Rock Chick Regret
Page 55
This meant his face was close to mine.
“First of all, mamita, I don’t have any popcorn. Second, you barely touched your dinner. Now you wanna eat?”
I thought fast (this, by the way, was not easy).
“My mind was occupied at dinner. Now, I’m feeling peckish,” I lied. I would probably throw up if I ate anything, I was so nervous.
He shook his head laughing low again then lifted up, pulled back the covers and slid in.
My heart stopped.
He arranged the pillows behind his back (I will note, he completely devastated my efforts at equal pillow disbursement of not ten minutes before). His arm curled around my waist and he pulled me backwards so my back hit his side, my legs uncrossed and my shoulder and head were pillowed on his chest.
Oh, I got it. I didn’t need pillows. I was using his chest as a pillow. So that was why he could hog them all.
I felt him move, saw his hand holding the remote in my peripheral vision and the TV snapped on, a ballgame appeared and the hand disappeared.
As if he hadn’t just settled us comfortably in his bed like we’d be sharing our golden wedding anniversary the next evening and not doing this for the very first time ever, he continued the conversation.
“Your mind at dinner was occupied with an attempted freeze out which, mi cielo, is cute, I gotta admit, but it’s only fair to let you know, it’s not gonna work.”
My body went still. He thought the Ice Princess was cute? Cute?
The Ice Princess was not cute! I knew grown men that feared her!
Well, maybe not feared, perhaps they just disliked her and gave her a wide berth.
It was good I was moving to Crete because if he thought my Ice Princess was cute then I was in a mess of trouble.
“We’ll order a pizza if you’re hungry,” he told me.
I crossed my arms on my chest, stared at the TV and contradicted my earlier lie, “I’m not hungry.”
His arm came around me, his forearm resting on my chest, his fingers curled around my opposite shoulder.
“You want something, let me know,” he said and he sounded distracted.
Obviously the game had called his attention.
So I thought it might be safe to ask an eensy, teensy, tiny, little personal question just because I was dying to know and since I didn’t get the gift I intended to give myself that evening, I was going to go for something different.
“What’s the tattoo on your chest mean?” I asked casually like whatever answer to a brokenhearted tattoo question would mean nothing at all whatsoever to me.
“Belinda,” he replied, still sounding distracted.
I was not distracted. My body went still again.
“Belinda?” I asked.
“My ex,” he answered.
Oh… my… God.
He had a tattoo of a broken heart on his chest. No, he had a tattoo of a broken heart over his heart on his chest! A tattoo he got for Belinda!
“Was it a bad break?” I was still going for casual but my voice sounded breathy.
Now, why did I ask that? Why? What was wrong with me? Now I was punishing myself and getting myself into stupid, terrifying situations.
“You could say that, since she broke it off three months before the wedding.”
Before I could think better of it (or, say, think at all), I shot up to a seated position and twisted to look at him, my mouth open.
Then I snapped it closed.
Then I spoke. “She broke up with you three months before your wedding?”
Oh my God!
Hector had been engaged. He’d nearly been married!
Oh my GOD!
He didn’t move, his body still reclined on the pillows, the sheets to his waist, his chest displayed, only his eyes came to me.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Why?” I asked.
“She wanted a nine-to-five guy who mowed the lawn on the weekends. I’m not a nine-to-five guy who mows the lawn on the weekend. She couldn’t handle me being on assignment, away for days or weeks or even months not being able to contact her. She tried to talk me into a desk job. I told her the man who put the ring on her finger was a field agent for the DEA and that’s who she’d have to marry. She saw I was serious, pawned the ring, got her Mom to call the church, hall and guests and took a vacation at an all-inclusive in Acapulco.”
My eyes narrowed.
“She pawned your ring?” I spat, sounding frighteningly like Ralphie.
But seriously. Who would pawn Hector “Oh my God” Chavez’s ring? Who would try to make Hector something he was not? Who would go to Acapulco alone when they could go to Acapulco with Hector? On their honeymoon even!
Was she nuts?
I realized belatedly that Hector was smiling a huge, blinding white smile at me.
Oh no.
What had I given away?
He did an ab crunch, his hands came to my shoulders, twisted me so my back was to him, his arm went around my chest and he pulled me into my earlier position. But this time his arm was wrapped tighter.
“Calm down, mamita, my sister Gloria went to her house and roughed her up when she got back from Mexico. It was a couple of years ago, you can stand down.”
There was the answer; I’d given it all away.
Darn it!
I decided to move attention off me “standing down”. “Your sister Gloria roughed her up?”
“Catfight. Not pretty. Word is, Gloria won.”
I wanted to laugh and clap my hands for an absent sister I would probably never meet.
Of course, I did not.
“She broke your heart,” I said to the TV.
His fingers did a squeeze on my shoulder. “I’m over it.”
“It hurt enough for you to tattoo it on your chest,” I pointed out.
“I didn’t get the tat because she marked me, I got the tat to remind myself of the lesson I learned. She was beautiful, great body, fantastic in bed and she could be sweet when she wanted but most of the time she was a nagging bitch. Every time I see the tat, it reminds me not to be led around by my dick.”
All right then, more proof that Hector was as real as you could get.
It was clear, at this juncture, it was time for me to steer us into safer waters.
“So, what’s the skull with the crown and the rose mean?”
Hector’s body tensed and the air in the room immediately felt heavy. My body tensed at his reaction and the feel of the air.
Eyes on the TV, I didn’t even try to be casual when I whispered, “Hector?”
He sighed, his body relaxed but his arm around me got tighter.
“I got it to celebrate nailing your father.”
Of course.
“First of all, mamita, I don’t have any popcorn. Second, you barely touched your dinner. Now you wanna eat?”
I thought fast (this, by the way, was not easy).
“My mind was occupied at dinner. Now, I’m feeling peckish,” I lied. I would probably throw up if I ate anything, I was so nervous.
He shook his head laughing low again then lifted up, pulled back the covers and slid in.
My heart stopped.
He arranged the pillows behind his back (I will note, he completely devastated my efforts at equal pillow disbursement of not ten minutes before). His arm curled around my waist and he pulled me backwards so my back hit his side, my legs uncrossed and my shoulder and head were pillowed on his chest.
Oh, I got it. I didn’t need pillows. I was using his chest as a pillow. So that was why he could hog them all.
I felt him move, saw his hand holding the remote in my peripheral vision and the TV snapped on, a ballgame appeared and the hand disappeared.
As if he hadn’t just settled us comfortably in his bed like we’d be sharing our golden wedding anniversary the next evening and not doing this for the very first time ever, he continued the conversation.
“Your mind at dinner was occupied with an attempted freeze out which, mi cielo, is cute, I gotta admit, but it’s only fair to let you know, it’s not gonna work.”
My body went still. He thought the Ice Princess was cute? Cute?
The Ice Princess was not cute! I knew grown men that feared her!
Well, maybe not feared, perhaps they just disliked her and gave her a wide berth.
It was good I was moving to Crete because if he thought my Ice Princess was cute then I was in a mess of trouble.
“We’ll order a pizza if you’re hungry,” he told me.
I crossed my arms on my chest, stared at the TV and contradicted my earlier lie, “I’m not hungry.”
His arm came around me, his forearm resting on my chest, his fingers curled around my opposite shoulder.
“You want something, let me know,” he said and he sounded distracted.
Obviously the game had called his attention.
So I thought it might be safe to ask an eensy, teensy, tiny, little personal question just because I was dying to know and since I didn’t get the gift I intended to give myself that evening, I was going to go for something different.
“What’s the tattoo on your chest mean?” I asked casually like whatever answer to a brokenhearted tattoo question would mean nothing at all whatsoever to me.
“Belinda,” he replied, still sounding distracted.
I was not distracted. My body went still again.
“Belinda?” I asked.
“My ex,” he answered.
Oh… my… God.
He had a tattoo of a broken heart on his chest. No, he had a tattoo of a broken heart over his heart on his chest! A tattoo he got for Belinda!
“Was it a bad break?” I was still going for casual but my voice sounded breathy.
Now, why did I ask that? Why? What was wrong with me? Now I was punishing myself and getting myself into stupid, terrifying situations.
“You could say that, since she broke it off three months before the wedding.”
Before I could think better of it (or, say, think at all), I shot up to a seated position and twisted to look at him, my mouth open.
Then I snapped it closed.
Then I spoke. “She broke up with you three months before your wedding?”
Oh my God!
Hector had been engaged. He’d nearly been married!
Oh my GOD!
He didn’t move, his body still reclined on the pillows, the sheets to his waist, his chest displayed, only his eyes came to me.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Why?” I asked.
“She wanted a nine-to-five guy who mowed the lawn on the weekends. I’m not a nine-to-five guy who mows the lawn on the weekend. She couldn’t handle me being on assignment, away for days or weeks or even months not being able to contact her. She tried to talk me into a desk job. I told her the man who put the ring on her finger was a field agent for the DEA and that’s who she’d have to marry. She saw I was serious, pawned the ring, got her Mom to call the church, hall and guests and took a vacation at an all-inclusive in Acapulco.”
My eyes narrowed.
“She pawned your ring?” I spat, sounding frighteningly like Ralphie.
But seriously. Who would pawn Hector “Oh my God” Chavez’s ring? Who would try to make Hector something he was not? Who would go to Acapulco alone when they could go to Acapulco with Hector? On their honeymoon even!
Was she nuts?
I realized belatedly that Hector was smiling a huge, blinding white smile at me.
Oh no.
What had I given away?
He did an ab crunch, his hands came to my shoulders, twisted me so my back was to him, his arm went around my chest and he pulled me into my earlier position. But this time his arm was wrapped tighter.
“Calm down, mamita, my sister Gloria went to her house and roughed her up when she got back from Mexico. It was a couple of years ago, you can stand down.”
There was the answer; I’d given it all away.
Darn it!
I decided to move attention off me “standing down”. “Your sister Gloria roughed her up?”
“Catfight. Not pretty. Word is, Gloria won.”
I wanted to laugh and clap my hands for an absent sister I would probably never meet.
Of course, I did not.
“She broke your heart,” I said to the TV.
His fingers did a squeeze on my shoulder. “I’m over it.”
“It hurt enough for you to tattoo it on your chest,” I pointed out.
“I didn’t get the tat because she marked me, I got the tat to remind myself of the lesson I learned. She was beautiful, great body, fantastic in bed and she could be sweet when she wanted but most of the time she was a nagging bitch. Every time I see the tat, it reminds me not to be led around by my dick.”
All right then, more proof that Hector was as real as you could get.
It was clear, at this juncture, it was time for me to steer us into safer waters.
“So, what’s the skull with the crown and the rose mean?”
Hector’s body tensed and the air in the room immediately felt heavy. My body tensed at his reaction and the feel of the air.
Eyes on the TV, I didn’t even try to be casual when I whispered, “Hector?”
He sighed, his body relaxed but his arm around me got tighter.
“I got it to celebrate nailing your father.”
Of course.
