Alma
It couldn’t have been Efren? Right? Why the hell would he come to Houston of all places? My brain can’t keep up with the swarm of questions sprouting inside as I fail to focus on the simplest of tasks at the hotel. Something took root in me last night. I can still feel it, like a current humming under my skin.
The moment I realized it wasn’t Curtis but a stranger, I should’ve been terrified. Instead, it thrilled me. That thrill hasn’t stopped echoing. I’ve never taken charge like that while giving a blowjob. Shit, I’ve never made that kind of effort to make any man cum. My throat stings where he savagely took me. And God, the way he took me. The way I enjoyed it.
I throw another load of sheets into the large washer. This morning I was half tempted to call out of work, but that would be inconsiderate, considering I promised to cover Rayven’s shift.
My brain feels like it may explode as I try to make sense of last night. The blindfold. The blowjob. The way I was soaking wet when he finished in my mouth. The way he left me there, breathless and wanting more.
Even after I heard the door close and lifted the blindfold to the murder scene laid out in front of me, I wasn’t concerned. Dr. Curtis Anderson was laying there in a pool of blood, and I couldn’t scream.
As I circle back through last night’s events, there are two significant moments that stick out. The first is how unbothered Claudi seemed to be about having a dead body in his club. He hates having to call the police, and yet he was nonchalant when they turned the club into a crime scene with yellow tape surrounding the confession room.
Curtis Anderson had been shot dead—a bullet straight through his eyes—but no one could name who did it or what their motives were. I told them exactly what I knew: I was blindfolded, forced to orally pleasure the suspect, then set free. I leave out the part where I enjoyed it entirely too much for what it was—a violation, they claimed.
The second moment came after two hours of questioning, returning home to find Don Cheetos with a used condom in his mouth. When I opened the shower, I got another surprise, finding a very drunk and naked friend of Larix’s lying in his own vomit. I had to bring everything, including Don Cheetos, to work and shower at the hotel.
Am I stuck in a recurring nightmare?
“Hey, you almost done?” I hear a voice behind me.
“Mireya!” I exclaim when I see her standing in the doorway.
I haven’t seen Mireya in person in a few weeks due to our conflicting lives and schedules. Mireya stands with a wide smile on her face, baby PJ wrapped to her front with the rebozo I’d gifted her. Long brown strands frame her face. She’s glowing with motherhood.
“Hellomi pequeño hermocho.” I plant several kisses on the baby’s face and lift his little foot, eyeing the Ojo de Venado bracelet I’d given him.
“Calm down, it’s still there,” she assures me.
“Good! You can never be too safe. There’s bad energy everywhere! What are you doing here?” I ask, worried about my friend.
Thalia could handle the shit she was dragged into, she’d been a part of organized crime her whole life, but Mireya hadn’t. I also know she’s the type to suffer in silence rather than say anything.
“Adrian is talking to Patricio upstairs, and I told him to bring me so we could see you.”
Patricio is the second son of Vicente Consuelo. Since the eldest son, Ivan, had passed, Patricio and his younger brother, Enrique, were next in line as heirs to the Houston location. Patricio had no children, but it was clear he would pass everything to his nephew, Adrian.
“I’m glad you did,” I reply, the weight in my chest slowly lifting. “Let me throw in this last load, and I’ll take my lunch break.”
One of the benefits of working at Calavera Hotels is the access we have to the amenities. A large gym, a staff kitchen, laundry services, several large outdoor pools, a gambling area, a cigar room, a bar, and several restaurants inside. My favorite is Tres Coronas.
Mireya and I walk down to the restaurant, and she fills me in on motherhood, her breastfeeding journey, sleep cycles, and milestones. All the information I can’t quite grasp, not having any children or even siblings myself, but I love the way her face lights up when she talks about PJ.
We’re almost to the restaurant when a large man stops us in the main lobby, greeting Mireya and the baby.
“Mireya, Adrian let you leave the house?” He laughs, the sound warm but edged, and I can’t help staring.
There’s something about him that tugs at me, as if my memory is straining to place him. Maybe I’ve seen himaround the hotel before? He’s older, with a firm jaw and a head full of unruly black curls. But it’s his eyes that catch me. Not blue, not green, but an amber so dark it borders on yellow. Even after he moves on, I’m still staring at the space he left behind, unsettled, certain I’ve seen him before.
“Alma.” Mireya’s voice cuts through, pulling me back. “Are you okay?”
“Who was that?” I ask, more sharply than I mean to.
“That’s Ignacio Fernandez.” She shifts the baby on her hip. “But everyone calls him Conejo. He’s Genesis’s father.”
That must be where I recognize him from. Genesis Fernandez isn’t exactly a friend of mine, but she often accompanies Ariella, Thalia and Adrian’s younger cousin.
“Well, I’m as surprised as he is that you were let out of the house,” I tease. I nudge Mireya with my elbow.
