There she is.
I love a heated Alma.
How far can I push her?
Is her hate enough to fuel her untapped desires? Alma loves playing the good girl, but deep down, I know her temperament. I’d seen a flicker of it in her eyes the day I shredded her note.
“Is this some kind of sick game? You think ‘cause Esteban’s dead that you now have dibs on me? That’s not how this fucking works, asshole.” She pushes against my chest again, but it’s useless.
Her jaw is tight. I wrap my fingers around her face. Upclose, I can see every perfect detail of hers. A feral little kitten, convinced she can fight a lion. I don’t think, I move. I lean in and kiss her. Hard and possessive, prying my tongue between her teeth. Her fist connects with my shoulder. It hurts the way a punch from a toddler would.
I don’t budge.
Her fight dies, her body molding into me. The movement of her tongue hunting for the barbell jewelry on mine. She makes a soft whimper then stills, all tension folded inward like a snapped wire. I pull back, watching color bloom across her cheeks, heat and humiliation and something else I can’t name. My voice is low, coiled with the thing I came to do.
Expose her.
“You can think whatever you want, Almita. I’m onto you.” My thumb drags once against the edge of her jaw, light enough to be a courtesy but heavy enough to mark the line. “I don’t know what you’re doing here in Houston, or why you’re living a double life, but I’ll find out.”
Her breath quickens. A possessive desire knots inside my chest until my next words come out like a blade.
“And while I’m here, if you plan on fucking any man, be prepared for more bodies to drop.” I release her hand from my coat and step back toward the bedroom.
“You’re fucking crazy,” she shouts from behind me.
I stop, my hand on the doorknob, and let the silence hold a beat. Then I say, soft and sure, the only honest thing I can.
“Por ti.”
Chapter 12
Efren
PAST
Freshman Year
After Esteban’s Death
It’s almost midnight when I hear the soft taps against my window pane. Grabbing the gun from under my mattress, I slide the window up to find Alma standing outside.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper sharply.
She doesn’t startle. I look out the window to check for any sign of prying eyes. We hadn’t spoken sincethatnight. The last few weeks had shifted into a fuckstorm of media outlets and outraged social media posts all painting this picture of Esteban as heroic. But Alma hadn’t said a thing.
At the funeral, she was quiet. Not a word or a tear. Large crowds formed at the cemetery, fake people eager to tell how they’d known my brother.
They didn’t know shit.
“Sorry,” Alma says softly, “I need to talk to you.”
She climbs in and settles onto the edge of my bed. Her eyes are rimmed red, and she refuses to look at me. We sit there for a while, the silence stretching between us.
Neither of us pay attention to the screaming going on in the kitchen. Bud’s pissed that Angela’s mixed her antidepressants with a bottle of 1800 again. He’s threatening to take me and leave her.
“Do you ever think about your biological parents?” Alma asks, her voice cracking.
“No. Not really,” I reply. “I’ve always accepted it for what it was.”
