighten with a passion that makes me feel like I’m invincible.
I’ve got her attention now. “Your turn,” I tell her.
“Not yet.” She steps closer and reaches out, touching my chest with her soft, delicate fingers. Her eyes soften and her mouth twists into a somber frown as she touches my abdomen. “You’re still bruised.”
I’m trying to keep my emotions in check, but her touch sends my body into overdrive. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Her fingers gently glide over my bruises. At first I think she might be repulsed by them, but to my surprise she bends down and her fingers are replaced by her lips. I close my eyes and feel the brush of her gentle kisses on each bruise, starting with my shoulders and moving down to my chest and lower . . .
“I think I’m all healed,” I groan, acutely aware that I’m rock-hard right now. “Damn, I should get beat up more often.”
A satisfied grin crosses her mouth. As she reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss me, I pull back and cross my arms. “Your turn.” I gesture to her clothes. “Take ’em off, baby.”
She pouts with those soft, full lips that are driving me wild. “I wasn’t finished exploring.”
With an amused grin, I shake my head. “Even the playing field, Ms. Sandoval.”
She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “Fine.” Reaching out for the light switch on the wall, she moves the toggle down so the light is dimmed to where I can hardly see her.
I turn the light back on to full strength.
She dims the light again. “It’s too bright in here.”
“It wasn’t too bright a minute ago.”
“A minute ago you weren’t about to see me naked.” When she can see I’m not about to give up, she adds, “I don’t want you to see my imperfections.”
“What imperfections?”
“I’m not going to tell them to you. Then you’ll focus on them.”
“Baby, from where I’m standing you don’t have imperfections. Not one.” I turn the light back on and step closer, then ease her shirt up over her head. I hear her uneven breathing when I turn her around and unhook her bra as I kiss the back of her neck. “Show me your body, Dalila,” I whisper against her skin. Her hands immediately cover her breasts as she turns to face me. I gently take her hands and ease them away, exposing her.
At first she tenses, but soon her hands reach around and grab the back of my neck as she relaxes. “You sure you want to see everything?”
I nod. “Oh, yeah. Very sure.”
Her hands go to the waistband of her shorts and I feel like I’m the luckiest guy alive. This isn’t the first time we’ve been intimate, but this feels different. She isn’t just gifting me her body. She’s trusting me with her inner fears and insecurities. When her panties and shorts fall to the floor, she focuses her gaze on the ground.
“Look at me, Dalila.”
When she does, my fingers trace a path from her taut stomach to those perfectly shaped hips and I settle my palms on her amazing backside. I pick her up by her bottom. In one swift movement, she wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist as I escort my beautiful woman to the shower.
“Thank you, Ryan Hess,” she whispers against the crook of my neck.
“For what?”
“Loving me.”
In the morning I wake up early and turn Mateo’s cell phone on. He left me a text that I should come to the gym and he’ll drive us to the safe house. He’s got it all set up.
I ignore his message because Dalila doesn’t need a safe house. She needs her grandmother. Hell, we both need Abuela Carmela at this point, the strong Mexican woman who’s paved her own path and survived. She doesn’t trust Don Sandoval and who he’s become. She’ll tell us what to do.
I text Mateo back that we’re going to Dalila’s grandmother’s house in Tulanco and I’ll call him when I get there. I don’t want him to wonder if we’re dead or alive.
Just being in Dalila’s presence calms me and makes me want to live in her mind, because she tries to find the positive where I can only see negative. Even last night, she was content to block out the crap situation we’re in and focus on the amazing reprieve in this luxury hotel.
While she’s in a peaceful slumber, I push away the curtains and peer out our hotel room window. Below us, roaming the pool area as if they’re on a mission, are two Mexican police officers. Are they looking for us? My mind starts racing with random thoughts. If they’re crooked, are they affiliated with Las Calaveras or Los Reyes del Norte?
If they’re connected to Los Reyes del Norte, Dalila should be safe.
If they’re connected to Las Calaveras . . .
I don’t wake her up, but I sit by the door just in case anyone decides to come in uninvited.
“Good morning,” Dalila says in a groggy voice as she stretches. When she sits up, I try to act like everything is cool but she takes one look at me and frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nada.”
She looks at me sideways. “Tell me.”
“I saw two cops around the pool area. I don’t know if they’re after me or not. We need to get to your grandmother’s house. Today. Even if we have to hot-wire a car to do it.”
She nods. “Okay.”
Luckily the cops leave. We wait for a while, then Dalila asks one of the gardeners to drive us to Tulanco for a hefty sum. After his shift, we get in his truck and head out. He drops us off in Tulanco a half hour later.
“The door is wide open,” Dalila announces as we walk up to the front of Abuela Carmela’s house. “Why would it be open?”
“Maybe she forgot to close it,” I explain. “She’s old. Old people forget things.”
But as we step into the house, it’s obvious something’s wrong. The pictures on the walls are all crooked and furniture is scattered on the floor, signaling some kind of struggle.
I step farther into the kitchen and a grisly scene greets me, one more vile than Rico’s death.
No.
“Dalila, don’t look! Stay outside!” I rush to Abuela Carmela, who’s lying on the floor, soaking in her own blood. “Whatever you do, don’t come in here!”
It’s too late. Dalila’s hand flies to her mouth and a helpless cry pierces the air at the sight of her grandmother riddled with stab wounds.
The word venganza is written on the floor in blood.