Buried (Hiding From Love #3) (10 page)

But Beth is special—beautiful and strong. If there is one thing I've learned working for the RH and living behind bars, it's how to control myself. When so much around you is out of control, you realize quickly that
self
-control is one of the best weapons you've got. As much as I want to press Beth up against the wall of the house right now and drive every part of me into every part of her, I don't. I stand stock-still, hands fisted by my sides, and I gently, ever so softly, kiss her.

It's electrifying. Like someone just took a defibrillator to my poor, shriveled lump of a heart. It surges to life and screams for freedom—freedom from the past, freedom from the sins, freedom to love this woman. I start to pull away, knowing that touching her more will only make the inevitable loss that much harder, but her hands snake up around my neck, and against my lips, she murmurs, "No."

"Beth," I gasp. "We can't."

She opens her eyes, lips millimeters from mine. Her long, dark lashes sweep up and then down once as she says, "Yes. We can."

Before I know what's happened, we're together from knees to lips, her warm, giving curves molded against me in places that haven't felt this in so long they've forgotten just how amazing it can be.

I put my hands on her waist, willing myself to keep them there. Her fingers play with the short hairs at the nape of my neck, and even as my dick swells and turns hard as a rock, some kind of tension releases from me at her touch. Her soft fingers soothe and entice at the same time. My tongue seeks hers, and when she opens her mouth to me, I stroke along her perfect, white teeth. She tastes like the cherry lip gloss and I know that cherry candy will now be my favorite flavor until the day I die.

I can feel her nipples harden against my chest, and I push my hard-on into her, desperate for relief. She groans and stands on her tiptoes, grinding her pelvis against me as she does.

My hands move up her sides, my thumbs finding the underneath of her breasts. If there were a form that was considered geometrically perfect, the curve of that sweet spot where her breasts meet her chest would be it. That curve should represent the most complex mathematical equation there is, and God, how I'd love to be the one man to solve it.

A car on the street honks, and I'm broken out of my spell. I pull back, breathing hard, my eyes searching her face for any sign of what she's thinking.

"I'm sorry," I say, quickly taking a step back. "I shouldn't have done that."

She has that look, the one where she's about to give me hell. If I weren't so embarrassed by my actions, I'd have to smile. As it is, I steel myself for her anger.

"I'm not sorry," she says. "
We
did that, not you. I kiss who I want, when I want, how I want." Her voice grows husky. "And I want you. To kiss—and a whole hell of a lot more."

I turn and pace a few steps away, running my hand through my hair. "But you shouldn't,
linda
. And you shouldn't say shit like that to men, especially not dangerous ones."

"You're not dangerous," she huffs out as she folds her arms across that perfect chest.

I feel a surge of adrenaline and stride forward until I’m looking down at her, her defiant stance mirroring my harsh one. "I am, little girl," I tell her firmly. "Not in the obvious ways. I would never raise a hand to you or any woman. But make no mistake—I'm dangerous as hell to you."

We freeze there, in a standoff of wills, and as committed as I am to protecting her, I also know, deep inside, that I can't deny her anything—even when that anything is me.

"Why did you join the RH?" she asks softly, breaking the stalemate.

I blink a couple of times, trying to let my body and my heart catch up with my brain. Shit.

"What?" I ask, stalling.

"Why did you join the RH?"

"You know the answer to that. I didn't want to get deported. They gave me forged papers, if you need me to spell it out."

"You wouldn't have been deported," she says confidently.

I scoff. "You don't know that, and I sure as hell didn't know it at the time."

"So"—she steps away and walks past me onto the patio—"you thought joining an organization that would almost certainly end up getting you killed or put in prison would be better than getting sent back to Mexico to live with your mom?"

I'm unable to respond. I am clearly fucked at this point. My jaw opens and closes, but no words come out.

"I mean, I can't believe that your mom would have thought it was better for you to be in prison than poor in Mexico. Right?"

I scratch my head and look down at my ankle with its big, plastic cuff. I hate this fucking cuff. It's almost harder having freedom right outside the door but not really within reach.

"Look, it was a long time ago and what's done is done. All I can do now is work with what I've got. Which ain't a hell of a lot, and that's why you can't be in the middle of it."

"Too late,
vato
. I am in the middle of it, and after a kiss like that, there's no way you're going to chase me off now." She stalks back to me, placing her hands on my chest, her palms pressing heat into my skin even through my T-shirt. "See, you gave yourself away with that kiss. No man kisses a woman like that unless he really feels something for her."

"I've never denied that I feel something for you," I whisper.

"Then you can't deny
me
. You can't tell me to lock my feelings away and pretend this isn't something important."

"Please don't do this, Beth. You know I can't resist you forever."

She nods, a devilish smile playing around her lips. "Exactly," she murmurs as she reaches up and initiates another steaming-hot kiss. When she pulls back, I'm dizzy with the closeness of her. My hands are on her arms, and I can't stop myself from running my fingers up and down her silky skin.

She looks down at my left arm. "Is it her?" she asks softly.

My eyes follow hers. The picture inked into my skin was copied from a newspaper, and it looks like a photograph, the details fine grained and multi-dimensional.

"Yeah," I say, my voice rough. "Amanda Johnson. This was her first-grade photo that they took in school the year she died."

I see Beth's eyes mist up. "Why? Why did you get this?" she asks, her voice trembling.

"So I'd never forget. So I'd always remember the price that's been paid for me to have a life, no matter what kind of a life that might be."

"You didn't kill her," she states factually, laying her head against my chest as my arms move to her back and rub gently.

"Does it even matter if I did or not? I'm as guilty as anyone. Anyone who was in the RH is equally guilty. The entire way of life is guilty. That poor kid was doomed the moment she was born into a gang family. You can't know what that's like, Beth. The gangbanger life is encoded into DNA or something. You're born to it and it'll find you one way or another. She never stood a chance. Just like I didn’t."

She looks at me closely. "No. You're not going to waste yourself like you intend. I know you're keeping something from me—from all of us. I know it's what will save you, so I'll find out what it is eventually. Until then, I'm going to keep coming to see you. I'm not going to leave you here alone. I'm coming back soon with my sister and her boyfriend. Then, when you get your cuff off, I'll be here and we'll figure out together how to keep the RH from taking you back. We lost you once, Juan.
I
lost you once. I won't let it happen again."

She gives me a sweet, chaste kiss on the cheek then walks next door, leaving me with an aching dick and a tangled mind.

Later that night, I open the envelope Father Jorge gave me. It's already getting worn from the hundred times I've looked at the contents. I pull out the newspaper clipping from the San Antonio Express. The photo is too small to see the man's face very well. He is wearing Aviators and a business suit as he walks through the airport, his well-toned physique clearly evident under the expensive fabric. His hair has only a small amount of gray at the temples, and like everything else about him, it's styled perfectly. He looks like a CEO or a movie producer.

I read the caption below the photo.
Purported
1
Santos Mexicanos leader Miguel Ybarra arrived in San Antonio yesterday for what he is calling "personal business." Authorities did not respond to inquiries from the Express about what the cartel boss could possibly be doing in the US. Ybarra has been banned from the country for over twenty-five years, but he recently got a reversal of the decades-old decision against him.

I lie on my bed, the newspaper clipping over my heart as I stare up at the drab ceiling. I measure out my breaths, that thing I do when everything around me feels so out of control. I can always control myself, and that’s what I’ve come to rely on. But now I’ve encountered two things that are wrecking that self-control I’ve relied on for so many years—Beth Garcia and Miguel Ybarra.

I pick up the clipping and focus on his image one more time. I try hard as I can to control what I feel when I look at the photo, but I can't. I'm cold and angry and empty. And I know that he's getting closer every day, and there might not be anyone who can protect me this time around.

1
Santos Mexicanos = The Mexican Saints

I
visit Juan two more times before I bring Alexis and her boyfriend, Gabe, over. Each time, he tells me not to come back. Each time, I give him a kiss goodbye and say that I’ll see him in a few days. In between those battles, we talk—about growing up, about his mom, about plants. I explain my research project to him, and he asks about it when I see him the next time. I tell him my favorite drink at Starbucks, and he tells me he’s never been to a Starbucks. He says gangbangers don’t drink coffee. I laugh and ask him what gangbangers do drink. He says, “Coke and Colt 45.” I laugh harder.

The third week, I bring Alexis and Gabe. I know they only want to meet Juan because they think he’s dangerous, but I don't care. I want him to see how many people will care about him if he'll let them.

I watch as Gabe, a former Army MP who can give Juan's bad-assery a run for the money, sizes up the guy I’m falling hopelessly in love with. Once some sort of unspoken acceptance occurs between the two of them, an awkward conversation about tattoos takes place, ink apparently being the only thing the super-mechanic and my gangbanger have in common. At the end of the visit, Juan asks Alexis to keep me away from him and my heart is a little worse for wear.

I ride home with Gabe and Alexis, and I’m acutely aware of how difficult it’s going to be to integrate Juan into any sort of normal life. I’m at a loss as to how I’ll ever convince him he can live in the regular world when simple conversations with normal people are so fraught with landmines.

All the usual questions—what do you do for a living, did you go to college, where do you live—were off-limits. Anyone with any sense will notice within a few minutes of meeting Juan that he has a seven-year gap in his life. Years that can't be mentioned, discussed, exposed. And that’s if they even get to the point of speaking to him, because he’s more than a little intimidating to look at.

The tattoos are visible—on his arms, his neck, his shoulders, and his chest. And they aren't hipster, weekend tattoos; they’re gangbanger tattoos—the RH crown, the stars on his shoulders, three teardrops on his left hand between his index finger and his thumb. It makes me feel nauseated to think the teardrops might mean what urban legend claims they do—one for each murder the wearer has committed. I never fear what Juan might do to me, but I often fear what he might be capable of doing in general.