Against the Wall (17 page)

I wake up to more noise than usual, even though it's Saturday.

Groaning, I tuck the pillow around my head. I was hoping to sleep in a little. I've been leaving the house early every morning to put in several hours at the junkyard before my shift at Fine Ink. Last night I worked until ten. I'm beat.

I'm also hard.

I ignore the throbbing for ten more minutes before I throw off the blankets and get up, cursing in Spanish. I pull on some clothes and head straight to the bathroom. When I'm under control again, I wander into the kitchen. Jenny is munching on a bowl of cereal. I sit down and pour the same thing for myself.

“
Tía
's taking me to the beach today,” Jenny says.

“Sounds fun.”

“Do you like the beach?”

I feel a pang of guilt when I see her hopeful expression. She's one of the people I missed the most when I went away, and I haven't been able to spend much time with her since I got out. “I love it,” I say, ruffling her hair. “We can go together someday.”

“Why not today?”

“Because I have to work.”

April glides into the kitchen in a summery orange dress with a deep V neckline and a flower in her hair. Pregnancy agrees with her. I don't know if she's “glowing” or whatever, but her tits are impressive.

“You look pretty, Mama,” Jenny says.

“Guapísima,”
I say, standing to kiss her cheek.

Noah comes downstairs a moment later with an overnight bag. Instead of his usual suit and tie, he's wearing a casual shirt and nice pants. April flashes him a secret-sexy smile, as if she can't wait to be alone with him. His eyes dip down the front of her dress. It dawns on me that they're going away for a romantic weekend.

Lucky bastards.

When Noah drags his gaze away from April, he gives me a measured look. I have no trouble reading his mind. He's worried that I'll enjoy myself with his sister the same way he's planning to enjoy himself with his wife.

I wish.

They leave their hotel information on the fridge and kiss Jenny goodbye. Meghan steps out of the den to see them off. She's wearing a loose tank top and denim shorts with huarache sandals. It's sort of hipster-style, I guess. Her clothes look like they came from a thrift store.

She closes the door and leans her back against it, contemplating me. “You should come to the beach with us.”

“I don't think so.”

“Are you going to the junkyard?”

“Yes.”

“I'll give you a ride. It's on our way.”

I shrug my agreement and get ready to leave. I brush my teeth, put on my work boots, and grab my backpack before I return to the kitchen to grab a lunch. Meghan's already there, making sandwiches. She hands me one, along with a medium-sized bag of chips.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

When we arrive at Scrappy's, the gate is locked. He's got an old wooden sign on a post that says
GONE FISHIN'
. I don't remember him telling me he'd be closed today. Maybe tomorrow I'll call before I come.

“Do you want to wait?” Meghan asks.

“No.”

“Then I guess you'll have to stay with us.”

Jenny cheers from the backseat, so I just go with the flow. Spending a morning at the beach is no hardship. I'll build sand castles and eat a sandwich. It's not like I can't control myself around Meghan in public with an eight-year-old chaperone.

We go to Seacrest Beach, the same place where Meghan fell asleep in my arms. It's not as popular as the pier, so we don't have to fight the crowds. I help Meghan spread out a sheet. Jenny's too excited to sit still. She stomps across the sheet barefoot, leaving a track of sand and earning a scolding from Meghan.

“I want to swim,” she says.

“You need sunscreen first,” Meghan says, spraying it all over her. As soon as Jenny's protected, she runs toward the shore and starts splashing around.

I sit down to take off my boots, watching her.

“How cold do you think that water is?” Meghan asks.

“Fucking freezing,” I say, and she laughs.

It's a hot day, eighty degrees or so, but too early in the season for swimming. The ocean never gets warm here. During the late summer months it just becomes more bearable, and taking a brisk dip feels nicer than sweltering on the sand.

“I saw Chip the other day,” she says.

My entire body tenses. “Oh?”

“Kelsea posted a picture of us on a hike and he came to the trailhead.”

I watch Jenny wade knee-deep and think about ways to kill Chip. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. We just talked.”

“Are you getting back with him?” I ask, glancing at her.

“No,” she says. “Never.”

“He wanted you back, though.”

She shrugs and draws a circle in the sand.

I pull my gaze away from her and focus on Jenny again. A big wave is coming. “Does she know how to swim?”

“Yes. She takes lessons every summer.”

The wave crumbles before it reaches her, rolling gently toward the shore. Meghan removes her tank top and stands up to wiggle out of her shorts. Then she joins Jenny at the shore, leaving me to swallow my own tongue.

Shorts are shorter now, and apparently bikinis are smaller. Meghan's top is a simple strapless band that clings to her breasts. Hot, but it's a style I've seen before. The bottoms are definitely not what I'm used to. Half her ass is showing! It's like some kind of hybrid between a thong bikini and a regular bikini, and I love it.

Damn.

My jeans start to feel tight and I'm sweating. I take off my shirt and roll up my pant legs. The only cure is cold.

I wade through the shallow surf with Jenny and Meghan for almost an hour. The water is ice-cold and extra-clear. We see a bunch of sand dollars and sand crabs, even a starfish. Jenny collects shells and makes me save them for her. Soon my pockets are heavy with her treasures, my jeans riding low. I notice Meghan's eyes on my
M
tattoo. She glances away, biting down on her lower lip.

I know what girls like. Ripped abs and all that. It's not complicated. Maybe I meet her standards and she meets mine, but that doesn't mean we're feeling anything special.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

After Jenny is done exploring the shore, she wants me to dig a sandpit with her. Her plastic shovel is worthless, so I use my hands, scooping out the sand and making a deep pool. Soon it's the size of a small bathtub. Jenny fills her bucket with water and pours it in, over and over again. The sun feels good, my arm muscles are warmed up and the sand is a pleasant medium. I wonder about the art of building sand castles. I could get into it. This is what straight life is about. Hard work and simple pleasures.

I could get into that, too.

Meghan sunbathes on the beach while we finish our project. Then she joins us to take a few photos with her phone. “Are you digging to China?”

“Maybe Mexico,” I say, nodding toward the fence line in the distance. The coastal border is about three miles away. The fence posts look like black toothpicks, thin and insignificant. More of a symbol than a deterrent.

“Have you ever been to that beach?” she asks.

“No. I've heard you can't swim and it's heavily patrolled.”

“I want to see it someday.”

“Let me take a picture of you,” Jenny says.

Meghan passes Jenny her phone and strikes a pose, smiling. I stand to brush the sand off my knees.

“
Tío,
get closer.”

I move toward Meghan and she slips her arm around me. My hand goes to her hip automatically. I can feel the warmth of her skin beneath my palm and the soft press of her fingertips at my side.

Jenny takes the picture before I'm ready.

Meghan reclaims her phone to examine the photo. I glance at the screen, surprised by how good we look together. She's quirky-cool in her Panama hat and retro sunglasses. The style suits her. My tattoos suit me. We're almost the same height, but she's pale and feminine whereas I'm dark and masculine. We're sort of a yin and yang, with her pretty curves on one side and my hard edges on the other.

We fit together in other ways, too. It's not just a physical thing. She's always been the kind of person who sees beyond the surface. That's why she studies psychology, I guess. Because she cares about people's hearts and minds. She believes in change.

She believes in me.

I walk away to rinse my hands in the ocean. They're shaking, and it's not from cold. It's from want.

We eat lunch on the blanket. The sandwiches are made with healthy stuff, sprouts and wheat bread and red peppers. I'd rather have chili peppers, but I don't complain. I'm starving and it's a hell of a lot better than any prison sandwich.

After I wolf it down, I check the digital watch in my backpack. “I have to go,” I say, putting my shirt on.

“You can't leave yet,” Jenny says. She jumps up and throws her arms around my neck, hanging on me like a little monkey. She's lost the shyness she had when I first arrived. Now she's clinging to me with full force.

“Tranquila,”
I tell her. “I'll be back.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I don't know. After ten.”

She lets go of me and turns to Meghan. “Can I stay up until midnight?”

April would never say yes, but Meghan nods her permission. Jenny cheers and does a cartwheel on the beach. Then she starts splashing in the water again.

“I'll drive you,” Meghan says.

“Nah. Let her have fun. There's a bus stop a few blocks away.”

She watches me dust the sand off my feet. “We're going to make pizza and have a slumber party.”

I put on my socks and lace up my boots, trying to gauge her mood. I can't tell if she's mad at me for hooking up with Noemi. She seems to have accepted the fact that we can't be together, in a relationship. Maybe she thinks we can have a one-night stand while her brother's away.

I picture her underneath me on her boyfriend's couch, rubbing my cock through my jeans with a sexy moue of interest.

Damn. There's nothing hotter than a girl who wants to fuck, just to fuck.

“I have to go,” I repeat stupidly.

She smiles as if she can read my thoughts. “See you later.”

I take off down the beach, cursing under my breath. I'm definitely slipping. Every moment I spend with her makes me horny and emotional and weak. If I'm not careful, I'm going to trip and fall right into her pussy.

For the next eight hours, I focus on work. I'm too busy to think about Meghan or sex. Business is steady, rather than crazy, so I guess we're over the spring break rush. White girls are coming in with sunburns. College boys look partied out. Someone pukes on the sidewalk again. I fill up my bucket and rinse off the mess, whistling.

Near the end of my shift, Rose asks me to translate for a call-in customer. I pick up the phone and say hello in Spanish.

“Quiero un tattoo,”
a raspy voice says.

“Sí, señor.”

“Busco algo especial.”
He's looking for something special.
“Un tattoo en el culo.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and frown at the receiver. What the fuck? Then I hear the laughter and realize I've been pranked. It's Junior, asking for an asshole tattoo.

“Hay, cabrón,”
I say.
“Te doy una verga en la cara.”

He laughs harder at my response, which is basically an offer to tattoo a dick on his face. The language I use is offensive and
really
not appropriate for work, but Junior brings out the worst in me.

“What are you doing tonight?” Junior asks.

I glance around to make sure no one's listening to my conversation. “Dude, you can't call me here. I'll get fired.”

“I know some
heinas
who want to party.”

I'm not surprised by his invite. Junior's never had any trouble scoring with women. He's bold and brash and they like him. I'm tempted to say yes, because hanging out with Junior is fun. Drinking too much and hitting on random girls is fun. But I'd rather spend time with Meghan and Jenny.

“I can't,” I say.

He busts my balls for a minute. Then we make plans to meet at the junkyard tomorrow. Hopefully Scrappy will be there. After I hang up, I stare at the phone, drumming my fingertips across the counter. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing by going home to Meghan. Once Jenny falls asleep, we'll have the house to ourselves. There won't be anyone to stop us from getting together.

It's going to be a long night.

After Eric leaves, I spend another hour at the beach with Jenny.

Then we go home to get ready for the slumber party. Kelsea joins us later in the afternoon. We make pizza, gorge on ice cream sundaes, and play beauty parlor. Jenny braids Kelsea's hair into crazy ropes. I paint Jenny's nails with purple sparkle polish. Then I send her off to her room with a videogame. Kelsea starts asking a million questions about Eric, so I show her the photo from the beach.

She lets out a little squeal of delight. “Look at those abs.”

I admire Eric's torso again. He's not smiling, and his head is tilted toward me as if he's about to sniff my neck. I'm clinging to him in my skimpy bikini.

“I told you he had an
M
.”

“Yes.”

“He's got a happy trail, too.”

“I like that.”

“You would, you slut.”

I laugh, too happy to contain myself. I loved watching Eric with Jenny today, and not just because he's hot. His eye-pleasing physique is a bonus, like his handsome face. Underneath is a man who adores his niece. An ex-gang member with a hard shell and a soft heart.

He's soft where Jenny is concerned, anyway. His feelings for me are debatable, maybe nonexistent. Maybe locked inside, inaccessible.

“What did he think of your bikini?”

“I don't know. He definitely checked me out.”

She gives me a high five.

I spend a few minutes unraveling the mess Jenny made of Kelsea's hair. She mentions getting blue streaks and I approve. Her hair is thicker than mine, more lustrous. I haven't had long hair in years. I brush it smooth and make a single braid down her back. When I'm done, she gets up and wipes her cheeks.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

She shakes her head, too choked up to speak. I realize that she misses her mother.

“Oh God,” I say, hugging her. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay. She used to like doing my hair.”

My mother did, too. I remember having to sit still while she twisted it into tight braids. She often lectured me about a woman's head of hair being her crowning glory. That's probably why I chopped off all of mine.

I feel like a bad person for not appreciating my mother. I love her in a dutiful and automatic way, but we're not close. I'll never be the daughter of her dreams.

I'm glad for my brother, who is reserved and strong-willed without being so judgmental. I'm glad for April and Jenny, who both love unabashedly. I think of this tendency to show emotion as a Mexican trait and I admire it. I've always liked the vibrancy and passion in Chula Vista, the bold colors and flavors. My hometown of Cedar Glen seems bland in comparison, like the movie Pleasantville.

After Kelsea leaves, I clean up the kitchen and run the dishwasher, nervous about the upcoming evening. I wash and fold a load of laundry. Some of the clothes are Eric's, so I take them to the garage. His space is neat and organized, with a basket of clean laundry on the shelf. When I pull the basket off the shelf, something underneath it falls to the ground.

His letters.

They spill out of the unmarked envelope. Pages of lined paper, doubled over. Every surface is covered in pencil scribblings. I set aside the basket and bend to pick up the disarray. I'm about to stuff the letters back into the envelope when I catch sight of my name. One of the letters is addressed to me.

Dear Meghan,
it says.

I look at the next one. It's addressed to me also.

They all are. Page after page after page.

I can't believe it. He
wrote
to me.

Not only did he refuse to accept my letter, callously casting me aside, but he responded at length and never sent a goddamn note.

Bastard.

I sit down on the cot, my heart racing. I know I shouldn't read these letters, but they have my name on them. Curiosity overwhelms me. My eyes race over the first few lines. It's like a diary entry, a catalogue of his daily life in prison. How he's adjusting, who he interacts with, what he thinks about during quiet moments. It's a basic account of a severe existence. The details are dreary, sometimes excruciating.

I'm crying before I turn over the page.

Jenny comes looking for me before I read much further. I jump up from the cot and shove everything into the basket, playing it off like I was just delivering some laundry. Then I go back inside to get ready for the slumber party.

I don't know what to think about Eric's letters. I change into a soft tank top and striped sleep shorts, uncertain about my seduction plan. Actually, I don't really have a plan. Just a pair of flimsy shorts. Maybe that will be enough.

We get settled on the couch with pillows and blankets. Jenny picks a silly children's movie starring a Chihuahua. I can't focus on anything but fantasies of Eric, memories of Eric, letters from Eric.

By half-past ten, Jenny's still awake, and fighting hard to stay that way. I agree to let her watch another movie about robots fighting aliens. I saw it with Chip in the theater and don't remember it being too gory. When Eric walks in a few minutes later, Jenny jumps up from the couch to greet him. She chatters about the pizza we made and shows him her nail polish. I stay curled up in my blanket, self-conscious.

Eric is more interested in the pizza than anything else. He heats up some leftovers and joins our slumber party, sitting on the floor by Jenny's feet. “What movie is this?”

“Pacific Rim.”

He devours his pizza, seeming mesmerized by the action onscreen. I wonder if it's the first movie he's seen in years. I pull my gaze away from him and get wrapped up in the story also, despite my nerves. At one point the Japanese heroine catches a glimpse of the superhot, shirtless hero and becomes flustered.

I can relate.

Eric glances at me and touches a finger to his lips. Jenny has fallen asleep beside me. I pause the movie while he gathers her into his arms and carries her upstairs. I slip ahead of them to turn down the blankets on her bed. He tucks her in. She doesn't wake.

We both smile, because she's cute. Then we shuffle out of the room and head downstairs. Although it's late, I'm too excited to feel tired.

“Do you want to finish the movie?” I ask.

He shrugs and takes Jenny's place on the couch. When I curl up on the opposite end, his eyes skim the length of my legs. Then he frowns and turns his attention to the screen. I start the movie again, but I'm too distracted to follow the story now. All I can think of is him. His tattooed arms flexing in the sun. His mouth covering mine at Chip's apartment the other day. His heavy weight on top of me.

My nipples pebble against my tank top and heat settles between my legs. I can't sit still, but I'm afraid to squirm and give myself away. My pulse throbs with every heartbeat. I think I got sunburned at the beach. My mouth is dry, skin warm.

Eric picks up the soda he was drinking earlier, glancing at me with hooded eyes. I suspect that he can sense my desire.

Maybe even smell it.

“Can I have some?” I ask huskily.

He gives me the soda can. I take a gulp and hand it back. Instead of continuing the ruse of watching the movie, we stare at each other. The moment stretches into an eternity. “Do you really want to do this?”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

I moisten my lips, hesitant. I'm worried that this is a selfish choice. It could cause a lot of problems for him. I don't want to risk his future, but I also feel an overwhelming sense of rightness, as if I'm made for him, and we belong together. I can't bear the thought of him going to another girl again, either.

He's mine. He always has been.

His gaze falls to my chest and lingers there like a caress. I'm not wearing a bra. Although I don't speak, my tight, achy nipples scream
yes
. I scoot closer to him. The last time we kissed, he made the first move. This time I close the distance between us and twine my arms around his neck. I say yes by touching my lips to his.

He responds by thrusting his hand into my hair and his tongue into my mouth, claiming me with a thorough kiss. He tastes sweet and hot, with a hint of olive oil from the pizza on his lips. I want to eat him up.

His tongue slides across mine, delving deeper. I could spend hours kissing him, but my body aches for full contact. I want to be swept away.

He pushes me down on the couch and devours me. I wrap my legs around his waist, greedy for more. His hand wanders up my thigh, into the hem of my shorts. I'm trembling underneath him, beside myself with need.

He breaks the kiss, panting. “This is only for tonight.”

I don't have to ask why. I know he thinks he's disrespecting my brother. But one night is better than none, and I'm too far gone to turn back. “Okay,” I say, arching against him.

A muscle in his jaw tightens. He seems angry with my easy agreement, as if he expected me to demand a commitment. Maybe he's angry with himself for surrendering. Or he's angry at the situation, frustrated by the obstacles between us.

I share his frustration. I want nothing between us. No iron bars, no disapproving family members, no distance, no fabric. I want his skin on my skin, his mouth on my mouth.

“Please,” I say.

He examines me with hard eyes. “Didn't he fuck you good enough?”

The invasive question makes me shiver. I think he's trying to be insulting by bringing up Chip, but I hold his gaze and answer honestly. “No. He didn't.”

“Why not?”

“He was selfish and impatient. He didn't care if I was ready.”

“Did he make you come?”

“No.”

“I will.”

I pull his mouth down on mine again, believing him. He kisses me breathless. His erection nudges my belly and his shoulder muscles bunch beneath my fingertips. I need him inside me.

We move from the couch to the den. I turn on the lamp to illuminate the space. As soon as I lock the door, he's all over me again. We fall across the bed together, kissing and touching. I tug at his shirt and he pulls it off. I remove my tank top, breasts jiggling. His eyes darken at the sight. He yanks down my shorts and panties without ceremony. Then he gets on top of me, taking my mouth again.

Everything he does feels so good. Every kiss, every touch. He sweeps a thumb over my nipple and I whimper. He flicks his tongue over it and I cry out in pleasure. It was good between us years ago, but it wasn't this good. I was awkward and inexperienced. Now I'm more comfortable with my body and aware of my own arousal. I've never responded like this before. His mouth moves down my quivering belly and I groan.

Chip didn't spend much time on foreplay. He seemed hesitant to perform oral sex, as if he found it distasteful. I wasn't into him doing it, either. I felt dirty, so I shied away.

I don't shy away from Eric. I'm ready before he gets there, my knees parted wide. He grips the inside of my thighs and kisses the lips of my sex as if I'm some decadent treat. His mouth brushes over me, so sweet. I moan, imagining his tongue on my clit.

“Please,” I say again.

“Please what?”

I make a V with my fingertips, showing him what I want. And he gives it to me. His tongue finds me with unerring precision. I revel in the slick warmth and delicious pressure. It feels like he's making out with my pussy. He dips his tongue inside me and I thread my fingers through his hair, wallowing in sensation. My stomach clenches and my thighs shake. He keeps kissing me, killing me softly.

When he sucks on my clit, I go over the rainbow. My hips buck off the mattress and the bed falls away into space.

I'm only vaguely aware of him unzipping his pants. I hear the faint crinkle of a condom wrapper. Then he turns me over onto my hands and knees. It's not the most romantic position, but I don't care—because he enters me in one smooth stroke, and I've never felt anything better. I'm swollen and slippery. He's hard and thick, buried deep inside me.

He's not particularly gentle, and I love it. He fucks me like he's punishing me for being too sexy. Working me over. I make incoherent sounds and look over my shoulder at him, mouth open. He grips the back of my neck to hold my head down. When I moan in response, he makes a fist in my hair. Then he really drills me.

I'm almost ready to come again, incredibly. His hard thrusts and strong grip do something to me I can't explain. I pant and mewl and clutch the mattress while he fucks me. My pussy floods with moisture, growing slicker and more sensitive. When he slips a hand between my legs and circles my clit with his fingertips, I explode in ecstasy.

I bury my scream in the pillow, shuddering. He moves his hands to my hips and drives deep inside me, his body jerking. His fingertips dig into my soft flesh. Then he collapses on top of me, sweaty and spent.

After a long moment, he rolls away from me and leaves the room. I hear the shower turn on, so I get up and follow him. The door isn't locked. He's inside the stall, water sluicing down his hard body. I can't gauge his expression.

He made it clear that we aren't going to start a relationship. Maybe he came here to avoid me, or because he's ashamed of his actions. He probably thinks he should have been gentler because of my recent conflict with Chip. But I'm not broken, and I don't need special handling. I'm not appalled by Eric's dominant side.

I like it.

I liked what he did to me. I liked the softness of his tongue and roughness of his touch. I like the way he looks in the shower, with soap-slick skin and wet pubic hair. His penis is thick and heavy, as dark as the rest of him.

I focus on that instead of his face. He doesn't object when I step inside the stall and wrap my hand around him. I realize, with some surprise, that he's not circumcised. I was too naïve to recognize this detail before. It's not that obvious, especially when he's hard. His flesh just has a little more give, easier for stroking.