The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(4)

“I thought telling you to go back to church would change your stance on that.” Chuito shrugged. “I—” He paused and then turned to the door. He grabbed the handle and twisted it. “Go, Alaine. I’m drunk. You’re drunk.”

“You think you can just dismiss me?”

“It’s my apartment,” he reminded her. “I’m dismissing you. Right now.”

“Fine.” She grabbed her purse off the kitchen table and brushed past him.

Her door next to his was locked, so she had to fish in her purse, but her hands were shaking and she was crying. She was embarrassed, and she wished she had grabbed the bottle off the counter so she could drink all his tequila and just pass out to escape her life. Especially when she could feel Chuito standing there staring at her while she cried over her crushed heart and ego.

“Here’s an idea,” Chuito said slowly as if he didn’t trust himself to speak, but he did anyway. “Maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s them.”

“It’s not,” she assured him as she found her keys. “It’s me.”

“You’re wrong.” He sounded sure about it too. “I guarantee you, if those f*ckers told you that you’re cold, then it’s them.”

“I can’t do it alone either.” She put her key in the door and turned the lock. “It’s me, Chu. Be happy you’re not interested. I’m leaving you alone now.”

She stepped in, closed the door, and threw her purse on the floor. Then she walked to her bedroom, her breathing ragged, the tears dripping down her chin as she kicked off her shoes. She pulled off her top and threw it on her comforter in a huff.

Alaine sat down on the edge of her bed and buried her face in her hands. Five years, and she couldn’t stop herself from loving him. From wanting him. From thinking about him every waking moment.

She hated herself for living for those times, late at night, when she’d hear his dreams turn into nightmares, and she’d have a reason to go to him. He was so different at night, without the impenetrable shields he put up during the day.

She closed her eyes, imagining what he would look like with the covers pushed down around his waist, the edge of his boxer briefs barely visible, all that beautiful, tanned, and tattooed skin showing.

The door to the apartment burst open, and she just had a second to grab her shirt and cover herself before Chuito was filling up the doorway to her bedroom.

“Co?o.” Chuito looked at the ceiling rather than Alaine sitting there with her arm across her chest. He turned as if he was going to leave, but he stopped, showing her his back. He put his hand on the frame and swallowed hard before he asked quietly, “What do you mean, you can’t do it alone?”

“Really?” She laughed. “I have to spell it out to you? The gangster. The man who is too bad to be with someone good?”

“Just answer the question, Alaine,” Chuito said with his back still to her. “Spell it out for me. Remember, we don’t speak the same first language.”

She rolled her eyes, because that one was very old. The different-cultures excuse had expired three years ago. “Spare me.”

“Did you put your shirt on?”

“No, I didn’t.” She threw it at him for good measure. He flinched when it hit his back. “I’m not an angel, and you’re not a devil. So what are you going to do ’bout it?”

“It is official that you’re not allowed to drink Patrón anymore,” Chuito growled.

“It’s my apartment.” She tried to imitate his harsh, unbending way of demanding things. “Get out.”

“Why are you taking this so f*cking personally?” Chuito asked in disbelief.

“It is personal, and you know why.”

“Ay Dios mio.” He gripped at the door frame so hard his knuckles lightened with the effort. “Just tell me why you think you can’t do it alone.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t want you to think you’re broken.” His voice was suddenly choked with agony. “I care about you. I don’t want you to marry some pendejo who doesn’t know what he’s doing and have you spend the rest of your days unhappy. I want you to enjoy life. That’s all I want.”

“I’m going to be unhappy. Married or not. The man I love won’t be with me. I tried dating, Chuito. I tried going back to the church and being with my people, as you so politically incorrectly put it. Didn’t work out. Now get out.”

“Are you gonna tell me?” he asked as if he didn’t hear the rest of her speech.

“Are you deaf?”

“That’s not very politically correct either.”

“You’re a nasty drunk!” she yelled at him.

Chuito laughed. “Trust me, I don’t win the award for that tonight.”

“I can’t come,” she announced, because he clearly wasn’t going to leave otherwise. “I have tried. Alone. With a partner. I can’t do it. I don’t know why. Time for you to leave.”

Chuito was silent for several heartbeats before he asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I think I’d notice if I had an orgasm.”

Chuito ran his hand down the door frame, his back muscles tense as if he was having an inner battle with himself. Then he rested his cheek against the wood and whispered, “I could make you do it.”