The Delivery (20 page)

I try to swallow down the tears and get a grip for him. If I’m feeling this onslaught of emotion, I can’t even imagine what it all must be doing to him. I grab his hand and pull it to my thigh.

“This must be so difficult,” I say, squeezing his arm.

He nods his head but keeps his eyes glued to the video of her walking town the runway, hanging onto her tiara and a huge bundle of roses.

“My dad came to see me in LA when I turned thirteen. I turned him away. I wanted nothing to do with him.”

“Okay. What’s he got to do with it?”

“I just wanted you to know that. Before we go any further.”

“What about Brisa, do you want to reach out to her? Maybe it would help you and your mom to process what happened—maybe move on from the grief—”

“Are you fucking crazy, Lana? Reach out to her? Don’t you see who she is? You think it’s that easy? Go tell her I’m her long-lost brother and do a happy, televised, family reunion?”

“Maybe just a letter at first? We could call the police?”

Mozey fists his hands through his hair and goes to the mini bar and pops open a beer. I can see his back muscles flex through his t-shirt. He’s so full of anger, I’m afraid he’ll break the bottle.

“Do you realize ‘the family’ that took her are narcos? They would kill me in a second before I could even get close to her.”

“If they love her, maybe they would have some compassion. It sounds like, from her condition, she may not have that much longer.”

“I’ve spent my entire life needing her to be okay.”

I head to the fridge and pull out a mini of rum and pour it into a glass with some Coke.
Stay with the same booze and then you won’t lose.
My friend Janey’s saying echoes in my head. I’ve got a mind to drink the whole damn mini bar anyway and then take Mozey to bed.

“And now she is okay, but she might need you to get better. It’s all very sensational. I bet we could just contact her.”

“If you think for a second that the authorities and politicians aren’t in cahoots with the drug lords, then you know nothing about Mexico. In this country the corruption runs so deep that the good guys and bad guys are one in the same. Tell the police and they’d silence us before we could ever even open our mouths.”

A clip of Cristina, the Cuban talk show host is playing, and Brisa, or Ana María Miramontes as the rest of the world knows her, is telling her story and could have only been maybe fourteen in the episode. Cristina is digging for info into her adoption and the details of her disease, highlighting her chronic pain. Cristina asks her about transplants and donors, and Ana María visibly crumbles. She admits a kidney from a biological family member could save her. Her immune system is too compromised to support any other kind of donor. She wipes the fat tears from her eyes as they cascade onto her blouse.

Cristina goes in for the kill and looks deep into the camera. She blinks her eyes earnestly and tilts her head as if to make her plea sound like genuine compassion instead of bait for good ratings. She begins to summon Ana María’s birth family, if they’re watching, to come forward and help this poor, dear, precious little thing.
She could survive with a transplant, please, please come find her.
Her adoptive mother grips Cristina’s hand and brings forth the water works which splash onto her surgically enhanced breasts and dot her shirt with blackened tears of mascara. Her lips are injected full of fillers and twisted into an uncomfortable looking grimace. “Please,” she begs. “Help us save her!” —a performance dramatic enough to rival the heavyweight telenovela players.

I can’t help but note as she stares into the camera, that she’s holding Cristina’s hand and not her daughter’s. Mozey closes the computer and stands up, crossing his arms around his strong chest.

I feel sick to my stomach. It’s bad enough that they ruined his life and his mother’s but now they want to cut him up and start stealing his body parts. And I know it’s so incredibly selfish that I’m angry and already grieving because I never got to have him to myself before all of this happened. I stand too and move slowly toward him.

“How long ago was that special?”

“A little over three years ago.”

“What can I do to help you right now?” I need direction from him. I’m almost too scared to touch him.

“I need to go paint,” he says, raking his fingers through his hair again and breathing out slowly.

“Do you want me to come?”

“No, I need to be alone.”

And all by himself, Mozey storms off to take on the night.

Chapter 29

K
ill me already. It’s three a.m.

The longest night ever is the one spent alone in a hotel room waiting for the man you love to come back to you. Hours of being unsure how to help him deal with the heavy burden he’s carrying, hours of wondering if he’s just processing or if he’s out there doing something destructive. Try not being one hundred percent sure if he would hurt himself or others, that he’s not breaking the law to release all of his accumulated anger. Because you’re in love with an artist who expresses himself with rebellion and whose art form is important but also illegal.

I bite my cuticles until they bleed, wondering if I should have insisted on going with him or if I should have taken my clothes off and distracted him with sex. Throw myself at him, beg him—anything to get a different reaction. My phone makes a ping. I dive out of bed and snatch it, pulling it to my face. I can barely read without my contacts in. But it’s a text from Tommy and not from Mozey.

“Check out Ana María Miramontes when you get a chance. Rocco and I both swear she’s your man’s long lost twin.”

I smile at Tommy’s voice despite the current predicament. I wonder what those two are like when they’re clean and in San Diego. I need to see them both again.

“It IS her. Or at least we think. We just found out. And she need’s Mo’s kidney.”

The bubbles on the text are moving but nothing comes through. It’s like Tommy is writing and erasing, unable to decide what he should say. I write back first because I don’t want to stress them.

“He’s dealing with it—we are. We’ll figure it out.”

“Cher, it’s Rocco. Up here you always have a place to stay. We don’t need any kidneys. Be careful. Sounds kind of sticky.”

“Thanks, guys.” I smile through my tears. My eyes already feel swollen to the brink from crying.

“Mozey is upset and it would be impossible to contact her without creating a media storm. But she’s his baby sister. He loves her and he’s always felt like he failed to protect her. I don’t even know how we’d begin to go about trying to reach her.”

“You’re kidding right, Lanabanana? Didn’t you learn anything from us?” I can tell it’s Tommy who wrote it from the change in terms of endearment.

“Yes, how to do drugs and slut it up at gay foam clubs.” I sass back to them, but as soon as the text sends, I clutch my cell phone in my hand and bang it against my own head.

“That’s probably what he’s out doing now. I’m sorry I’m so thick when it comes to this stuff. I blame my parents and cultural differences. I never was and never will be one of the cool kids,” I type back.

“You’re cool to us, Cher. Stay in touch. Don’t do anything dumb.”

I put down the phone and smile at the interaction. I love those two, and I love knowing that they’re still there for me if I need them. If things don’t work out with Mozey, it’s down to Janey, Alexei or Tommy and Rocco’s doorsteps I’ll arrive on dragging my one bag of possessions.

After checking Mozey’s Instagram account as well as the news for any illegal paintings popping up, I decide to order room service and just wait up for him. I scan through the channels and come across some footage of Ana María Miramontes in her hospital bed. She looks to be explaining the grueling nature of dialysis while in full hair and makeup, a push-up bra creating sexy cleavage through her pale pink hospital gown. She’s still a kid for Christ’s sake, there’s no need to make it sexy.

I wonder if I would feel sorry for her if she didn’t look so much like Mozey. I feel like she’s on the other side, the one opposite from us. Did she think about them at all or try to find them before she needed something? Even more so because she wants him to open his body up and share it with her without even knowing how much he’s already suffered.

But her tears pull at my heartstrings especially on the huge, wide screen TV, a giant head in a feminine near replica of the man I can’t get enough of. I can’t win. If he wants to chop himself up for her, then I’ll have to support him. Because that’s what love takes, right? Loving the weird shit too and holding each other’s hands through the thick of it. I mean, Mozey loved Alexei, and that’s not an easy task. So I will love Ana María Miramontes or Brisa Robles or whatever the fuck her name is. Even if she is a constant reminder of his painful past and she asks for his body parts on national TV without ever meeting him or knowing he lives with a black hole of guilt for believing that she died and he lived—only by stealing her milk.

I’m awakened by Mozey’s hand on my shoulder, and I sit up with a start. My muscles are all cramped and tight, staging a protest against me for falling asleep in the chair. I prickle all over at his touch, and he brushes his fingers down the nape of my neck, gently feathering my collarbone. I can smell the paint on his hands, and I know that he’s released some of the emotion already by painting it out.

“Are you okay? Did you send her a public message?” I ask as I reach for my glasses.

“Shhhh.” Is all he says as he strokes from my collarbone, along my shoulder and slips his hand into my shirt. There’s the sharp bite of paint mixed with sweat on his skin. He smells like night and adrenaline, but with no hint of fear. It’s the lack of fear that scares me. Mozey isn’t indestructible and he’s no longer a teenager, but you wouldn’t know that from his actions. Mozey walks through life with one foot slung casually into the grave, smiling and laughing and giving the finger to danger.

I tense with his touch, wondering if he only wants to be physical to scare away the emotions, if he’s just looking for another outlet to blow of some steam. What I want is to be physical to connect with him, but it can’t always be about me. If Mozey needs to use my body to help block the pain, then I’ll concede to his desires. I’ll be a body for taking even though I want to be a body for loving.

His hand finds my breast, and now, I’m really awake. He pinches my nipple, sending shockwaves traveling down throughout my entire body. He’s standing behind me, so I can’t see his face. But I have all of him memorized from so many years of wanting. Wanting without touching, observing with space. I know by heart the intense look on his face, how his nostrils flare ever so slightly when he kisses me. How he smiles warmly when he thinks I’m endearing. I’ve never been teased with so much love; it’s a talent that is quintessentially Mozey. I hear his exhale run coarsely out of his throat, and he torments my nipples, coaxing them into pain and pleasure receptors until I’m properly soaked. I tip my head over the back of the chair and look up into his face. His eyes are closed. He licks his lips and swallows.

“Kiss me,” I say, letting my hair cascade over the edge of the furniture. Mozey’s eyes fly open, and he looks upon me with a softness that I wasn’t expecting. He kisses my face upside-down and continues the delicious torture of my nipples until I moan into his mouth and reach my arms up to clasp his face. He runs his fingertips down the length of my arms and ever so softly brushes his fingertips over my armpits.

“Move forward on the chair,” he says, his voice gone husky and gravely with staying up all night.

He comes around to the front of the chair and gets down on his knees, sliding his hands under my ass and jerking me toward him. Then he bites. And not just a love bite, but a full-on wolf-bite with his teeth, on my crotch—right through my clothes. I shriek in surprise, and he looks up at me with eyes full of tenderness and lust.

“Take your clothes off, Lana. I’m done fucking around.”

I shimmy out of my pajama pants and yank off my top, placing my hands between my legs and trying to cover up how wet I am through my thin cotton panties.

“Funny, Moisés, ‘cause I could swear that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He places his fists at my hips and makes short work of my underwear. Now I’m naked in front of him. My body is alight with chills, and at the same time, my flesh is burning.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I whisper, covering my breasts.

“I’ve never been surer.”

He loops one hand under my thigh and pulling my leg up brings my sex to his mouth. I close my eyes and let my head fall back again, over the arm of the chair.

Mozey’s mouth is perfection: his tempo, his grace, the lazy insistence of his tongue. His touch dissolves me, and I melt and fold myself into it. I hold back everything to keep from coming into his mouth. I want his whole body pressed against mine, to feel the weight of his flesh. I want to see his face, look right into his eyes so he can see what he does to me.

“Please stop,” I gasp, grabbing ahold of his hair. “Take me to bed,” I plead, breathless from lust.

He grabs me around the waist and hikes me up to his chest. How strange it is to be close like this when we’ve been close in every other possible way besides this. Has it all been leading up to this moment or is this the beginning of the end? Once we consummate our mutual obsession, will our friendship be dead?

Mozey lays me on the bed and aggressively tosses off the pillows. There are so many pillows the tossing is inordinately long, and I giggle. Mozey’s eyes are almost black, and they glimmer with mischief. He lays his body over mine and props up on one elbow, taking my face in his other hand. He looks at me earnestly, then brings his mouth to mine. I’ve always admired Mo’s mouth more than any other feature. He can kiss so soft and adoringly, yet he’s got the kind of mouth that looks like it could make a short meal of me. It’s wolfish and wide, his lips full and defined. He’s got naturally sharp canines, and we already know that he bites.

In a single breath, his kiss goes from sweet to ferocious as his tongue, at first timid, thrusts deeply into my mouth. His lips trail a path to my breast, and his fingers delve between my legs, uncovering the center of my longing. I’m almost embarrassed by how wet I am, but I can’t help but respond to his hand as he pushes deeply inside me. I shamelessly ride his hand as he fucks me with his fingers. I’ve been waiting so long to have him my body is in overdrive, drowning in desire.

“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure as to why I’m apologizing.

“The only thing I’m sorry about is not doing this sooner.”

Mozey reaches for his belt buckle, and I grab his hand to stop him.

“I want to do it.”

His face breaks into a smile, and he rolls to the side, throwing his hands up in surrender. He watches me carefully as I undo his belt buckle and unzip his pants. I reach into his underwear and wrap my hand around his thick shaft. I really think I could come from just touching him and inhaling his scent. A spontaneous orgasm. It wouldn’t be a surprise considering all of the times I’ve reached orgasm from touching myself while imagining it was him who was doing the touching.

I throw my leg over his hip, and Mozey reaches behind his head tugging off his shirt from the back of his neck. Then we’re naked together, and I relish every point of contact between our two bare-skinned bodies. He kisses me again, and I become liquid heat. First my bones, then my muscles all melt away until I’m nothing but flesh with ten million pinpoints of sensory receptors. Mozey rolls on top of me and pushes my thighs apart with his knees. I want him inside of me, to fill me with himself. My hips thrust toward his pelvis, but my conscious is battling me. There’s still a tiny part of me that wants to shove him off and stop. I don’t want to ruin us; it’s all too precious to me. Am I leaving tomorrow? Will I never again see him?

“You want me to back off?” he asks, his breath coming fast in my ear.

He recognizes the doubt in my face. I love him for that.

I love that he has so much self-control. I feel like most men wouldn’t even acknowledge it. They’d try to pretend they didn’t see. Mozey touches my face again and kisses me both tender and deep. He holds his weight off with his arms so he’s not grinding himself into me. I love his decency. I love his restraint. I love both of those things as much as I love his sexuality.

“Do you want to just shower and get something to eat? Maybe we should try to see the city before we head back up North?”

“You don’t want this?” I ask, this time my mouth taking charge and capturing his. He kisses me back with an enthusiasm that is heart stopping.

“I’m just as scared as you are, Lana. I want this more than anything, but I want it to last for us too. I don’t want anything you’re not ready for.”

We stare at each other, searching for answers in one another’s eyes. Then Mozey rolls off of me and strides to the shower. His hard-muscled ass is amazing, and I can’t tear my eyes from his form.

“Might as well get up, Lana. We got work to do today. I already sent a message out to the media that I’d be taking a DNA test.”

“What?”

Apparently he’s got big plans he’s not letting me in on.

I hear him turn on the shower and flush the toilet in the bathroom. I slip into his discarded t-shirt and wrap my arms around myself. I know he’s respecting my hesitancy, but I can’t help but feel a little bit rejected. Maybe it will never happen. I should resign myself to that. We’re too much like partners or best friends to up and become lovers. Maybe there’s no spark. But why am I lying to myself? There’s a spark there for me—a blistering hot charge. It’s burning. I can feel it. And when I felt Mozey in my hands; he was so fucking hard.

I open the sliding glass door and step into the shower after I’ve taken off his shirt. I cling to his body and sob like a child into his neck.

“We’ll get there, baby. The time wasn’t right,” Mozey says, moving my wet hair away from my face and stroking my back. “We’ve got plenty of days ahead of us to figure out how we work.”

I nod my head and sniffle and accept the bar of soap from him. He’s still swollen and hard, and I can’t stop admiring his nakedness and the masculine perfection I always imagined would be there. It’s even better in person. I can’t help but feel sad because our relationship keeps running in circles and we never seem to get anywhere.

“You know I want you right? I’ve always wanted you. That wasn’t a rejection,” he says and pushes me against the tile wall. His kiss is demanding and urgent and steals my full attention. Then his hand slips between my legs, and he connects with my beating pulse there. He’s agile and quick and uses the precise amount of pressure. When his fingers enter me, my whole body contracts and then shudders.