Page 46 of The Challenger

The emotional roller coaster of today whipped me one last time an hour ago when my stalker buddy decided to reappear.

Unknown number: You can do better than him, Flynn. You are better than the browns.

The police drilled the fear of God into me last year and said I should never reply, but I’ve had enough of the intrusion. The nerve of this idiot and his infiltration into my mind. And the fact he’s also a racist loser.

Sometimes you have to bully the bully.

FD: Get a life and leave me alone!

Fortified with liquid courage, I hit send and blocked his number. Between conquering Nathaniel and blitzing the stalker fool, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.

And no better moment for a reset.

Many questions need answering tonight, including what happens next. Chavez did not book us return trips to LA because of superstition. (No chance to win the tournament if you’re mentally on a plane home, is how he put it.) But we’re done in Oz, so the next step is a plane ride. Where we go and when we go requires discussion, but not before we violate each other. Only after he lays my body to waste will the agenda turn to talking.

Not a minute before.

Two sharp knocks sound on my door, and okay, my time has come. Deep breath. Final inventory.

Strapless dress with a convenient back zipper? Check. Curls hanging loose and wild? Oh yeah, just the way he likes them. Evening clutch jammed to the tits with condoms? (Vandana taught me well—always come prepared.)

Checkity check check check.

My confidence is rocking as I casually open the door.

Lord have mercy.

Vandana also said never to pounce on a guy like a mutt in heat, but all it takes to turn me into a rabid frothing mess is a simple black T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and a smile so seductive Mona Lisa wants it back. Chavez inhabits another world beyond my understanding, not the hallway of a four-star hotel. His hair is damp and black as coal, the perfect dark frame to make his eyes shine a more brilliant blue. And those lips. Plump and succulent and soft. In one sordid flash, all the teasing kisses and tentative touches I imagined would start us off skid out into a gritty B-roll of Chavez peeling off my panties with his teeth.

“Don’t you look amazing!” he says, crossing the threshold to kiss my cheek. He pauses and sniffs the sweet-sour alcohol fumes clinging to me. Lined up on the mini bar are the evening’s dead soldiers. “Taking the edge off?” he teases.

He smells as I imagine a Roman orgy might—dirty musk, hot muscles, and debauchery. It goes straight to my head.

“Am I overdressed?” I ask, wobbling in my heels.

The way his eyes sweep over me is the official answer, but he reaches for my hand and says, “What we’re wearing is the least important thing about tonight.”

* * *

Our Uber passesevery fancy downtown location I suspected might be our destination. Instead, we head south and rise out of the valley. Ten minutes later we are in a remote neighborhood where the land between mansions is five times larger than the houses themselves.

Chavez instructs the driver from the back seat. “It’s the one on the right. With the gate.”

A beautiful Victorian home painted a shade of deep plum sits at the rear of a grassy yard like a majestic king waiting for his supper. Tall, elegant windows bracket a colonnaded entrance kissed golden by the evening light. A hanging porch swing drifts in the breeze, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we are in for an evening of weak tea and a fierce Scrabble battle with the local society matrons.

“What is this place?” I ask Chavez.

“It’s Charlie’s grandmother’s house,” he explains. “She runs it as an Airbnb but she’s on vacation and left it empty. He said it would be perfect.”

“Charlie the bellboy?”

“I told you, they never let me down. I said I was looking for a special place for a special night with a special woman.” We exit the Uber, and once it reverses out of the drive, he wraps me in his arms. “This is where I went earlier. Had to put eyes on it to make sure it was worthy of you.”

Embarrassment floods over me. This is where he went today? What a fool I was for thinking he had a hidden agenda. “Really? That’s so romantic.”

He laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised. Come on.” He eases out of our embrace to tug gently on my hand. “I’ll show you around.”

The house smells of antiques and furniture polish. Elaborate moldings trim the high ceiling and slow-spinning fans push hot air around. Up a creaky set of stairs curling to the second floor, and at the end of a narrow hallway, is the master suite. A massive brass canopy bed dominates the room, decorated in shades of mauve and glossy cream. French doors open onto a half-moon balcony, and we step outside to admire the eclectic mix of statues and aboriginal art in the formal backyard garden.

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