Page 65 of Wild Hit
Continuing with my pretense, I sit up in my bed and ignore his existence entirely as I feel around my pillows for my phone. I find it just as Miguel’s closing the bathroom door.
I collapse against the headboard. “What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself.
A sign from the heavens appears right that second, in the form of my phone buzzing in my hand. When I see the name on the screen, everything makes sense again.
I pick up, not wanting to put this off and cause him to call me again. “I told you to only call me for work reasons,” is my greeting.
“Good thing that this is work related, huh?” Henry Vos laughs into my ear and I have to pull my phone away so that I don’t audibly gag. “I saw your out of office notice, and it left me with no choice but to call you. Did you forget that we were supposed to have a meeting this morning?”
Why does he say it like it’s midday already? I check the clock and it’s only eight thirty.
“I didn’t forget,” I retort nasally because I need to blow my nose. Ugh, is this how I sounded to Miguel a moment ago? Gross. “That’s why I sent you a new time proposal, and I’m going to finish this call because I’m off the clock right now.”
“Wait a second, please.” It’s thepleasewhat makes me pause. My brain short circuits because the guys in my dad’s world never use that word, or any other expression of politeness, so I trained myself to welcome it from normal people. But then he opens his mouth to say, “We can talk about that later, but there’s one more thing. Your dad asked me to escort you on the cocktail party we’re hosting this weekend to celebrate our new partnership. I said yes, of course. Can you wear a red dress and some makeup?”
The hell I can. I grit my teeth hard enough to hurt.
Before I can formulate a response that is even more cutting than that fleeting thought, Miguel comes out of the bathroom—now with his sweatpants pulled up properly—and freezes when he sees that I’m on the phone.
Staring at him, I raise a finger to my mouth. Then say to the guy on the other end of the line, “I’m going to hang up and you’re not going to call me again until I’m back to work.”
“But—”
I take great pleasure in tapping the red button, and then I navigate in his contact info to block him. I may leave him in that status forever from now on. He can reach me on Teams and I’ll answer when I can.
“Everything okay?” Miguel asks.
I lift my face and get a frontal view of a heck of a lot of man. A gold chain with a crucifix hangs from the thick column of his long neck, nestling between the tight masses of his pecs. They look like dreamwork, not big enough to look like boobs but defined enough to make my hands itch. He doesn’t have clear abs like some of the other guys do, but there’s enough muscle to reinforce the knowledge that he’s not a run of the mill type of guy.
But his shoulders, oh, his shoulders.
Parting from that thick neck, the tight muscle tapers in the perfect way to dip at his clavicle before giving spotlight to hisarms.Thathas to be genetic. Only the Big Guy in heaven can create something so perfect.
I shut my mouth and force my mind back to more reasonable, and definitely unpleasant matters. “Henry Vos just called. He asked me out to a silly cocktail party in the most condescending way.”
Miguel grunts and puts his hands on his hips, in an annoyed-dad pose. “I guess that’s our first assignment.”
“I guess,” I repeat, for lack of anything better to say.
He nods, and with that he continues his journey to rummage for something in his duffel bag. That triggers something in my addled brain, and I jump from my bed.
“The rings!” I scramble to my suitcase and splay it open in the middle of the room. My intimates are hidden by the side of the suitcase that has a full zippered cover, and the rings are on the other side, the box bundled in the sweatshirt I’ll wear to travel back to Orlando. I take the box and straighten out. “Voila.”
Miguel approaches with a clothing bundle tucked against his ribs, and he stares at the box. “Right.” He motions with his lips in a way I’ve seen all my Venezuelan friends do before. It can have all meanings under the sun—there it is, pass me that, look at that, etc.—but in this case I interpret to mean,open it.
And so I do, and we both stand still for a long moment, admiring the rings that look very much real.
“Can I?” he asks in a whisper. I nod, even though I don’t know what he’s asking.
Then Miguel plucks the smaller right from its nest, and raises his other hand, palm facing up.
“Oh.” I hasten to put my left hand on his.
And then the wildest thing that’s ever happened in my lifehappens. A man slides a ring into my finger, until it meets the engagement ring look-alike I’ve been wearing the past few days.
My heart slams hard against my ribcage and my stomach is doing something confusing, like it wants food but also to empty itself.
With slightly trembly hands, I grab the other ring and mirror the motions. Miguel’s hand feels so warm and heavy, but those big muscles of his keep it in place so there’s no effort for me. We both know I had a sample to measure his ring against, and so it fits perfectly. The contrast of the gold against his velvety brown skin, versus mine against my white and pink finger is a shock.
