Friday Night Chicas Page 3

  “But ask yourself this,” Lydia said. “Are you sure you’re not into him because of what’s his name?”

  “Dean. His name was Dean.”

  “Anyone who shits on my hermanita don’t have no name to me. And don’t change the subject.”

  Until Lydia brought the bastard up, my ex never even entered my mind. Now I was starting to second-guess myself.

  “I have to get back.”

  Lydia made this strangled noise. “You always do that! And don’t you hang up on me!”

  “I wasn’t! You know, you’re getting mean in your old age.” I wanted her to get mad at me, to stop asking those questions I didn’t want to answer.

  “Whatever. And speaking of ‘mean,’ when are you finally going to call Mom?”

  “When she gets off her moral high horse and apologizes for what she said.”

  “She didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Really? Oh, so she must’ve been talking about someone else when she said something about me driving Dean away.”

  “Still—”

  “Still nothing. I have to go.”

  “Fine. Call me around three-thirty. The baby will be up then.” Click.

  I swung around to the face the mirror. My hands were shaking and I half-hoped Sebastian had been snatched up by She-Ra so the decision would be taken from me. But I also hoped he would still be waiting.

  Get back in the game. Finish this out, I told myself while flattening out my gown against my thighs and double-checking to make sure the back hadn’t hiked up in my panties.

  I said to my reflection, “Play this by ear. Be cool.” And for good measure I did another lipstick check. “George Lucas didn’t sleep with anyone’s brother.”

  I walked out of the restroom and wound my way back to the hall where Sebastian bounced his fist on the marble balustrade, staring down at the party below.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  His head swung around and he smiled when I stood beside him. “I am.”

  Keep it steady, old girl. “You ever going to tell me where?”

  “You told me to surprise you.”

  “That was back down there.”

  “What’s the fun in changing the rules?” He walked toward the stairs, his jacket puckered under his hands in his pockets. “Come on.”

  “Seriously, where are we going?” I followed.

  He took one step down. “They’ve got a combo playing at the Penthouse.”

  My ex-boss couldn’t get into the Penthouse, an ultrachic jazz bar that didn’t advertise its phone number.

  “Okay,” I said as if I could drop in whenever I wanted.

  So I took that step down and we ambled side by side down to the main floor. Without any warning Sebastian snatched my hand. Impulse made me tug loose, but he held on tight. “Let’s go.”

  He nearly yanked my arm out of my socket. I put on the brakes to miss someone who looked suspiciously like Keanu Reeves. But because I was being dragged through a crowd of people, I really couldn’t tell.

  We broke free at the doors and the cold night stung my bare skin. Without the photographers and the limelight, the red carpet lost its glamour. All that remained from the frenzy were the remains of soda cans, fast food bags, and press passes.

  He turned, looking like a boy who’d just ditched class after recess.

  “What was all tha—”

  His hand came around my head and he kissed me again, a wild reckless kiss that in spite of the gummy sidewalk and the trash swirling at our feet was the stuff movies were made of. And the stuff of what could be my undoing.

  “What was all that about?” I asked, feeling my eyes uncross as he pulled away.

  “I felt like doing it. I like kissing you.”

  “Oh.”

  He pulled away until he held on to my fingertips and turned me in a half circle.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, laughter at his silly antics getting the better of me.

  “Making you walk on the inside of the sidewalk. Sorry, Mom’s dating rules.”

  His hand squeezed mine as we strolled down the street. It was getting to be a habit, but I couldn’t help but ask again. “Isn’t the parking lot somewhere back there?”

  “Don’t worry, querida, I know exactly where I’m going.”

  My protests fluttered away when he tugged me to his side and walked the rest of the way with his arm draped over my shoulder.

  Chapter Six

  Always look and act like a lady. Never let a boy go to your bedroom alone in my house. And sit like you have a dime between your knees.

  —Dating advice from Isela’s mom after Isela’s quincenera

  We arrived at the Penthouse, one of those super-trendy places with a rooftop pool and servers who think they’re better than you. While Sebastian made a phone call, I settled in our booth with a lemon drop martini and too much time to think.

  “Is this the kind of stuff you drink when I’m not around,” Sebastian said from behind me as I sipped my martini.

  “Important call?” I asked, watching him take my drink away. He’d taken another call after we’d torn up the dance floor.

  For a six-foot white guy, Sebastian could move. So well, you’d never realize I hadn’t inherited the Latin gene for salsa or merengue the way he led me.

  “Naw,” he said. “But I missed you.”

  His fingertips burned through my dress at the waist and we kissed like there wasn’t another soul in the place. And believe me, he was a kisser because I saw Hugh Jackman walk in earlier.

  We broke for air. “Here.” Sebastian lifted my hand as if it were something delicate and led me from the table.

  “I wasn’t finished with my drink.”

  “But you can’t drink while you dance with me.”

  He didn’t give me time to protest. There were way too many good dancers out on the sunken dance floor. Beautiful faces appeared around us, lit by candles and the dim brass lights from the muraled ceiling.

  For the first time in my life, I was dressed appropriately for the occasion.

  Effortlessly, he collected me in his arms and turned me onto the dance floor. “It’s okay.” He pulled me tight against him. “You’re having a good time, right?”

  “I am.”

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

  With each movement, I grew more aware of how powerful his legs felt against mine. “Really I am. I’m just … I’m just not used to places like this,” I admitted.

  His eyes rested on my lips, then back up into my eyes. If I wasn’t trying to keep up with him, I would’ve curled my toes on just that look alone.

  He bent his head down so our cheeks pressed together. “Te gusta bailar?” he asked me in perfect Spanish.

  “Sí. Con tú?” Really, I didn’t mean to say it in that smoky Diana Kral voice.

  He nuzzled my ear and held me against him. “Just let me hold you.”

  I let myself fall into the sultry ballad sung by the woman with a gardenia pinned to her hair. A straight English translation made the song seem overly simple. But the poetic sound of a woman begging her lover to kiss her, kiss her more until the night ended, made this dance with him so much more erotic.

  In these shadows and in the press of the dancers around us, I could move just a little to the right and taste him again. I could tell him without words that I wanted him.

  “Isela, the song is over,” he announced, jarring me out of this warm liquid dream. “I’m thirsty.”

  The new song sounded like a honking horn and jangled noise as he pulled me out of the writhing maze of bodies.

  “What do you want to drink?” he asked, tightening his hold on my hand.

  “Sparkling water,” I said, reality swarming in on me. And when it did, I was twisted and tangled inside. Just one dance and I was lost in fantasies of heart-pumping sex with this man I could’ve used for my own benefit. I wasn’t sure if I could let myself do it.

  “You’re going in the wrong direction
,” he said. “Let’s go out to the pool.”

  We threaded our way to the glass doors that stood open to the pool. Cabanas, some with their drapes shut, and others with candles glowing in hurricane lamps, were placed around the quietly lapping water. White flowers and white candles floated on the surface. Above us the giant Eastern clock glowed mightily.

  I sat on a teak lounger and he sat on the one opposite mine.

  The conversation had worn thin. All we wanted to do was tear each other’s clothes off. “How did you learn to speak Spanish?” I asked him in Spanish.

  “I’m Peruvian.” He blinked and then laughed. “The blond hair and green eyes threw you off, huh?”

  “How can you be Peruvian with a name like Banks?”

  “My stepdad adopted us when he married our mom. My birth name is Sebastiano Romero.”

  “What happened to your dad? I mean, your real one.”

  “They divorced. He’s in Chicago with his family. Are you Mexican?”

  “Yeah. But everyone in Hollywood thinks I’m Jewish.”

  He leaned forward, just shy of kissing distance and said, “Tú eres preciosa.”

  Since I’d dated only white guys in the past, Spanish to me was a language you spoke with your sister at the grocery store or to your elders. I never knew it could be an aphrodisiac.

  A server walked in carrying a silver tray with two glasses of sparkling water, a small tureen filled with melted chocolate, and a plate of strawberries.

  “When did you order this?” I asked.

  He stood up, signed a piece of paper, and then tugged the tent flaps down after the server left. When I reached for my glass, he held up his finger and gestured for me to wait. I’d never met a man, much less a Latino, who not only brought me my drink but made a little plate of dipped strawberries for me.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling special.

  “What can I say? My mother raised me right.”

  Damn straight she did. I’d never tasted chocolate as rich as this before. He held a strawberry to his mouth, watching me lick strawberry juice from my palm.

  “So what did you mean back at the theater? About me passing some test.”

  Chewing, he did bashful real cute, escaping my eyes by looking at the pool. “It’s nothing.”

  “Yeah, it is.” I nudged his knee with mine. “Come on.”

  “I don’t know. I had a feeling about you.”

  “Like what?”

  “You seem real.”

  He took my hand and dipped my finger in the chocolate. “Let’s just say that I’m glad I trusted my instincts.”

  I pressed my thighs together when he drew my chocolate-dipped finger into his warm mouth.

  “So how much do you trust your instincts?” I asked.

  “With everything I’ve got. Especially when it comes to people. I like this between us.”

  His fingers played with the beads along the hem of my dress. I tilted my chin up and kissed him. His hand clamped down over my thigh, massaging my flesh and making my knees want to fall apart for him.

  “Have I told you how much I like this dress?” he asked against my lips.

  “No, you haven’t.”

  He hummed as he traveled down my neck, leaving a trail of shivers by his warm lips and the feel of his hair. Gently he nudged the strap down my shoulder and the hot whisper of his breath against my skin burnt up every one of my mother’s codes for ladylike conduct.

  I wanted to straddle his lap. I wanted his hands under my dress, on the bare flesh of my thighs where my stockings ended. I wanted to feel his skin that radiated heat through his silk shirt and jacket. I wanted to be pressed against him, naked skin and him inside me.

  I nudged to the farthest edge of the lounge, spreading my legs to wrap them around him. “Oh mamí, that’s right,” he whispered against my right breast, his hands holding me by the waist. “Imagine me inside you, Isela.” That set me off. I saw stars and every muscle seized as an orgasm ripped through me.

  Suddenly, my foot kicked over a glass, the water a cold shock against my ankle. He leapt away from me, lost his balance, and his hand caught the strawberries and chocolate that toppled to the floor with a splinter of porcelain. No one had ever done something like this for me and what did I do? I’d literally blown up his sultry scene.

  After the silver bowl made its last wobble I blubbered, “I’m sorry.” I reached to right the broken glass, but my strap was down to my elbow, tying my arm to my side.

  I looked down. My dress pooled crosswise into my lap, revealing my slip, and my legs were wide open. The heel of my shoe stabbed his hand when I clamped them together.

  “It’s okay,” he said, brushing pieces of glass under his lounge. “It’s just a glass.”

  His forehead ridged with irritation as he slapped drops of water off his pants.

  “I’ll be right back,” I announced, suddenly on my feet and tripping toward the tent flaps.

  “Where are you going?”

  When I finally fought one of the flaps out of my way, the lights from the patio illuminated our tarnished little scene. Sebastian’s long legs sprawled under my lounge. Chocolate dripped down into a murky puddle, and decapitated strawberries had scattered everywhere.

  He looked down around him and cracked up laughing. Waving me back, he nearly choked out, “Come here. I need help.”

  Laughter tickled my lips. We looked pretty ridiculous compared to the elegant couples sipping from long-stemmed glasses and the moonlight sparkling on the pool’s surface.

  “Will you please help me?” he asked, and I immediately let the flap fall behind me. “Pull it that way.”

  The lounge chair groaned across the cement.

  Sebastian got to his feet, shaking his head at the spilled chocolate. “They’re going to think you kicked my ass in here,” he said.

  In his arms I felt like the sexiest woman on this earth. Like those Victoria’s Secret models who demonstrate lust by gracefully arching their backs with their hair cascading down their backs. But me, I rip the damn place apart.

  I plopped down on the lounge chair, wringing my helpless purse.

  “Come here, mi fiera.”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Isela, what’s wrong?”

  Why do men ask the dumbest questions?

  He sat next to me when I wouldn’t budge. “I think you’re great. What’s wrong?” he said softly against my neck.

  “Oh please don’t use me to feed your ego,” I snapped.

  His hand fell from my arm and I closed my eyes when he sank back away from me. “What’s going on?”

  I had no idea. I’m not the kind of woman that orgasms with strange men in nightclub cabanas. And yet, I couldn’t imagine saying good night to Sebastian.

  And even though I was in total lust with him, way back in the corner of my mind I wanted to use him to get to his brother. I’m not proud to admit it but I did. Let’s face it. I wanted everything: Sebastian naked and inside me, as well as his brother to give me and my dreams another chance.

  “Let’s go somewhere quiet,” he said gently.

  Turning to face him sent jolts of pleasure through me, and I think with the gold candlelight in our cabana, Sebastian saw it, too.

  Before I took this any further, I had to lay it all out on the table.

  “I came to the party tonight to meet your brother. Not to do this, but to get a meeting with him because I lost my job.”

  Without moving, Sebastian coiled like he’d spring for the nearest exit.

  “I know,” he said. “But if I were some guy you met in a bar or at the grocery store or wherever, any guy, would you still have ended up here with me?”

  “Yeah,” I finally admitted, knowing I sounded fairly pathetic. I didn’t touch him, fearing he’d jerk away from all of my psychodrama tonight.

  “But how do I know that?” he asked and I heard the uncertainty in his voice.

  I let my hand rest on his knee. “See that chocolate on the f
loor? I’d never kick over chocolate like that even for your brother.”

  His hand crept out of the darkness and into the light, landing on top of mine. “Come here,” he whispered.

  He guided me onto his lap, drawing my hand over his heart and my head against his chest. “I want you like this when we wake up tomorrow. Will you come home with me?”

  I closed my eyes and nodded my head, yes.

  Chapter Seven

  So I FINALLY got tired of him rubbing his hands on his pants and did what a woman does when she wants her man’s hands on HER. And no matter what Mom says, men like a woman who takes charge.

  —Lydia to Isela in an email reminiscing about her first date with her husband

  We stayed silent in the elevator ride up to his loft.

  I’d like to think that Sebastian felt what we were about to do was special. But with men, you never ask, which means you hope so without ever really knowing.

  Until, that is, Sebastian’s hand snuck over from his side of the elevator and took my hand when we passed the floor just below Loft V. We didn’t have to look at each other. He squeezed my hand and I squeezed back, like we needed to reassure each other that we were in this together. And then his loft appeared as the elevator doors drew away.

  You know that feeling of inevitability when you look down from the roller-coaster car onto earth hundreds of feet below? That’s what it felt like when my heels clicked on the hardwood floor.

  “This way.” He led me down a short hallway to a large living area with bare, floor-to-ceiling windows. My mouth dropped open when I saw the original poster from The Big Sleep. Not the cheesy version with Robert Mitchum, but from the real deal with Bogie and Bacall. God, I loved those sophisticated opening credits with their silhouettes smoking cigarettes.

  His brother’s collection should probably have been in a museum or at least a Planet Hollywood. The Seven Year Itch (my favorite Monroe movie), It, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, The Manchurian Candidate, and, my God, an original Pyscho were each expertly lighted and framed on the plain concrete walls.