CHAPTER TWELVE
At five in the morning, Acan finally felt like he might be able to breathe again. It was now Saturday, and last night, he had felt the excruciating pull to get out there and party. Somehow, pumping iron had kept him focused. Anyway, he’d gone home, discovering that Jill had been hard at work organizing his new kitchen and decorating his bathroom—a marble palace with fluffy his-and-hers towels next to the glass-encased walk-in sauna and shower, a bath salt bar next to the jet tub, and a variety of candles on marble pillars positioned strategically throughout the enormous room.
“Very nice.” He glanced at his cell and noted the time. The marathon would be starting in an hour. He’d decided he would go, ask Margarita some questions about his “brother,” and then stop by Zac’s place. Zac had not returned his calls and Acan could already feel his mood beginning to darken. It was difficult to describe, but the sensation felt like a cancer spreading slowly through his body, devouring the positive charge in his molecules one by one.
It’s all right. You can push it back. You can do this. He hopped in the shower, using a nice-smelling citrus soap. Hmmm…Jill will have to get another raise. Now that he wasn’t hammered all the time, he could see how hard she worked to take care of him.
Margarita met her team near the sign-in table, just before six o’clock. Most were members of her gym, but a few girlfriends of hers—Kris and Lauran—joined them, too. Kris was an accountant with three girls ages six to fifteen and Lauran was a divorced PE teacher at a high school in Malibu. They’d met when Margarita first opened her gym years ago and used to run on the beach Sunday mornings. But then life got busier with their kids and work and life. They still got together every now and then, but the Run Wild Marathon was their thing. This year, the team decided to wear purple. Purple underwear, purple bras, and purple sun hats. And yes, purple tennis shoes. It sounded a little risqué until you knew that everyone dressed up (or down), wearing everything from superhero costumes to unicorn heads to almost nothing at all.
Margarita clapped her hands as the team of eleven women helped each other fasten their team number and name to the backs of their bras. They were “Victorious Secret.”
“Okay, team!” Margarita bellowed. “We came in fifth last year. That can’t happen again.” She pointed to Lauran, her good friend, who was a blonde in her late forties, same as Kris. The rest of the ladies ranged in age from mid-thirties to early fifties. “And you! You leave out the bar crawl this time, okay?”
“But the crawl is the best part,” Lauran whined.
Several other women, including Kris, agreed and booed jokingly at Margarita.
Margarita rolled her eyes. “Come on, guys. Isn’t it enough fun just to be running together, showing everyone how hot us middle-aged women are?”
Everyone continued lobbing the boos and then began chanting for “boos” the kind spelled with the letter Z. “We want booze! We want booze!”
Several men, dressed like giant beer bottles, wandered by in the enormous crowd and hooted, “We’ll be waiting at stop number one!”
Margarita’s team cheered. It seemed she was the only one who took the competition seriously. Of course, she didn’t drink—she hated alcohol—but it seemed her team needed to have a good time.
“Okay, fine.” She shook her head at her running shoes. “We’ll make one stop. Just one. But then you’d better run your butts off.”
Luckily, this was only a 5K for charity and many of the contestants never crossed the finish line because there were roughly twenty cocktail stops along the route down Highway 1, but her gym could still use the publicity if they won.
“Margarita?” said a deep, deep masculine voice from behind her, sending goose bumps up her spine.
The women on her team froze, staring like they’d just spotted a delicious pile of chocolate behind her.
Margarita turned to find the hottest man ever to walk the Earth. His long brown hair, streaked with ribbons of caramel brown and gold, shimmered in the early morning sunlight. His eyes, a stunning turquoise green, sparkled with the promise of supreme lovemaking. His tall, tall form—Jesus, he must be over seven feet—was perfectly muscled in all the right places, including those rock-solid arms and legs. He was too sexy for words. God, I feel really sleazy for wanting him so much. She’d just slept with his horrible brother, an incident that still boggled her mind.
Margarita’s mouth went dry. “Acan, you came.”
“Not yet. But given your outfit, that might change.” His eyes washed over her body.
She felt her face flush red. Wanting him so much had to be wrong. “Oh, uhh…yeah. I guess I forgot to mention my team’s costume. Last year we were the B-52 Boobers.” They’d worn hats in the shape of airplanes and stuck little cutouts of boobs all over their bodies. “We always run for breast cancer awareness.”
And…it appears to be working well this year. Acan would not stop staring at her boobs. Why the hell had she invited him, again? Yesterday at the salon felt like a giant blur, the only thing she recalled clearly being the mind-crippling lust she’d felt in Acan’s presence. He had all of the strange masculine magnetism of his crude brother, with the unfathomable good looks of a sex god. But Acan was so out of her league, not to mention probably about twenty years younger.
Wait. Out of your league? You’re a hot older woman with the bod of a twenty-year-old. And he is here because I invited him, isn’t he?
Just to be sure, she had to ask, “You’re not running on another team, are you?”
He didn’t reply. His brain was too occupied.
“You can stop staring at my breasts now,” she said.
“Oh. My apologies. It’s simply that I never got to see them.”
Huh?
His eyes snapped up. “Sorry. I meant to say I wouldn’t dream of running on another team.” He glanced around at the nearly catatonic group of women in purple underwear and purple sun hats. “Hello, ladies. Love the outfits.”
From the surprise—and delight—on his face, it dawned on Margarita that he might not have heard of this event. “Acan, I should’ve asked if you’ve run this marathon before or even know what it is.” She’d simply assumed everyone in LA knew it.
“I’m not exactly from around here, but I come prepared.” He started lifting up his black T-shirt and the ladies gasped in unison.
“Oh, God. No, no, no.” Margarita grabbed his hand to stop him from going any further. “You should keep that on.”
He flashed a devilish grin. “Afraid that I might be a distraction?”
Absolutely. What was I thinking telling him to come? She would be tripping all over the place while her boobs jiggled like crazy. Kinda funny in front of a mob of crazy drunk runners dressed as zoo animals, burlesque dancers, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but not so much in front of a man as perfect as this.
Oh God, I can’t believe he actually showed up. And he was so freaking hot. And young. But how could she possibly ever tell him that she’d sort of slept with his disgusting brother for no other reason than he smelled really nice and she’d suffered from a moment of temporary insanity.
He’ll think I’m pathetic. And a little loose.
Wait, Margarita. What the hell is the matter with you, pining for this guy? Did you learn nothing from Mike? He had been a pretty face, skilled at charming women. He’d taught her that a man who worked so hard on his exterior only did so to hide some serious flaws on the inside. Still, look at this guy. It was hard not to drool.
“So it looks like everyone is queuing up. Shall we?” Acan gestured toward the massive crowd closing in on the starting line.
She smiled stiffly. “Sure. Come on, ladies! Time to win.”
Her team sort of just followed Acan like hypnotized sheep in purple panties. She noticed a bunch of women from other teams following him, too.
How odd. It was like they were all in a trance.
As she stood there next to him, unable to do her usual stretching for obvious scantily clad panty-related reasons, she noticed his shoes were untied. Then she noticed they were brand new, the edges of the rubber soles a pristine white. His black running shorts and T-shirt looked new, as well. No spots, stains, pills, or wrinkles.
Had he gone shopping for workout clothes simply to look nice for her? Nah. That would be silly. Just look at the guy. With a body like that, he must be at the gym three or four hours a day.
“Margarita, would you mind if I ask you a question?” Acan said.
“That was a question.” She smiled. “And your shoe is untied.”
“Ah.” He chuckled and bent over to tie it.
“Ohmygod,” a woman gasped behind him along with twenty others. They all just stared at his ass or the bulge between his legs or whatever they were getting a view of.
Oblivious or indifferent, Acan stood and then looked down at Margarita.
“What was it you wanted to ask?” she said.
“I’d like to know why you slept with my brother.”