Invisible Love Letter (3 page)

His eyes. God, his eyes
. Jesus amado.

I swallowed the rock that was lodged in my throat. “Sorry.”

“The whole ride home you kept reminding me that I had two strikes. I took you home, helped you into bed, and you still won't tell me what strike two is?” He looked over at me and winked.

I buried my face in my hands. “Oh, God. Now I'm mortified.”

He laughed. Not a chuckle, but a full-blown laugh. “If you tell me what strike two is, I’ll call it even.”

I grinned up at him through my fingers. “Nope.”

“Fine, be that way. But just so you know, this morning when you were trying to hide your body from me? It was pointless.” He raised his eyebrows. “You had no problem undressing in front of me last night.”

I felt as though he dropped an anvil on my chest. “Shut the… No, I didn’t.”

He greeted me with another hearty laugh. “I turned around when you began to undress because I'm a gentleman.”

Weston took the exit towards the airport; our time together was coming to an end. I fiddled with the cuticles of my fingernails, wishing we could stretch it out. Even a few more minutes would make me happy. Weston pulled the car into the fire lane and shifted it into park.

I stepped out of the car as he pulled my luggage out of the back. “Thank you for the ride.” I lifted the handle of my suitcase. “Take care.” I turned, gripping the bars so I could wheel them behind me.

“Emilia!” I heard Weston shout from behind me. I turned so quickly I knew I would have a kink in my neck later. “If I can’t have strike two, what’s strike one then?”

I bit my lip. What was the harm in telling him now? “You’re a musician. That’s strike one.”

The wide smile on his face dropped. His hand brushed the scruff growing on his chin and he nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

The way his face changed would forever be etched in me. Something passed between us, but I couldn’t tell what it was. He didn’t wait for me to respond. His head dropped and he turned back towards his car.

Weston never looked back.

It was my turn to do the same.

O
ne Year Later
.

“
Emilia, vamos!”
Tia Regina shouted from the stairs.

I had been on the terrace of our home for the past ten minutes staring at the beautiful world around me. A year and a half ago I had done this exact thing. I had stood here, imagining where my life was going and petrified for the six months I would be studying in the States.

My semester abroad changed my life for the better. When I returned home, I graduated in December and then immediately started working as a temp at PLI Banco Financial in Rio de Janeiro. Within the first month I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to do in life. I despised the nine to five, the office atmosphere was stuck up, and I loathed the brown-nosing. While I was sorting mail or filing paperwork, I counted down the hours left in the day until I could go home and listen to music or catch up with Axel and Leslie over email.

I stayed at PLI Banco Financial for six months. By month three I knew I needed to do something different, so I applied for a job I knew I would excel in. I’d interviewed over the phone and did the one thing I swore I would never do: I dropped my father’s name so they’d know who I was. Yes, it was wrong to do that, but I had a minor in communications and was applying to be an assistant producer at a radio station without any experience. I was lucky they took my call.

Most of the houses in Rio included an open rooftop terrace which served as a place to entertain since there were no backyards. I stood there like I had done a year and a half ago, saying goodbye to Rio. Last time, I said my farewell for only a few short months, but this time I didn’t know when I would come back. Inhaling the scent of salt water and city fumes, I walked down the marble stairs towards the front doors. Aunt Regina waited at the bottom of the steps, her foot tapping on the shiny tile.

“You'll miss your flight,” she barked at me.

I shrugged, picked up my carry-on duffel bag, and tossed it over my shoulder. My uncle Neto had already lugged my two suitcases to the back of his Volkswagen. I yanked on the white metal gate door, then paused and turned back to the house behind me. My aunt stood with a dishtowel in hand and tears dripping from her eyes. She reminded me so much of my mother; she had been a mother to me for the past ten years. The duffel bag slid off my shoulder and I sprinted towards her.

She sobbed and opened her arms for me.”
Minha filha
,” she cried. She had always called me her daughter as a way of endearment.

“Thank you for everything.” My words were muffled into the crook of her neck.

“Be safe. And please call me when you get there.”

I nodded in agreement, unable to speak. Tears threatened to flood my eyes as I kissed her forehead and ran back to my bag. Tossing it to my uncle, I looked up at my home and said goodbye. I was about to begin a new chapter in my life.

T
he flight
from Rio to LAX was fourteen hours long if you counted my connecting flight in Sao Paulo. My legs were swollen, my kneecaps stiff from sitting for so many hours, but I finally arrived in Los Angeles. When the flight attendant turned off the seat belt light, I leaped out of my seat and stretched my arms over my head. Departing the plane, I passed through customs and retrieved my bags.

Leslie stood outside of baggage claim holding a white paper sign with my name written across it. She smiled and jumped with joy when she saw me. “You made it!” she shouted as she jogged towards me. We hugged briefly before she rested her hands on my shoulders and looked at me. “You look as hot as always, chica.” I embraced her once again.

This was my new home.

Following Leslie to the car, my old clunker that I had given her, I soaked in the Southern California heat that I’d missed so much. It was June in LA, where the temperature was eighty plus and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Though Brazil was known to be warm year around, it had rained for the past few days.

“Blue hair, huh?” I asked when we reached her car.

“You like?” She shook her head and the indigo streaks moved against her raven hair.

“I love it,” I answered honestly.

She took one suitcase and helped me shove it in her trunk. “It's a wash,” she huffed. “I wanted to do something spontaneous before I start work on Monday and have to live the boring corporate life.” Leslie had taken an account management position with DE Financial.

The Sunday morning traffic wasn't as hectic as the rush hour I remembered, and within thirty minutes we were pulling up to my new home. Leslie had still been living with Kate and Monica, but she moved out two weeks ago. We were renting a two-bedroom apartment that seemed like a mansion compared to the place we had in college. It had a small kitchen, a large room that served as both a living and dining room, and one bathroom.

“Do you like it?” she asked as we walked into the living room. Boxes were shoved into the corner and our couch was still wrapped in plastic. Leslie had furnished our place with some of the money I sent her. She had my full permission to make it how she wanted, and I thanked God she had great taste and everything matched.

I left my suitcases in the living room and admired my new home. Leslie had taken care of everything. The only thing I had with me was a picture of my parents and my clothes, but each room had boxes that needed to be unpacked and sorted.

“It's perfect.”

M
y first few
weeks at Q143 FM were tiring. As the assistant producer, I arrived at five in the morning to help out with the morning show, and I returned in the evening for the Nine at Nine show, as well. Thankfully, since Leslie kept my old car, I had enough money saved to purchase an old Sentra—which Axel referred to as the snot rocket—that helped me get around the city.

I quickly moved on to a more permanent position as Cinthia Stone's shadow. She was expecting her first child, so she’d be leaving on maternity leave in a few months and I was scheduled to take over her position.

Leslie had landed an internship at MRA Corporation, a financial institution in the heart of LA’s business district. Our lives were on opposite schedules, so we only saw each other in the mornings before we headed out to work.

Even though I couldn’t stop thinking about him, I refused to ask Axel or Leslie about Weston. I had been in Brazil for three months before I caved and looked him up on social media. I stalked his page daily, obsessing over pictures he posted with other girls and watching as his fame grew with each passing week. Axel told me that opportunities for the band opened for them after their performance at Yorks. They would go far, and I went out of my way to assure I wouldn't be a part of it. Eventually, I blocked Weston from my social media accounts so I wouldn't be tempted to see him.

Needless to say, I was busy, and my dating life wasn’t.

M
id-October
.

Staring back at my reflection in the mirror, I sighed. I had promised Axel I would go out with him for drinks on my next day off, but what I thought would be a simple dinner between us had turned into a mini-reunion party. Leslie had mentioned it to Harry, who insisted on joining us. They were still hooking up when it was convenient for him. She swore it was a mutual agreement, but I knew she was lying to herself. By the end of the night, Axel would most likely find someone to shag, so I’d invited Marc.

Marc and I had met several weeks prior when Leslie had a happy hour after work and begged for me to meet her there. It was Labor Day weekend and I didn't have to go back to the late night show. We’d sat at the high top tables of Sho, a rooftop bar. Marc was there with his friend, doing the exact same thing we were doing, when his chair backed into mine.

“I'm sorry.” His hand reached up and touched my shoulder. The sparks didn't fly like they had with Weston, but there was enough reaction to keep me interested. Over time I discovered he worked as a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company. He was fun, a good time in the bedroom, and had no problem leaving without that awkward conversation the next morning. Our relationship was purely physical. It was temporary, we both knew that, and it worked.

I was curling my hair with the diffuser, letting curls form naturally, when Leslie walked in my room. “How do I look?” She struck a pose. She had on skinny jeans, a loose, sparkly gold top, and her hair was tied up high in a ponytail. She looked stunning.

“You look freaking hot,” I responded.

“Thanks!” She turned and shook her ass at me. “You look like you want to get some tonight with that hair.” Leslie motioned her hands like a cat and silently roared.

My hair was big with volume, my red curls all over the place—wild and untamed. I applied one last coat of lip-gloss, found my clutch and followed Leslie out the door.

We’d decided to go to Sessions, a lounge in Santa Monica. Axel knew the guys working the door, so I’d be able to get in even though I wasn’t yet twenty-one. Sessions was like most lounges in LA, dark and smoky with long leather couches and low, tea light candles were scattered through the tables. Red drapes made for wall decor.

Marc was driving down from Glendale to meet us. He and I had seen each other a couple of times since we met at happy hour. Tonight was the first night he’d meet my friends, and only because Leslie refused to drop the fact I had been seeing him for over a month and she still hadn’t met him.

I valeted my car and walked around to meet Leslie on the sidewalk. Axel was outside Session’s, waiting for us with a cigarette between his lips. In true Axel form, he draped his arm over my shoulder and walked me in. The bouncer didn't ask for my ID when we passed him. Leslie clenched onto Harry and the sparkle in her eyes told me I would either be going home solo or with Marc.

Axel guided me towards his table which was already covered with bottles of champagne and other hard liquor. He introduced me to a few of his friends, but the music was loud and hard to hear, so I was unable to make out any of their names.

Leslie filled a champagne flute and passed it over to me. Sitting on Harry's lap, she raised her glass to mine. “To the good life, Emmy.”

The Moet was sweet and tickled my throat as I swallowed. My head bobbed to the music as I scanned the room for Weston. I kept telling myself that I didn’t care if I ran into him, but that was a big lie. Deep down, a part of me wanted to. I hadn’t seen him since I'd been back, and a part of me wanted to ask Axel or Harry, but that would be cause for an inquisition. I didn’t have any siblings, but the way Axel acted towards me felt very much like a protective older brother.

My phone lit up.

Marc: They won't let us in.

Lifting one finger to Leslie, I mouthed
I'll be right back
as I hit the call button. I walked over to the ladies room and stood in line. “Hey,” I shouted into the phone.

“Hey,” he greeted me. “They won't let us in.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t know this place had a dress code and I don’t have the proper shoes, according to the bouncer.” His voice was laced with irritation.

Shit. He drove all this way to see me and now he couldn’t get in?

“Crap … Let me talk to my roommate. I'll let her know I’m leaving with you.”

“No, don't do that. You're out with your friends. I'll meet you after. I'll have Cooper drive my car home and then you can give me a ride, sound good?”

I smiled. “Yeah, that works.”

After I’d used the bathroom, I reapplied my lip-gloss and headed back towards our area. Just as I reached our table, my heart sped and my mouth dried instantly.

Weston.

He had joined our group, and his broad shoulders filled his blazer as he sat next to Axel. I watched his mouth curl into a smile at something Axel said. His jaw line was firm even with his boyish smile, and his presence was compelling.

Would he remember me?

The deejay had switched the tempo of the music to a softer bass song so you could actually hear the person you were talking to. Axel was in a deep conversation with one of the guys, his eyebrows scrunched together, and he nodded his head every chance he could. Knowing Axel, it was probably a conversation about his passion for writing his own music. The majority of the time that was all he wanted to talk about. His adoration for music was astonishing. He didn’t care about the money or the fame; he cared about the music and his love of making it. He wanted to take the band away from cover songs and begin to write their own music. His devotion permeated from his soul.

I took a deep breath, gathered oxygen in my lungs for courage, and walked over to drape my arm over Axel. He scooted over on the couch, which allowed me to sit in on the conversation. Weston didn’t acknowledge me, nor did I bat an eye at him.

I hadn’t noticed the blonde girl sitting at our table until the music changed and she squealed.

“Oh my God, Wes! Remember this song?”

He must have a thing for blondes.
The song that blazed from the speakers was a top forty selection that the deejay had turned into a club mix. It was cheesy and our radio station played it every twenty minutes. The first week the song landed its spot on the rotation, I’d loved it. Sang to it every time I heard it. But now that I knew his pretty blonde had a thing for it, I loathed it. Weston must have felt the same way I did towards the song because he didn’t respond to her statement.

When the deejay scratched the CD and changed it to some Latin music, I began to dance in my seat. My mother had taught me at a very young age how to salsa. Though in Brazil we had samba and forro, I had picked up on the Latin dance and loved every beat. The heels of my sandals tapped against the granite floor.

I was humming the first melody along with Willie Colon when a hand appeared in front of me.

I looked up and was greeted by Weston. “Dance with me.”

I gnawed on my lower lip as butterflies of excitement grew in my belly. I placed my hand in Weston’s and he led me to the dance floor, twirling me around as he brought me closer. His hand rested on the small of my back, his cheek pressed against the side of my head, and his masculine scent mixed with cinnamon coiled around me.

His lips were mere centimeters from my ear as he whispered, “Hi.”

I looked up at him and smiled. “Hi.”

“You’re back.”

“I am.”

“Missed me?” His smile grew across his face.

I felt my breath catch in my chest. We still hadn’t moved. The bodies around us twirled, twisted and pressed against each other, but we stood there with our eyes locked on one another.

“No. Why did you miss me?” I asked and instantly didn’t want to know his answer. “Did you ask me to dance or to talk?”

He brought me closer, our bodies flush against each other. He chuckled in my ear and my skin rose with goose bumps.

“Show me what you got.”

Consumed by the music, we let the drums and trumpet lead our paths. The dance floor became ours as we moved to the beat. He twirled me, dipped me, brought his body close as he pushed his pelvis against to mine. I was high on the music, drunk off his scent, and lost in his moves.

He pulled me to him and my body went willingly.

He tugged and I turned for him.

We were in sync.

When Weston brought me close, I closed my eyes, imagined us moving together in bed. I wondered if our bodies would react together this beautifully. The ache between my legs didn’t go unnoticed.

Weston wrapped my arms around his neck, our feet moving to the pace of the song. His forehead rested on mine, and I nearly brought my mouth to his. Licking his perfect and delectable top lip in the most seductive way, he brought me closer, hugged me along his rock hard body. I whimpered when his fingernails dug into my back.

In his arms, I was mercifully his.

I wanted more, so much more, but our time together was short-lived as a tap on my shoulder yanked me away from him. The pretty blonde girl stood with a smile on her face.

“My turn, Wes. Teach me how to dance like her.”

I pushed my damp hair behind my ears. The moment we shared was gone and reality set back in. He was still Weston, the womanizing musician whom I refused to get involved with. And hell, for all I knew, he wasn't interested either. I didn't have the blonde hair he seemed to like so much.

“Thanks for the dance.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond. I held my shoulders high and walked back to Leslie. It was hard to hide my disappointment when Weston stayed on the dance floor with his Blondie, especially since she didn’t have much rhythm; something you needed when dancing salsa.

I refilled my glass with something stronger than champagne and avoided Weston. He was here with her and I had Marc waiting outside.

After a few hours, the deejay shouted last call and the lights flashed on. I had a nice buzz and enough pent-up need that I was ready to jump Marc. It was desire that Weston created, but Marc would be the one I used to alleviate the ache.

We had all moved to the front of the club, sorting out our belongings and getting ready to leave. I kissed Axel goodbye on his cheek before he climbed into his car.

Leslie had her hand entwined with Harry’s. “You good?” I asked.

“Peachy.” She hugged me with her free arm. “I’ll see you,
manha
.”

Harry ushered her into his car and kissed me goodbye. I waved goodbye and waited for Marc to show up while the valet collected my car.

Strong hands wrapped around my waist from behind and drew me against a strong chest. I thought it was Marc and pivoted. Weston! I jumped and wrenched away from his affectionate embrace. My palms flew over my heart, my words lost.
Where was the blonde?

He took my hands in his. “Come on.” He tugged on my hand and brought it to his lips. “I’m going to take you home to meet my mom.”

My eyebrows furrowed and my lips puckered like I had taken a shot of tequila. Ready to give him a piece of my mind, I heard my name called out.

“Emilia?” Marc stood next to my car.

I yanked away from Weston’s hold. He had been here with someone else, yet he was asking me to go home with him? I shook my head as I strolled towards Marc. I wanted to give Weston a piece of my mind, but I figured leaving with Marc was a better fuck you.

“Do you know that guy?” Marc asked as he pulled the car door open for me.

I shook my head. “Just some asshole.”

My stomach turned as I thought about Weston one last time . . .

And then climbed into the car with Marc.