Page 51 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
He smiled against her skin. Then his hand slid down the front of her panties.
She gasped, gripping the counter.
His voice was rough in her ear. “Can I please fuck you now?”
Later, as they lay tangled together, skin damp, hearts still racing, he propped himself up on his elbow.
He brushed his palm against her cheek, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. His dark eyes searched hers, something unreadable in them. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said?—
“I wasn’t joking.”
* * *
Daniel legs swung over the edge of the lumpy mattress and sat up, pushing the tangled blankets away. Julia came up behind him and ran her hand over the tattoo on his biceps, the Death-like figure in a black robe and a red crown. “So, what’s with the skeleton?”
“It’s not a skeleton,” he said. “Es la Santa Muerte.”
“What’s that?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Not what. Who.La Huesuda. The Bony Lady.”
She looked more closely at it. “The Bony Lady?”
“Sí. My mom had a shrine to her in our garden. Lit the candle every night. White for thanks. Gold for money. Red for love. Black for protection.”
If he closed his eyes, he could see the painted stone statue ofLa Huesudain the far corner of the courtyard of their house in Torreo´n. Her head was bowed, her bony hands strung with rosary beads and clasped in supplication. Like a skeletal Virgin Mary.
He said, “We had a statue of her. Sebastián used to be terrified of it. He thought she was like Death, you know. Like how the Grim Reaper is to Americans. He thought she was coming to take his soul in the night. But my mom told him, no, she’s not like that for us.Para nosotros, ella es la Nin~a Bonita, la sen~ora que nos mantendra´ a salvo.” He looked at her, at the puzzled expression on her beautiful face. “For us she is the Pretty Girl, the lady who will keep us safe.”
He could hear the hollowness in his voice as he spoke. He never talked about his mom. Not even to Sebastián, who was too young to remember much of their life in Coahuila.
But when he closed his eyes, he could see all of it. He could see his old house, blue with white shutters. Hismama´under the jacaranda tree, sweeping up the violet flowers in the spring. He could see old Sen~or Go´mez shuffled out of the house next door, yelling at him for using his wall for football practice on Sunday mornings. He could see the outdoor bathroom in the tin shed, which got so hot in the summer that the water in the toilet bowl steamed.
She reached out and trailed fingers over the image of an old, bearded man on his shoulder blade. “Who’s this guy, then?”
“St Jude.” He smiled back at her. “Patron saint of lost causes.”
“So, you’re Catholic then?” She rested her cheek against his back. “You don’t seem very Catholic.”
“Don’t I?” He grinned. “And here’s me thinking I was going straight to heaven.”
She laughed, snaking both her arms around his torso. He could feel her breasts pressing into his back and he felt damn close to heaven right then.
She pressed her palm against the hand print tattoo that lay over his heart. As if she could feel it on his skin without even seeing it. Her touch posed a question, despite her silence.
His answer was to place his hand over hers and gently pry it away. He curled his hand around hers, hoping she understood that one didn’t have a simple explanation.
She propped her chin on his shoulder. ‘Do you ever want to go back there?’ she said.
He realized she was looking atla Bandera de Méxicothat hung above the door. “No puedo volver,” he said softly. “I can’t go back.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to get back here again.”
There was a long pause. She lifted her head from his shoulder, and he could practically hear her mind working.
“It scares me a little.”
