The interruption from Jamie’s body is a goddamn tragedy, and it's even worse that the call is from Marisol.

My younger sister.

I'm always nervous when she calls, always worried that she's delivering bad news about our grandmother, so I slip through the deck door on the other side of the kitchen so Jamie won’t hear whatever it is we say. “What is it?” I demand, panic swelling inside my chest. “Is Abuela okay? Has she—”

“I need money,” Marisol says without preamble, and I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I’m sorry for calling you so late on a Saturday night, but it couldn’t wait.”

“For what?” I demand, sucking in a breath of cool air. It’s the middle of April but still frigid, especially compared to where Marisol’s calling me from, and I can think of better ways to warm myself than frantically rubbing my hands together on a covered deck. Warmth is waiting for me in the house and my sister is fucking that up for me. “You called, Marisol, so you better start moving your lips.”

She inhales sharply, hesitates so she can think of what will surely be a lie, then she exhales. “Abuela. I need money for our grandmother or have you forgotten about her, big brother?” When I laugh, she calls me a name. Then another. I tell her I’ve heard worse, and a theatrical sob hitches in the back of her throat before she spits out, “You're an evil man, Mateo.”

I pace across the deck, leaning against the railing. “Not evil at all, I just know your bullshit well.”

She has good enough sense not to deny what I’ve said. Instead she asks, “What are you talking about?”

“Did you think to speak to the staff at the nursing home before you decided to call me to demand money?” After our mother left us—when I was ten, Oscar was nine, and Marisol was seven—Abuela had stepped in, taking on the role of mother and grandmother. She was already in her early sixties, but she managed. I owe my every success to the woman, and the fact that my sister’s using her as an excuse to borrow money she won’t pay back makes the blood rush to my ears. “Are you stupid enough to think that I wouldn't take care of her?”

I’ve learned what can happen when I don’t take care of my own, and I never want to experience that again in my life.

“I…” Marisol lets out a string of curses in rapid Spanish, and I hear something slam loudly in the background. She’s throwing a fit, but that’s always been my sister’s M.O. when she gets caught red-handed. “You've already paid her bills at the home, haven't you?”

“For the entire year.” And I had hated doing it. Not because of the financial burden—I will empty my accounts for Abuela without hesitation—but because of the finality. Our grandmother had suffered a stroke last spring, and the only thing I can do for her now is to make sure she’s comfortable. She had barely looked at me when I visited two months ago, and the memory claws at my ribcage. “Now, Mari, unless she’s taken a turn for the worse and I’m needed there, I'm presently engaged and—”

“With one of your whores,” she spits out, and I grit my teeth at the sneer in her voice. Spinning on the heels of my feet, I catch a glimpse of Jamie through the glass. She’s climbed off the countertop and now she’s seated at one of the bar stools facing my direction, her hands clasped together, and her head bowed so low her dark curls blanket her face.

“No,” I grind out. That word is the last one I’d use to describe the woman I’ve brought into my home tonight. “No whore. Be glad Abuela can’t hear you—it would kill her to know all the effort she put into teaching your ass decent manners was a waste.”

My sister is silent for a brief pause, and I hear her chewing on something—probably the tip of her nail like she was so fond of doing when we were children. “When are you coming home? She asked about you, Mateo. After I told her about that picture of yours and—”

“You make me sick.” The words are spoken louder than I intend, and Jamie's head jerks up. She stares back at me, coffee brown eyes going wide before the corners crinkle in concern. Fuck, I don’t want her concern. I just want to get back to her. To lose myself in her body. To forget Marisol ever called. Spinning around, I glare down at the pool.

“What would possess you to tell a ninety-two-year-old woman something like that?” I demand in a hushed tone. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

For the first time since my grandmother’s stroke, I pray she wasn’t lucid. That she didn’t understand what my sister was saying to her. I can take anyone’s disappointment—fuck, I don’t give a shit who I disappoint these days—but I am weak when it comes to Abuela. I always have been.

“She wants—wanted— to see you settle down,” Marisol says.

“I've settled down. I've settled down and I've tried, and all I’ve got to show for it are a couple of graves.” Saying it out loud hurts worse than I imagined, and I grip the railing until my knuckles go white. “Fuck you, Mari.”

“Delfina died fifteen years ago, Mateo. You can’t do this forever.” For the first time since she called, my sister makes a smart decision: she goes quiet. While I’m sure Marisol’s remembering her friend—the woman who ruined me, the woman I had ruined in turn— the hush gives me a chance to gather my bearings. To shove the memories right back where they belong. “The money isn’t for grandmother,” she says at last in a childlike whisper.

No fucking shit.

“It’s for Claudia,” she continues. “You know, your niece.”

I know, and I know well. If he had lived, my son would be fifteen—the same age as Claudia. Because of this, Marisol knows I’ve always had a soft spot where my niece is concerned. I scrub my hand over my face. “She's not in any trouble, is she?” I ask.

“No, of course she's not. Claudia is a good girl. I'm very lucky to have her when—” At my excruciating intake of air, Marisol swallows the rest of what she planned to say. I almost expect her to apologize, to beg my forgiveness for the reminder of what I lost, but she's smart enough to avoid it. “I'm behind on her tuition for school. I thought that if I told you the money was for Abuela, you would be more willing to pay it.”

“Is this the truth?” It wouldn't be the first time she’s lied to me about money, and I’m positive it won’t be the last. When she swears to me that it is, I groan. “You should've said that to begin with. Don't ever use Abuela like that, do you understand me?”

“I—” my sister starts, but I cut her off. I’ve had enough of Marisol tonight, and she’s managed to kill my mood in less than ten minutes.

“I'll have Sonora call Monday morning and make the payment directly to the school.” As my sister sings my praises like she didn’t start our conversation by calling me an evil man, I twist around to look at Jamie. Her warm gaze holds mine for a couple of breaths, then she jerks her stare away. I take a step toward her—toward the warmth and the distraction. Pausing with my hand on the deck door, I say, “I meant what I said, Marisol. Don't lie to me again. We're both too old to do this shit.”

After she promises that she won't, I end the call and step back inside.

Coming off the barstool, Jamie meets me halfway across the kitchen. A questioning smile plays at the edges of her lips, and she doesn’t look at me when she starts, “Should I go if you have something—”

“It was my sister.” I draw her to me roughly, and she sinks into my body.

“You didn’t tell me you had a sister, Mateo.”

“Say it again,” I growl. “Say it again and make me forget.”

“Forget what?”

“My past.” Lifting her up, I carry her across the kitchen. She makes a breathless noise when I lower her to the countertop. “I want to taste you.” I bury my mouth in the crook of her neck. My dick throbs when her pulse point jumps beneath my lips. “I need to taste you, or I'll go crazy.”

Her small fingers splay on the sides of my face, and I let her push me back just enough for our eyes to touch. “If we do this, will you tell me what's wrong?”

“Negotiating with me?” I demand, placing my hands between her thighs and spreading her legs far apart. She releases a strangled cry. “You're making demands, Jamila?”

“I want to help you.”

Always the nurse. “You already know how you can help me.” I shove the green dress around her hips. Her panties are lace too—black and flimsy—and I circle my knuckle over the center of the fabric, my strokes long and deliberate. Satisfaction claws at my stomach when she reacts, when the lace clings to her flesh. “Let me taste you, let me drown in you, and then we can talk.”

She moves her head up and down, and I slide her further back on the counter, holding her slim knees apart as I lean over her. She smells like her perfume—inviting and floral—and I inhale her deeply, basking in the goodness. The sweetness. “Should I—” she starts, but I shake my head between her thighs.

“Shut up, Jamila.”

She shivers as I work her panties down her thighs, arches her back when I leave the lace resting around both of her ankles before lifting her legs and positioning them over my shoulders, and grasps handfuls of my black hair between her fingers when I kiss her clit. “You taste good. Like I imagined.”

I slide the tip of my finger inside of her, arching it, circling it around the tight walls of her sex. I add a second finger, and she wriggles beneath me. “More,” she moans as my fingers pick up speed. She bucks her hips against my hand. “Please.”

By the time I’m finished with her, she won’t be able to form a coherent syllable.

Drawing my fingers from her tightness, I cup her ass, lifting her until her hips are off the counter. I blow softly against her warmth. Feel a grin play at the corners of my mouth as her hips pump against my lips. She whispers pleas. Begs for more. So, I drive my tongue inside of her. She thrusts her hips up to meet the flicks of my tongue and the friction of my teeth. She thrashes her head wildly from side to side, and the sight of her curls bouncing around her face makes my cock get harder.

Patience, I tell myself. She’s mine for right now, so I can be patient.

I suck her clit until she’s grasping at my hair like holding on to it will keep her from falling, plump her ass until she’s twitching and releasing guttural moans. When her orgasm hits, my name—broken and raspy—comes right along with it.

Mateo. Not Bailon.

* * *

Jamie is quiet as we start our way back to her apartment, but her expression says it all. She’s still stunned, her legs occasionally quaking as I speed down the interstate toward Brighton. There's so much more of her that I wanted tonight, so much more I needed. After Marisol’s call though, I’m determined to make myself wait for a moment that’s not so tainted by bitterness.

If I fuck her now, she’ll never want to speak to me again.

“You said you’d tell me about your sister,” she whispers in the silence. She looks over at me, her brown eyes wide. “Are you going to do that now?”

“There's not much to tell. I have one sister, Marisol. She lives in El Paso with the rest of my family.”

“You're from El Paso?” When I grant her a stiff nod, her face lights up, and I decide it’s the most goddamn beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “That's the most you've ever told me about yourself.”

I shrug. “Like I said before, there's not much to tell.”

“Do you have any other siblings?” She drags her hands through her curls, gathers her hair into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, then releases it. “Brothers? Any other sisters?”

“One brother,” I say in a low voice. And that motherfucker can die in prison. “We don't talk.”

“Oh,” she whispers.

I'm ready to end this conversation, to lead her away from the dark road she’s unwittingly wandered down. My hand connects with the inside of her thigh in the darkness, and I massage my fingertips over her hot skin. “I can still taste you.” And it’s not a taste I’ll forget—not even after we’ve both moved on.

Her breath catching, she drops her stare to my fingers for a pause before covering them with her own hand. “So, this is what you meant when you said you’d teach me things?”

“Oh no, Jamila. I've taught you nothing tonight, and we still have so many places to go.”

“Why do you call me that?” she asks. “Why not Jamie like everybody else?”

“I’m not everybody else,” I say. “And besides, it suits you. It means beautiful.”

The shudder that works itself through her body speaks directly to my cock, and I have half a mind to release the rest of my frustrations into her body, but I keep my word to myself.

I return her to her apartment, standing on the other side of the door as she creeps inside.

She keeps her back to me for a moment, her curls falling forward as she looks at the floor. When she finally twists around to face me, her hopeful expression is like a fist to my gut.

“Do you want to come in?”

Fuck, why couldn’t she have asked me this last night? I take a step toward her, and she responds with one in my direction. Cupping her cheek, I shake my head. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“No,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “Tell me.”

“I want to see that red door in your room you told me about. Want to strip every inch of clothing off your body and fuck you until your legs won’t work and your pussy can’t take another second. I want to make sure your neighbors know me by name.” I force myself to breathe and not to act. “But I won't do any of those things tonight.”

Her eyes fly open, and she looks like I’ve just told her there’s no Christmas. “You're confusing. You confuse the shit out of me, Bailon, and I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“You wanted a lesson? Here it is. Sometimes, anticipation is the best reward.” I drop my hand from her face, stuffing it into my front pocket as I back away from her doorway, leaving her with her mouth wide open. “I'll call you on Monday, Jamila.”

I don't hear her door close until after the elevator doors widen for me.