Page 51 of Interpreter

“How is your ankle?” he says all gravelly, and it only fuels the lusty tingles betraying my body. Down tingles, now is inappropriate.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, rolling it with a little pain that I mask quickly. “I’ll be back in my signature heels tomorrow. Don’t you worry.”

This doesn’t earn me a smile. Instead, I hear tires pull up behind us, and somehow I know his ride is here.

“Can I help you inside?”

I almost laugh. Can he help me inside? He just thinks I’m like a dog with a bone. If Felipe gets one look at this man, it will be over. Tim will be shoved down into a booth and drilled with questions and, more than likely, comments about his looks before he inevitably runs screaming from Magic Michelle’s.

“You’ve done enough already,” I tell him with a smile while he looks at the sky as if he’s praying, but there’s no way he’s praying because I’m being nice, not aggravating. “I will be fine walking in.” I touch his shoulder and smother a moan. You have not felt masculinity until you’ve felt this man’s shoulders. Muscles on top of muscles. It’s like a frenzy of rubber bands all shoved under his skin, stretching and pulling tight under my fingers.

Let him go, girl, before you do something crazy. Like ask him to carry you to bed.

“Are you sure?” he worries, his eyes glancing back over to the car where I assume his ride is waiting.

“I’m sure,” I lie sweetly. If he comes in right now, he won’t come back out until the sun comes up. Girlfriend is getting needy, and after feeling his cock between my thighs and that bossy attitude… yeah, I’m a little pent-up.

“Okay.” His voice is quiet. “If you’re sure.”

I’m not, but I can tell he’s on the fence too. We do not need to cross this line together. Not yet anyway.

“See you tomorrow.” I say, hoping to shoo him off before I change my mind.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees with a curt nod and one lazy drag of his fingers from my knee to my ankle. Oh God, please go before I come in the parking lot.

With one last look at each other, Tim rises and leaves. Just like that. No asking if I’m working the pole tonight barefoot. No begging to help me come or grabbing me and whisking me off to the bedroom for a good romp. Nothing. Just empty space in front of me where his big body used to be.

“I have got to get laid,” I tell the probably ruined shoes in the floorboard. They will be no help in that situation thanks to the little hellions who decided to amuse themselves with school property.

Ugh.

Slowly, I drag myself out of the car and limp into Magic Michelle’s, the smell of alcohol and perfume slapping me back to reality.

“Hola, mami! How was Mr. Hot-broody-and-oh-so-swoony?”

Some days I think, how is this my life? How is it that I traveled thousands of miles to a foreign country, found a great job, and get to come home to two shirtless dudes? You should be jealous. I’m living the American dream. The only thing I’m missing is the hot co-teacher in my bed tonight.

“You’re doing it all wrong, Pe,” I say, totally ignoring his question about Tim, rather choosing to focus on his severely lacking technique at the Rumba.

Marcus pulls up from Felipe’s dip and gives me a secretive wink. See? He knows it sucked too.

“Since you’re avoiding the question, I assume your day was filled with angsty sexual tension that nearly made you come on the copier.”

It wasn’t the copier I almost came on but the passenger seat of my car.

I narrow my eyes at Felipe who has now moved to the side of the stage where the baby grand piano holds his towel. “Why are you so sweaty? I thought you were only singing?”

Every year, Marcus and Felipe celebrate their anniversary with a party. The entertainment? The two of them sharing their love of Céline Dion. Felipe says her music brought them together, and so they honor her by singing a couple of her songs every year to celebrate. It’s an epic performance, if I must say. Felipe is one of the most talented singers I’ve ever seen. And when he dresses in drag, looking just like a Mexican Céline, it’s a performance not to be forgotten. My Pe is a showstopper.

“Marcus wanted to incorporate a dance into it this year,” Felipe says, hopping down from the stage and coming to give me a sweaty hug.

I glance at Marcus who just shakes his head. I know Felipe is the more theatrical person. He likes to show off to his friends that: a) he and Marcus are still together (they don’t count Fridays) and b) that all the haters should be jealous of their insanely good looks and talent.

Felipe is not the humblest person in the world, but that’s just part of his charm. He doesn’t mean it in a hurtful way. Besides, my Pe has been through hell in his life. It wasn’t always easy being a queen in the Bible Belt—his explanation, not mine. But I’m sure it wasn’t. Just like it hasn’t always been easy being an immigrant in a foreign country. You will always have struggles, but Felipe says it’s those struggles that define us. I guess that’s why Pe and I bonded so quickly. We were both outcasts who needed a tribe. I’m his tribe despite his sweaty, stinking body dampening my clothes.

“Ew. No more hugs for you, nasty. You smell like onions drowned in Merlot.”

Felipe’s body vibrates against mine, and I squeeze him one last time before shoving him away.

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