Bowie wanted to ask why, but why did anybody do anything? Fear? Pain? Sorrow? Bowie didn’t care much for his parents, but he wouldn’t want to watch them suffer. He’d be devastated if he had to watch them fight a losing battle with their minds or their bodies.
Bowie turned Javier’s face back towards him. “Hey, I get it. Well, I don’t, but I can guess that it sucks pretty bad watching somebody you love go through all that.”
“She had me so young. Barely seventeen. She kept it together for so long. At least, how I remember it. We lived in a dangerous place, I got caught up with some really bad people. I was wild, but she did the best she could. It was only after she sent me to live with my uncle that I could really see how sick she was. Maybe if I wasn’t off being such a fucking shithead, I would have noticed sooner.”
“There was literally nothing you could have done. You can’t love people out of being mentally ill. Love doesn’t cure depression or anxiety or schizophrenia. It just doesn’t.”
Javier hooked his hand behind Bowie’s neck and dragged him down for a kiss. “I don’t deserve you. You know that, right?”
Bowie opened his mouth and closed it again, stumbling to think of something to say to that. “Nobody else in the entire world would think I was a catch right now. I’m a hack ballet dancer with PTSD. I can’t believe somebody like you would have ever looked at me twice.”
Javier let him go. “I know. I’m sorry I made things worse for you.”
Bowie frowned. “What? You didn’t. Not really. Giordano was a bad man. He deserved everything he got. How were you to know his father would be worse?”
Javier shook his head. “I should have done my research. At least then I could have been prepared.”
Bowie didn’t want to talk about any of this anymore. It had been a hard day for both of them. He straddled Javier’s body before settling between his legs, parting his thighs to make room for himself.
“What are you up to, angel?” Javier asked, gripping Bowie’s ass, pulling him down as he arched up, letting him feel how hard he was already.
“I want you,” Bowie whispered against his lips.
“You have me,” Javier countered, cupping Bowie’s face as he deepened their kiss. “Any way you want.”
“Just like this.”
After that, there was no more talking or even thinking, just the sound of their breathing as Bowie’s fingers probed Javier’s body, easing him open, slicking his entrance. Then he was sliding inside, groaning against his throat as he lost himself in the tight heat of Javier’s core. It was quick and slow in turn, both of them too caught up in each other to let the real world creep back in. At least, not then.
When it was over and they were a tangle of sweaty limbs, Bowie finally said, “Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s go to Mexico.”
Javier had spent much of his life in Mexico—specifically Mexico City—but seeing it through Bowie’s eyes made it all seem exciting and new. They’d traveled via private plane with Elite guards, including Hurley, who was the head of histío’s security team.
Hurley was a mystery. Javier had known him for years but knew literally nothing about the man except he spoke fluent Spanish, never took a day off, and was always eating. Over just their four hour flight, Javier had watched him eat a footlong sub, an entire box of Oreos, and an apple. When another guard tried to swipe a cookie, he’d growled and stared pointedly at the weapon holstered at his side. Bowie had watched the entire exchange with trepidation. He seemed leery of Hurley. Maybe it was the gun? Maybe it was that Hurley kind of looked like a tax attorney, until you looked him in the eyes.
In the car, Hurley sat up front with the driver, leaving plenty of room in the backseat. It didn’t matter though, Bowie leaned over Javier to look out the window, pointing at each new thing as it appeared before him—the architecture, the statues, the ornate churches. His mouth fell open when they passed a faded blue building. “That sign said ballet,” he said, his face lighting up.
Javier smiled. “Yeah. We have ballet here, too, angel.”
Bowie dropped back against the seat, cheeks pink. “I know but…it’s ballet.”
Javier tugged him back across him, finding that he didn’t particularly like Bowie being so far away. He pointed out buildings in the distance. “Then you’ll love this. Look, that’s the National School of Classical and Contemporary Dance. There’s theCentro Nacional de las Artes.TheMuseo de Frida Kahlois close by, too.”
Bowie looked at him wide-eyed. “Can we go? Please?”
Like Javier could refuse that face. “Sure, angel. We can go.”
Javier didn’t miss the way the driver’s eyes kept darting towards the backseat, first at Bowie’s proximity to Javier and again at the casual endearment. He set his jaw, making his gaze as cold as he could without drawing Bowie’s attention. Not everybody on his uncle’s staff was as accepting of Javier’s fluidity as his family, including hisTíaSylvia’s driver. He’d been eyeballing Bowie since the airport, but Javier was doing his best not to let him see.
He was sure hisTíaSylvia wouldn’t tolerate any rudeness towards Javier or Bowie, but finding a replacement wouldn’t be easy. Machismo died hard in Mexico. While they weren’t blatantly hostile towards gay people in general, the older generations still held onto their antiquated values. His family was very much the exception.
Once they grew closer to his family’s affluent neighborhood, Bowie’s head was on a swivel, trying to take it all in, but Javier had a hard time pulling his gaze from Bowie long enough to point out things like theBosque de ChapultepecandChapultepecCastle. The only thing that interested him was Bowie.
As they approached the driveway to histío’ssprawling mansion, Bowie’s mouth gaped. The men at the gates carried assault rifles. They waved them through upon seeing the driver before the gates slowly closed behind them.
They drove up the winding driveway to the large stucco building. “This is their house?” he stage whispered. “It’s the size of a resort.”
Javier and Hurley both laughed, causing Bowie to blush. As the car stopped, Javier opened the door, pulling Bowie along, “Our bags…” Bowie said, looking behind him towards the car.
