Page 29 of The Challenger

“How my brother caught your attention is a book unto itself,” she says, “but trust me, he can be hard to handle. If you need some one-on-one, call me. Anytime.”

By the time Chavez and I leave, most of the flint has left Gloria’s eyes, and I consider her formal handshake a win. Chavez is much more at ease on the drive home, keeping the speed reasonable with one hand holding mine and Luis Miguel crooning softly through the sound system. Dusk is creeping into nightfall and the Santa Monica mountains are shadowy bumps in the distance.

I’m buzzing from the wine Rodrigo poured with a heavy hand and the strange context of being thrown headfirst into a family theatre with many unfinished acts. At one point, Carmen mentioned some friends back in Fresno, and I didn’t imagine the weirdly unbalanced energy in the glance between Chavez and his parents. Why I was able to pick up on that and not how protective my parents had been of me is unsettling. I should have put it together earlier, but if you can’t trust your parents, who can you trust?

"How long has your mother been off work?” I ask Chavez.

He grips the steering wheel tighter. “Who told you about that?”

“Your father. He mentioned they moved to LA from Fresno after her accident.”

“That’s all he said?”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine," I say, picking up on his tone. Rodrigo and I never finished the conversation because we were called to the table. He pointedly moved on to another topic, leaving me with the impression he didn’t want Chavez involved in any follow-up discussion.

“I wanted them to move here," Chavez eventually says. "I bought them the house and got them set up. Not sure they’re stoked but, whatever. Had to be done.”

The strain showing around his mouth tells me to let it go, and we lapse into silence. When we funnel off the freeway onto Beverly Boulevard at four p.m., the loosened knots in my stomach tighten up again. He is taking me home. But my house is now a radioactive wasteland that I have to avoid. And so, I find myself scouring every inch of my yard as Chavez pulls into the driveway. I feel his eyes on me, louder than the tick of his engine cooling off.

“Thank God that’s over with,” he says, and brings my hand to his lips. “And thank you for saying yes.”

I raise a brow at the measly gesture. “That’s it? I feel like you owe me more.”

“So, my good looks and charm are still in play?”

“Charm might be pushing it.”

He laughs, bringing my hand to his heart. “You are one fiery mamacita, Miss Flynn. I think we’ll get along fine.”

“Is that whatfogosameans? Fiery? You called me that the other day.”

He draws my face close, and his fingertips move up the side of my face so gently I barely feel them. For the first time, I notice flecks of gold around his irises.

“Let me know if that’s okay,” he says. “Because I’m not calling you anything that doesn’t make you feel good inside.”

Like in the movies, our mouths come together in slow motion. I have never been so ready for a kiss, but he takes his sweet time. Licks the seam of my mouth and explores the dark, wet corners. Relentlessly teases me until my body grows taut with arousal and our moans mingle with our breath.

“You taste so good,” he mumbles.

I nip on his plump lower lip, the weight of my desire becoming unbearable. All I can smell is my own desperation. “Can you kiss me kind of dirty?”

He laughs, his warm breath tickling my skin. “Dirty, huh?”

I know it sounds bad, and I don’t care.

If we’re going for a Christmas Day orgasm, may as well start the night on the right foot.

He shifts in his seat and pulls me closer, as much as the confined, awkward space allows. His smile turns rogue, and I know something is coming to catch me off guard. I open for him and tell myself to be in the moment, to simply let all the sensations travel through me. But I one-hundred-percent do not expect it when he pushes his tongue deep inside and fucks me with it. Forget about sweet nothings and peaches and cream—this is getting plowed from behind in a dark alley. It’s a free-for-all in a Ferrari, and I can barely keep up. His greedy fingers plunder across my arching breasts, tracing invisible geography lower and lower.

Yes, I think, down, down, down, to my wet, tender flesh.

And when his hand slams under my dress to go for the grope, heading right for the honey, I brace for it. Splay my thighs to help him along. Hand me the rock, I am ready to roll.

And then he’s gone.

Collapsed back into his seat, panting like a dog, and laughing like a crazy man. I’m seeing stars, stripes, squares, and everything in between. Hanging on by a thread with my heart rate spooling out of control.

“Jesus, Chavez. What the hell?”

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