One with You

I caught her wrist and lifted her hand to my chest, pressing it against my pounding heart. “You’ll be right here, angel. Always.”



“Mano, you can’t be working right now,” Manuel complained, dropping into the lounger beside me. “You’re missing the view.”

I glanced up from my phone, the ocean breeze rifling through my hair. We’d remained in Barra today, directly across Avenida Lúcio Costa from the hotel we were staying in. Recreio Beach was more laid-back than Copacabana, less touristy and crowded. All along the shore, women in bikinis frolicked in the surf, breasts bouncing as they jumped waves, nearly-bare asses glistening with tanning oil. On the white sand in front of them, Arash and Arnoldo continued tossing a Frisbee back and forth. I’d bowed out when I felt my phone buzz in the pocket of my board shorts.

I looked at Manuel, finding him flushed and glistening with sweat. He’d disappeared about an hour ago and it was obvious why, even without knowing him as well as I did.

“My view is better.” I turned my phone to show him the selfie Eva had just sent me. She was lying out on the beach, too, stretched across a lounger not much different from the one I occupied. Her bikini was white, her skin already lightly tanned. A thin chain hooked around her neck, nestled between her plump tits, then wrapped around her trim waist. Sunglasses shielded her eyes and bright red gloss stained the lips she’d puckered in a kiss.

Wish you were here … she’d texted.

So did I. I was counting down the several hours remaining until we’d get on the plane home. Saturday had been enjoyable enough, a blur of alcohol and music, but Sunday was a day too long.

Manuel whistled. “Hot damn.”

I grinned, as that about summed up my thoughts on my wife’s photo.

“Don’t you worry that things will change after you say I do?” he asked, leaning back with his hands tucked behind his head. “Wives don’t look like that. They don’t send selfies like that.”

I exited out to the home screen and flipped my phone around again.

Manuel’s eyes widened at the wedding photo that served as my wallpaper. “No way. When?”

“A month ago.”

He shook his head. “I can’t see it. Marriage, I mean, not you and Eva. How does it not get old?”

“Being happy never gets old.”

“Isn’t variety the spice of life or some shit?” he asked, in some sort of half-assed philosophical mood. “Part of the fun in fucking a woman is figuring out what makes her tick and being surprised when she shows you something new. You keep tagging it, doesn’t it become routine? Touch her here, lick her there, keep the rhythm she likes to get her off … Rinse and repeat.”

“When your time comes, you’ll figure it out.”

He shrugged. “You want kids? Is that why?”

“Eventually. Not any time soon.” I couldn’t even picture it. Eva would make a wonderful mother; she was a nurturer. But the two of us together as parents? One day, I’d be ready for that. One day far away, when I could bear to share her with someone else. “Right now, I just want her.”

“Mr. Cross.”

I looked up and saw Raúl standing behind me, his mouth a tight line. I instantly stiffened, then sat up, my legs swinging off the side to plant my feet in the sand. “What is it?”

Fear for Eva settled heavily in my gut. She’d just texted me moments before, but …

“You’ll want to see this,” he said grimly, drawing my attention to the tablet he carried.

Standing, I shoved my phone in my pocket and closed the distance between us. I held out my hand. The glare from the sun darkened the screen, so I shifted to cast my shadow over the glass. The photo that came into focus froze the blood in my veins. The headline made my teeth grind.

Gideon Cross’s Wild Brazilian Bachelor Party.

“What the fuck is this?” I snapped.

Manuel slapped a hand on my shoulder as he came up beside me. “Looks like a good time, cabrón. With two very hot babes.”

I looked at Raúl.

“Clancy sent that to me,” he explained. “I ran a search and it’s gone viral.”

Clancy. Fuck. Eva …

Shoving the tablet at Raúl, I yanked my phone back out. “I want to know who took that picture.” Who knew I was in Brazil? Who’d followed me into a club one night, into a private VIP area, and taken pictures?

“Already on it.”

Cursing under my breath, I called my wife. Impatience and fury rode me hard as I waited for her to pick up. Her voice mail kicked in and I hung up. Dialed again. Worry crowded in.

The worst fears of her fantasies were captured in living color in that photo. I had to explain, even without knowing how. Sweat beaded my forehead and dampened my palms, but inside, I was chilled.

Her voice mail picked up a second time.

“Goddamn it.” Hanging up, I dialed again.

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