“Let’s go home, Kitten.”
Chapter 23
Alma
Sunlight slithers through my window like a sigh of relief. There’s this eerie calmness in my body. Soreness too. I slowly open my eyes, and the large light above my bed materializes in front of me.
I jolt upright and look to the side, afraid of what I’ll say or worse, who I’ll see. But there’s no one there. Not the imprint of a body or even a sign that he’d been there. Efren drove my car home, and I must have fallen asleep on the way.
“Fuck.” I cup my mouth as it all comes rushing back.
The sex. Wild. Rough. In El Purgatorio. With Efren.
I shove the comforter off and start pacing.
I fucked my ex-boyfriend’s brother.
I fucked my ex-boyfriend’s brother — the man who killed him.
“Don’t you fucking dare pity me, Alma. Don’t forget what I did to Esteban.”
My eyes snap up when I hear a familiar tune from the kitchen. Following the whistled melody, I walk down the hall to find him standing there singing Chalino Sanchez’sAlma Enamorada.
“Seriously?” I ask. Efren turns to look at me, smirking.
The strong smell of chiles tickles my nose. He’s standing at the stove, stirring a reddish-yellow sauce. Suddenly, the room feels hot, and I can’t look away. My eyes take in every detail of him—the tattoos running down his arm, all Chicano inspired art—serpents, rosaries, and masks. It’s everything that’s him. What he stands for. An outline of his life and pain splayed over his six foot muscular frame.
“Almita.Buenos Dias. You sleep good?” His eyes are full of mischief.
“Bruno,” I mumble and move to make my morning coffee.
“Wait! I made you something.” He rushes to the fridge and grabs a small glass barrel jar. “Homemade Horchata.”
“Neta? You made Horchata from scratch?”
For me. He’d made it for me.My inner Whorechata is smiling at the gesture and I try like hell not to show him that. Especially when he winks at me. I hate how hot he looks when he’s being smug. I hate how, when I’m honest with myself, Efren has always been the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. But I can’t be blinded by his façade.
“Don’t forget I’m a cold-blooded killer.”
Words that fell that had fallen from those gorgeous full lips. Even now, I wrestle with the truth. Something in me doesn’t want to believe him. My memories stir at the corner of my mind, begging to free whatever is hiding there. I know something isn’t right about Esteban’s death, but I’m also not a hundred percent sure it was Efren.
That small feeling propels me forward. Fuck, if this was a wild roller coaster ride, then I was first in line. He’s the only one who can give me the answers I need, unlocking what happened that night, but also helping me fill in all the other blanks inside my mind. I step forward until I’m standing in front of him.
“What happened?” I reach out to touch the bruise on his eye.
“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters.
“It matters to me,” I say as he turns his back to me.
It bothers me how weak I feel. Last night, he’d given me this surging sense of power. We both found pleasure in my anger, and I’d flourished in that role, but I don’t like this. I don’t like feeling like he holds all these secrets while I’m constantly second-guessing.
“Why does everything have to be a mystery with you?” I shake my head and take my coffee to the table.
Efren ignores me at first, setting the table how he likes it, setting down two plates, each with an open English muffin topped with chorizo, avocado, a poached egg, and the reddish-yellow sauce he’d been stirring.
“It’s a chipotle hollandaise sauce,” Efren says while adding a vase with fresh marigolds to the center of the table.
“Thank you.”
