Filfthy (17 page)

Z
ane

“
I
’ve never flown
on a plane this small before.” Delilah’s face is pale and her shoulders shake as she sucks in small breaths.

“Relax, gorgeous.” I place my hand on her shoulder. “We’re in good hands here.”

I nod toward my buddy, Rodrigo, a retired Air Force fighter pilot who happens to run a chartered plane service out of Gainesville.

“We’ll be there in a few hours,” I assure her. “It’ll fly by. Literally.”

She doesn’t laugh, she only studies the plane, her gaze flittering nervously.

“You can hold my hand the whole way if you want.” I lift my brows, half-teasing. I slip my hand in hers as Rodrigo loads our luggage and a small crew prepares us for takeoff.

Leading her closer to the plane, I help her up the steps and get her buckled in. She hasn’t said more than a few words in the last ten minutes.

“Where are we going?” She watches Rodrigo’s every move as he climbs into the cockpit, plugs the coordinates into his navigator, and fires it up.

“You guys ready to see the Windy City?” Rodrigo yells over the loud drone of the twin engines.

Delilah’s face lights up as her gaze snaps into mine. “You’re taking me to Chicago?”

I smile. “Yeah. That cool with you?”

She nods, grinning ear to ear. “What are we doing there?”

“Anything you want to do,” I say. “We just have to lay low. Can’t be going to any Cubs games or anywhere we might catch media attention.”

The plane taxies to the runway, and I spot Delilah running her palms along her jeans. Reaching over, I take her hand into mine as we’re propelled forward.

* * *

W
e check
into our hotel on Michigan Avenue separately. I reserved one ‘dummy’ room that’ll be sitting empty for the weekend, but that’s the price I have to pay to get away with Delilah, and I’m completely fine with that.

“You ready yet?” I call out from the edge of the king-sized bed that centers our suite.

“One more minute,” she calls back.

“You said that a minute ago.”

I flip through the stations until I find ESPN, and lo and behold, there’s a feature running on some up-and-coming running back out of Texas. Several clubs are up in arms over which team he’s going to sign with, and according to the commentary, rumor has it it’s down to Gainesville or Atlanta.

“Well, fuck me.” I throw the remote. For once, Carissa wasn’t lying through her teeth. My jaw hinges tight, my fist clenching. I refuse to believe he’s going to knock me out of my spot in the staring lineup, but this . . . this is definitely a game changer.

Exhaling slowly to keep myself from grabbing my phone and making some calls I might regret later, I find distraction in the form of an incredibly beautiful woman standing on the other side of the room.

“Okay, I’m ready.” Delilah stands in the doorway between the bedroom and en suite bath, her hands pressed against the interior frame and her body hugged by a tight little black dress that hits mid-thigh.

Grinning, I rise and move toward her, my boxer briefs suddenly growing too tight.

“Damn, you’re gorgeous. I say we skip dinner and stay in tonight.” I pull her against my hardness and her mouth curls. “Fuck lobster. I’m eating you tonight.”

“World’s cheesiest pick up line.”

“I’m not trying to pick you up, baby. I’ve already got you.” My lips crush hers, her tongue all mint and velvet. But I know we can’t stay. I’ve made special arrangements for a private rooftop dinner overlooking Lake Michigan at the pier. “Come on, gorgeous. Car’s waiting downstairs.”

* * *

I
can’t stop looking
at her tonight.

And damn have I tried.

My gaze is pulled to her.

Never mind the Ferris wheel or the giant body of water or the throngs of people below. There are a million things to look at, but all I see is Delilah.

She dabs the corners of her mouth with her cloth napkin and sits it aside. “That was amazing. Best lobster I’ve ever had, and believe me, living out east, I’ve had my share. How do you know all these people? Pilots? Chefs?”

“You travel a lot; you meet a lot of people.” I shrug.

Our server checks on us one last time before informing us that our car is waiting below.

“You ready?” I ask.

“Where to next?” A gush of warm summer wind kicks up the hem of her skirt and she smooths it down.

“I thought we could drive around for a bit,” I say. “Maybe you can take me by your college? Show me your stomping grounds? And maybe I’ll show you mine.”

“Sure.”

I slip her hand into mine, and we head down the secret elevator that leads to the alley behind my friend’s restaurant where our driver waits, limo idling.

She takes me to a charming section in the northeast part of town where a small, private college is nestled in a grove of mature trees and gentrified homes and turn-of-the-century mansions converted into student apartments.

“This is where you study the art of psychoanalyzation?” I ask as the limo crawls to a stop outside a brick building with large white columns. Out our other window is an enormous Victorian house strategically painted in shades of purples, greens, and oranges.

“It is,” she says breathlessly. Turning, she points out my window. “And that is where I live during the school year. That big purple house with the three-story turret. My bedroom is actually the third set of windows there.”

“So you’re like a princess in a tower.”

“Hardly,” she chuffs.

I rest my hand across her thigh, and she slips her hand into mine.

“Why’d you want to see where I went to school?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Figured we were in the area, may as well?” I wait for her to question me, but she doesn’t, so I tell the driver to take us to Chaucer Street. I want to show her my
abuela’s
old house. The house I grew up in. “And I wanted to prove to you that you’re more than just a fuck buddy. We’re pretty much friends now.”

Her mouth curls, and she elbows me softly.

“You’re the only person who’ll have ever seen my childhood home,” I say. And it’s true. Mirabelle never had the chance, and I’m not sure I’d have wanted her to see it back then. I was in a different frame of mind, and I wanted nothing to do with my past. Nothing to remind me of how badly I missed Magda.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Wow, de la Cruz. That means a lot.”

Thirty minutes later, our driver pulls up to a leaning two-story with a crooked front door and broken steps. Fifteen or twenty years ago, this place had seen better days. Now it’s all chipped paint and missing shingles. It’s easily the ugliest house on the block now, but glancing up and down the street, I see the real estate investors are already gentrifying this neighborhood. Won’t be long before Magdalena’s house gets the makeover it deserves.

“There it is.” I point. “Lived there from nine until I graduated from high school. It used to look different, but the bones are still there.”

“It’s charming,” she says.

“You lie.”

“No, I’m imagining it in its heyday. I love the slope of the roof, how it’s different from the houses beside it, and I can tell it used to be painted yellow. That’s a happy color.”

“Magda’s favorite.”

“And that wooden door? That can be restored. Just needs to be sanded and stained.”

“Someone will fix it up someday.” I climb out of the car and head for the front steps, where a foreclosure notice is taped on the door. The lights are out and the house is pitch black. Glancing inside, I notice the entire place is empty save for some trash littered all around.

“You should buy it.” Delilah’s behind me now. “You can afford it, right?”

“What would I do with it?”

She shrugs. “Rent it out to someone who’ll take care of it? Pass it down to future de la Cruzes?”

My hands hook on my hips. Future de la Cruzes. That’s so far off my radar it isn’t even funny.

“I’m a long ways from that, gorgeous,” I say.

“Still. This is a piece of your legacy, and you have the power to keep it alive.” She places her hand on my arm. “Anyway, it’s just a thought.”

I’m not one for drudging up the past or lingering too long on Memory Lane, but seeing my childhood home in such a state of decay makes my chest hurt. Magdalena worked hard for this house. Two jobs. Thousands of clipped coupons. She did everything she could to keep me in a safe neighborhood with decent schools.

Glancing up at the top window on the left side, I instantly remember being that twelve-year-old kid with an obsession with football and dreams bigger than his britches.

In a weird sort of way, I’m proud of him.

He never gave up, not even when things got too hard.

Turning to Delilah, I give her a bittersweet smile. I can’t stay here much longer.

“Let’s go back to the hotel.” I point to the car and she nods, heels clicking on the broken, weed-filled sidewalk.

The ride back is mostly quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts I suppose, but every time we pass a streetlight and it shines in, her beautiful face is illuminated, and some kind of peaceful feeling washes over me.

It’s strange and exciting in ways I never could have anticipated with her.

And above all else, it’s scary as hell.

I’m not afraid of much in this life, not after what I’ve gone through, but falling for someone like Delilah is downright terrifying . . .

And I feel it happening in real time.

Sometimes it’s slow.

Sometimes it’s all at once.

Sometimes I can’t get her out of my head, and I replay our moments together on some kind of slow-motion instant replay.

Scratch that. Most of the time I can’t get her out of my head.

But it wasn’t supposed to be like that because in a little over a month, she’ll be gone and life will go on. Today she’s my friend. Tonight she’s my lover. And tomorrow . . .

I can’t think about it. I can’t think beyond right here and right now.

Reaching across the car, I take her hand in mine.

God, it feels good to be close to someone again.

She moves closer, resting her head on my shoulder, and she yawns. Tonight won’t be about sex, and for the first time in a long time, I’m perfectly fine with that.

For some insane reason, I just want to be next to her.

D
elilah

T
his morning
I woke up to Zane’s tongue between my thighs and a covered plate from room service on the bedside table next to me. After that, we did some light shopping and headed to the airport for an early afternoon flight home.

Now I’m back in Laguna Palms, sitting at Aunt Rue’s kitchen table as she grills me about my weekend away.

“That boy is
so
sweet on you.” She says it like it’s a bad thing.

“We’re just friends, Aunt Rue.”

“Who just sweeps a young lady across the country and treats her to a fancy weekend in Chicago?”

“I think he’s lonely.” I wrap my hands around the mug of cappuccino before me, feeling the weight of Aunt Rue’s discerning stare. “He’s been through a lot.”

She scoffs, crossing and re-crossing her legs. “Still no excuse to act like a damn fool.”

“It’s easy to judge him,” I say, glancing across the table at her. “He’s a good person. He means well. His delivery might need a bit of work, but he’s making progress. I mean, he’s a completely different person than the one I met last month. I couldn’t even be around him without seeing red, and now I look forward to seeing him.”

“Oh, Jesus, Delilah. Don’t tell me you’re in love.”

I laugh. “Not in love. Just enjoying each other’s company. As
friends
.”

She gives me a squinty side-eye and rises to refill her coffee. “I don’t know, Delilah. I still think he’s a heartbreaker. Just wait until that shine wears off.”

“Thanks.” My lips purse flat.

“I don’t mean it in a personal way. Every relationship has a shiny period where you look past each other’s misgivings and can’t get enough of each other.”

“Fortunately Zane and I are not in a relationship, so . . .”

“You kids and your complicated social dynamics. I’ll never understand it.” She takes her seat, swatting her hand at me. “Either you’re together or you’re not. There should be no in between.”

“It’s just a summer fling.” I take a sip, looping my thumb through the mug handle. “No strings. We’re just having fun. If either of us gets hurt, it’ll be our own fault for getting attached.”

“
Are
you attached, Delilah?” She peers down the bridge of her nose.

“No. Of course not.”

“Could you walk out of here tomorrow, never see that boy again, and life would go on without a hitch?”

I stare off to the side, trying to imagine what that might feel like, and I find myself struggling to breathe.

“There’s your answer.” Rue slaps the table.

“I feel like you’re mad at me, Aunt Rue . . .”

“I’m not mad. I just love you so much, sweetie, I don’t want to see you get hurt. When I look at you, I see my little string bean with braces and glasses and curly hair that sticks out at the sides.” She wears a warm, melancholy smile. “I want you to stay young and innocent forever. I know. That’s selfish of me.”

“He’s a good guy, Aunt Rue. Maybe he wasn’t always. But he is now. You have to trust my judgment.”

She leans forward, resting her head on her hand, brows lifted. “I suppose you have a point.”

“Whatever he did in his past, whatever version of the truth you’re hanging onto,” I say, wishing so badly I could tell her what he told me. But I can’t. It would be a violation of our unspoken trust. “All I ask is that you let it go.”

“I’ll let it go as long as he doesn’t hurt my niece.” Rue clucks her tongue.

“Fair enough.”

“All right, well, I’m sure you’ve had a long day.” She pats the table and looks at the clock, which reads seven-thirty. “I’m going down for the night. See you in the morning, sweet pea.”

“Goodnight, Aunt Rue.”