Page 127 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Which, I suppose, is still better than looking like the late Victoria Price.
Not that anyone’s looking for her anymore, in Mexico City or anywhere else. I followed the news avidly for months. Apparently Tabby paid someone to write a fake medical report and pose as my doctor, because the police said they’d corroborated my cancer diagnosis with my personal physician, and the case had been officially closed.
God bless Tabby. I really miss that beautiful bitch.
I left her everything in my will, so it makes me feel a little better that she’ll be a rich woman soon. With an official case determination by the police, the court can declare me dead in absentia, and Tabby will inherit my assets. She’s been instructed what to distribute to my mother, and anonymously to Eva, but a substantial chunk of cash and my home will be hers.
If I somehow find out she installs Hello Kitty wallpaper in my gorgeous penthouse, I’ll kill her.
“Carlos, please tell me you brought me that fan I asked you for three hours ago,” I say, hands on hips.
Carlos looks around, down at his feet, behind him, and then back at me. He says innocently, “Do you see a fan in my hands, Anacita?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Carlos.”
The way I say his name makes his smile widen. He pushes away from the wall and strolls toward me. “Don’t be angry. I brought you something better than a fan: me.”
It might sound cheesy, but trust me—he pulls it off. If I wasn’t still hung up on a certain unmentionable someone, I’d be tempted to take the nubile young Carlos for a spin.
My poor sex drive. It’s as frustrated as an alcoholic in Salt Lake City.
“Keep it in your pants, Rico Suave. It’s too hot to do anything but sweat.” When I see the gleam in his eye, I scold, “Not that I’m saying things will be different when the weather cools down!”
He tsks, shaking his head. “Oh, my silly Anacita. You know what’s between us is too powerful to resist forever. Why not just give in and let it happen?”
I roll my eyes. Carlos may be hot, but he’s definitely not original; I overheard him using exactly that line on a girl in the cantina just last week.
I don’t hold it against him, though. If anyone knows how much bullshit people sling in their quest for connection, it’s me.
Another wave of heat hits me. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. “You know what, Carlos? It’s too hot in here to work. It’s almost noon anyway; let’s go get some lunch.”
He pouts, pretending to be hurt. “Ah, but if I cannot have you, my love, then I cannot eat. I cannot live!” He heaves a dramatic sigh and presses a hand over his heart. “In fact, this might be my last moment on earth.”
“I’m buying.”
Carlos takes a final drag on his cigarette, stubs it out in an overflowing ashtray on the nearest desk, blows out a big plume of smoke, and grins. “In that case, I think I’ll survive at least until this afternoon.”
I knew that would distract him. The only thing Carlos likes better than an easy lay is a free meal.
We lock the office door and cross the street to the small, dark cantina, which smells like piss and cigarettes but is blissfully cold. So is the beer, which I never imagined myself drinking in my former life but have come to appreciate. Carlos and I grab two seats at the long wooden bar and order cervezas and ceviche from a waiter with a sad moustache and a lisp.
If Darcy could see me now—drinking beer, going out in public with no makeup on, wearing flip-flops and a cheap floral print sundress bought from a vendor on the street—she’d probably faint.
Strike that. She would faint. Promptly.
The thought brings a smile to my face and sends a pang of ennui through my heart.
I miss her, too.
But this is my life now. I rent a cute casita in the country. I go to work five days a week. (I tried not working, but nearly went mad with boredom within a few weeks.) I spend weekends reading and gardening and living in the moment, because it’s too painful to allow myself to think of the past.
Overall, I’m content. It’s not exactly the same thing as being happy, but, as my mother used to say, beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve trained myself to look on the bright side: I’m young and healthy; I have enough money that I never have to worry about going broke; and, in a smaller but more perhaps profound way, I’m still empowering the powerless.
I even own a cat, of all things. He’s a fat, lazy orange tabby with the bearing of an emperor and the attitude of a spoiled child. I adore him. I named him Perdón, the Spanish word for forgiveness, because after all these years I’ve finally realized that the only thing more damaging to your soul than hanging on to a grudge is…nothing.
Hate will devour you. Anger, no matter how righteous it feels, is a straight, short path to hell. Only forgiveness will set you free. Only forgiveness can heal your scars. Forgiveness not only for those who’ve wronged you but also for yourself.
Life is hard enough without making lovers of our demons.
