Brittany’s tongue snakes out to wet her perfect heart-shaped lips, which are now shiny and oh, so inviting.
“Don’t tease me like that,” I groan, my lips inches from hers.
Her books hit the carpet. Her eyes follow, but if I lose her attention, I may never get this moment back. My fingers move to her chin, gently urging her to look at me.
She looks up at me with those vulnerable eyes. “What if it means something?” she asks.
“What if it does?”
“Promise me it won’t mean anything.”
I lean my head back on the couch. “It won’t mean anythin’.” Aren’t I supposed to be the guy in this scenario, laying down the no-commitment rules?
“And no tongue,” she adds.
“Mi vida, if I kiss you, I guarantee there’s gonna be tongue.”
She hesitates.
“I promise it won’t mean anythin’,” I assure her again.
I really don’t expect her to do it. I think she’s teasing me, testing to see how much I can take before I crack. But as her eyelids close and she leans closer, I realize it’s going to happen. This girl of my dreams, this girl who is more like me than anyone I’ve ever met, wants to kiss me.
I take over control as soon as she tilts her head. Our lips touch for the briefest moment before I lace my fingers in her hair and keep kissing her soft and gentle. I cup her cheek in my palm, feeling her baby-soft skin against my rough fingers. My body urges me to take advantage of the situation, but my brain (the one inside my head) keeps me in check.
A satisfied sigh escapes Brittany’s mouth, as if she’s content to stay in my arms forever.
I brush the tip of my tongue against her lips, enticing her to open her mouth. She tentatively meets my tongue with her own. Our mouths and tongues mingle in a slow, erotic dance until the sound of the front door opening makes her jerk away.
Damn. I’m pissed off. First, for losing myself in Brittany’s kiss. Second, for wanting that moment to last forever. Last, I’m pissed at mi’amá and brothers for coming home at the most awful time.
I watch Brittany trying to look busy as she bends down and picks up her books. My mother and brothers are standing in the doorway with their eyes bugged out.
“Hey, Ma,” I say, more flustered than I should be.
From the stern look on mi’amá’s face, I know she’s not pleased at catching us making out like there was a promise of more to come.
“Luis and Carlos, go to your bedroom,” she orders, stepping into the room and composing herself. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Alejandro?”
Brittany stands, books in hand. “Hi, I’m Brittany.” Even with her sun-kissed hair mussed from my fingers and the motorcycle ride, she’s still kick-ass beautiful. Brittany extends her hand in greeting. “Alex and I were studying chemistry.”
“What I saw wasn’t studying,” my ma says, ignoring her hand.
Brittany winces.
“Mamá, leave her alone,” I say roughly.
“My home is not a whorehouse.”
“Por favor, Mamá,” I say, exasperated. “We were only kissin’.”
“Kissing leads to making niños, Alejandro.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, totally embarrassed. I whip my jacket off the couch and shrug into it.
“I’m sorry if I disrespected you in any way, Mrs. Fuentes,” Brittany says, visibly upset.
My mother takes the groceries she’s carrying, ignoring the apology as she walks into the kitchen.
When we’re outside, I hear Brittany take a deep breath. I swear it sounds as if she’s holding herself together by a thin thread. Not the way it’s supposed to go down: bring girl home, kiss girl, mom insults girl, girl leaves crying.
“Don’t sweat it. She’s just not used to me bringin’ girls in the house.”
Brittany’s expressive blue eyes appear remote and cold. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she says, throwing back her shoulders in a stance as stiff as a statue’s.
“What? The kiss or you likin’ it so much?”
“I have a boyfriend,” she says as she fidgets with the strap on her designer book bag.
“You tryin’ to convince me, or yourself?” I ask her.
“Don’t turn this around. I don’t want to upset my friends. I don’t want to upset my mom. And Colin . . . I’m just really confused right now.”
I hold out my hands and raise my voice, something I usually avoid because like Paco says, it means I actually care. I don’t care. Why should I? My mind says to shut the fuck up at the same time words spout from my mouth. “I don’t get it. He treats you like you’re his damn prize.”
“You don’t even know what it’s like with me and Colin. . . .”
“Tell me, dammit,” I say, unable to hide the edge to my voice. Initially I hold myself back from what I really want to say, but I can’t resist and tell it to her straight up. “ ’Cause that kiss back there . . . it meant somethin’. You know it as well as I do. I dare you to tell me bein’ with Colin is better than that.”
She looks away hastily. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“When people see Colin and me together, they comment on how perfect we are. You know, the Golden Couple. Get it?”
I stare at her in disbelief. That is beyond fucked up. “I get it. I just can’t believe I’m hearin’ it. Does bein’ perfect mean that much to you?”
There’s a long, brittle silence. I catch a flicker of sadness in those sapphire eyes, but then it’s gone. In an instant her expression stills and grows serious.
“I haven’t been doing a bang-up job at it lately, but yes. It does,” she finally admits. “My sister isn’t perfect, so I have to be.”
That is the most pathetic shit I’ve ever heard. I shake my head in disgust and point to Julio. “Get on and I’ll take you back to school to get your car.”
Silently, Brittany straddles my motorcycle. She holds herself so far away from me I can barely feel her behind me. I almost take a detour to make the ride last longer.
She treats her sister with patience and adoration. God knows I wouldn’t be able to spoon-feed one of my brothers and wipe his mouth. The girl I once accused of being self-absorbed is not one-dimensional.
Dios mío, I admire her. Somehow, being with Brittany brings something to my life that’s missing, something . . . right.
But how am I going to convince her of that?
