Chapter Twenty-Eight
Raul padded to the kitchen, hoping he could find a snack without waking anyone. Somehow he was starving, even though Joa’sMaihad fed them enough to keep a small army alive only five or so hours ago.
He smiled. He did adore Joa’s mama.
They had worked off a meal or two in the bed, though. He supposed that explained why he was so ready for something to munch on.
Joa had a huge fondness for all snack foods American—Twinkies and Ding Dongs, Bakenettes and Funyuns, Doritos.
Oh,Deus. Doritos.
His eyes crossed and he grabbed a bag of the ranch-flavored ones. Those were like a drug. A greasy, fake-orange, awful, amazing drug. The smell of them should turn his stomach when he opened the bag, but Raul breathed deep and hummed. They had to put something illegal in there. Now, if he could just find a root beer. Oh, he loved root beer. Sweet but somehow just bitter enough to take the edge off…
“Ah, you too?” Balta stood in the doorway, watching him, a tiny smile on those full lips.
“Sim. Starving.”
“There’s cold meats and cheese, too.” Balta opened the fridge and handed him a root beer without him needing to ask, and pulled out plastic trays of food.
Raul watched, bemused. He had no idea what Balta really wanted from him. They were…friendly, if not friends. They slept in the same bed and loved Joa?—
Oh,sim, he loved Joa. Very much.
Balta grinned at him, the expression easy and comfortable, making him wonder at his own worries. “Table or couch?”
“Couch.” Why not? He had on a pair of sweatpants with everything else bare, and he felt odd sitting at the kitchen table. He grabbed his drink and the Doritos while Balta added a loaf of bread to the tray of meat and cheese. They headed to the family room, where they wouldn’t wake Joa if they put on a movie.
They lay the spread down on the coffee table and Balta sat, not leaving a cushion between them, but landing right next to him with a bounce.
The motion surprised a laugh out of him, and Balta gave him a goofy grin. “I love to sneak in snacks while Joa is not watching. He worries about my back so and says extra weight is bad.”
“He’s obsessed.” He’d seen it, Joa’s hours and hours of exercise to make up for sweets and treats and indulgences.
“Sim.But it is fun to work around it.” The glimmer in Balta’s eyes just proved it. The man was a demon, as Joa said.
Raul snorted. “We benefit from it, for certain.” Strange, to say ‘we.’ To feel as though he belonged. Balta was treating this as if Raul was with them to stay, not just a guest or a game. He wasn’t sure that three was a number that worked.
He munched his chips, and Balta found somefutebolon the television—Brazil versus Argentina. He grinned at the sight of the yellow jerseys, and Balta crowed, settling in deep on the couch.
Raul watched the game with half his attention, focusing on Balta with the other. Balta made a sandwich with meticulous care, the meat and cheese stacked just so, a few pickles piled on for crunch and flavor, he supposed.
“I know, I know, but I like what I like, you know? And if I can have it, I take it.”
Raul nodded slowly, reaching over to steal a pickle. Yes. That was Balta all over. Raul had watched him a lot, wanting to emulate the famous first rider to go from Brazil to America and win. He admired the strength of will as much as he liked Balta’s basic good nature. For a demon.
He’d seen the fallout when someone crossed Silva, too. The way Baltazar could single-handedly destroy someone’s career for a slight that didn’t come with an apology. The disgraced rider would disappear back to Brazil, never to be heard from again…
Careful steps. That was Raul’s plan.
“You are thinking too hard,gato,” Balta told him. “Try the mortadella.” Balta held up a piece of meat.
He opened his lips, the action immediate, and Balta popped the bite in. “It’s good,sim?”
The fatty yet melt-in-your-mouth flavor took him back home, and Raul blinked as he swallowed, amazed at how homesickness took him. He sat very still, not sure what to say.
Balta frowned. “You are pale. Is the meat bad?”
“Nao. It tastes of home.”
