Page 12 of Trapped

I look up at the ceiling and send a silent apology to my vagina.Lo siento.He’s about to get off and his breathing becomes heavier. Since I feel bad for the guy—he really is nice—I go in for an academy performance.

“Ah. Don’t stop,” I moan out.

César’s pace picks up, and it’s showtime for me. He lets out a deep moan, and I join him. The fake orgasm erupts in a string of ohs and ahhs as his body crashes onto me. And just when I think it’s over, he kisses my cheek.

“I love you,” he whispers into my ear.Fuck.

Calling Ariella to pick me up from César’s parents’ garage was the worst end to an already shitty day. Ariella barely knows her way around Houston, and her driving makes me nauseous. But it’s my only option, since I am paranoid that all Uber drivers will rob me.

“He said what?” Ariella says as she narrows her eyes to see through the nighttime traffic.

“He said he loved me.” I shudder as the words leave my mouth. Faking an orgasm was common for me, but being told I love you after four minutes of sex was not.

“What did you say?” Ariella whispers. Her brows arch as I retell the tragic comedy that is now my sex life. I tell her the PG-13 version because I know she can be a prude when it comesto sex talk. I have never known her to have a boyfriend, let alone hook up with anyone.

She is beautiful, and men are always lusting after her. Her honey brown hair and green eyes make her look like a porcelain doll. Despite her beauty, no man wants to risk his life with her father and brothers. Her admirers are content with the little pieces of her they can afford. She deserves to be loved fiercely, by someone willing to go toe to toe with the devil for her. Not these men sending up silent prayers to angels while they hide in the corner. Love is an action, not a verb. But what the hell do I know about love?

If that man exists, I hope he will find her soon. The clock is ticking. Her mother has bought her time, but she is destined for an arranged marriage. Not that she can’t be happy in an arranged marriage. Not every love story has to be a tragedy like mine.

I try not to focus on the road and keep my eyes shut. I can’t complain about her driving when she is doing me a favor by taking me home. An old Selena song comes on the radio, and I sit up. I reach for my thigh, and my breathing picks up when I don’t find Selena there.

“Are you okay?” Ariella asks.

“No, I can’t find Selena.”

“Selena? S-Selena Quintanilla?” Ariella’s brows furrow. I reach in the back and open my purse. A wave of relief comforting me. I pick up the black and gold 9mm gun.

“This,prima, is Selena Quintanilla.” I kiss the gun.

“You name your guns?” she asks.

“Of course I do. They’re like my emotional support pets.” I made it a habit to name all my guns after badass Texan women. I have an armory full of them. All named after Texan women who deserve the praise and honor. Janis Joplin, Beyonce, Vanessa Guillen, Adina de Zavala, and my favorite—a .45 caliber namedMiriam. Named after Miriam A. Ferguson, the first female governor in Texas.

“I thought Axel was the only crazy one in this family.”

She has no idea.

The next day, Ariella and I help Enrique decorate for Dia de Los Muertos. The hotel already gives Halloween all year with the skull décor, but we always buy fresh Marigolds for the entire month of October. It is a chore to replace the flowers every week, but we are faithful to the traditions of my grandmother, traditions she started when Calavera Hotels was nothing more than a bed-and-breakfast.

It was a dream of mine to get into real estate and start a string of spooky AirBnB’s across the West Coast. The more I grow lonely inside the walls of Calavera, the more I daydream about the idea of venturing out. Which is why I agreed to my three o’clock meeting.

I leave Ariella to finish the decorating while I make my way back to my office. My guest is waiting for me at the front desk.

“Señor Gallardo, come on in.”

Fellipe Gallardo has spent the last three months hounding me about a business proposal. He is a well-established realtor in Houston, as well as the owner of a small investment firm. Ilead the way up the stairs by the front desk, and Fellipe follows behind me. He takes in the dark décor. I had opted for dark green walls to contrast the purple of the wandering jew plants and lilies placed strategically throughout the room. All the black furniture and obscure art pieces had been handpicked by me.

Well, except for whatever the hell Ariella had going on in the corner that I lent her. Fellipe’s brows furrow when he recognizes the out-of-place bright pink everything.

“My cousin is interning here as my personal assistant,” I say to explain why it looks like death everywhere else but her little corner. It looks like the Trolls movie shit all over the place.

Once he’s done taking in the room, he takes me in as well. His eyes roam from my eyes to the black lace blouse I’m wearing, over the tattoos that cover my chest and arms, all the way down to the black open-toe Louboutin’s I’m wearing today. His scan is quick and casual, but when his eyes reach mine again, I offer him a less than casual smile.

“Mrs. Macias, thank you for finding time for me.” I choke on the air. It had been a very long time since anyone called me that. I take my seat behind the desk and motion for him to sit.

“Macias was my late husband’s name. It’s Consuelo, now.”

“My deepest apologies, Miss Consuelo.” He sticks out his hand, and I offer him mine. He is an attractive man, around his mid-forties, single and childless. His peppered hair is combed over neatly, his glasses sit on a straight nose, and straight white teeth. He’s every woman’s silver foxed fantasy, but I know better than to mix business with pleasure. Even if the pleasure part was acting itself out in my head—visions of his naked body slamming into mine over this very desk. Why must I have the sex drive of an Australian mouse?

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