Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own any of these characters, except Sofia and Ricky.
Note: Thanks to Susan aka Whitmom for the wonderful insight and for editing this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Chapter 2. Let's Dance (Part II)
We took the stairs to his room and locked the apartment door behind us. Lester's apartment was warm and welcoming, decorated in tones of blues and greens that reminded me of the forest and the sky. In the morning, sunlight streamed in through to his living room. Tonight, the moon bathed the room with its light.
I watched him turn on the living room light, a lantern type of lamp that seemed to work well with the room. He wore dark blue jeans with a red bottom up shirt that brought out the green of his eyes.
"It's time we decide the fate of your relationship," I said, forcing the words out.
"I heard that line before somewhere," he said, "maybe a book."
I tilted my head to the side in response to his statement. I remembered the Nelson Mandela's Long Work to Freedom book I found hiding under his bed during my first night at this apartment. He also had a few philosophy books hiding in his closet, such as the Philosophy for Life and Other Dangerous Situations. I grinned. He had given me his bed while he took over the sofa.
Lester grabbed two wine glasses from the kitchen and filled them with red wine. "Thank you," I said when he gave me a glass. I sat to look out at the skyline.
"I think I should go back home," I blurted. He was turning on the radio, but he stilled at my words.
"New York City?" He asked.
"Yes," I said.
"You won't be too far," he mused, sitting next to me. Our proximity should have made me uncomfortable in the current circumstances. "I like you, Angel."
"And I'm not ready for this," I answered.
"Who's going to keep me in line, eh?" He scooted closer to me, snaking an arm around my waist.
"Lester." I paused because I didn't know what to say that didn't sound cliché or cheesy. The reality is that I'm not sure how these things are done in real life. My only points of reference are the historical romances I read on occasions.
"I'm sorry," I said because that was the most appropriate thing to say that came to my mind. "I misled you."
"You didn't answer my question," he said instead.
"About keeping you in line? Don't tell me you don't have any self-restraint." I said without thinking.
"You said that you're not ready, but you didn't say you don't like me." He put our glasses on the floor and took my hands in his, turning them over, tracing the lines of my palm with his thumb. "Sofia, we can't give up before we start." I couldn't argue with him with that one, but…
"It's decided." The sparks in Lester's eyes seemed to go opaque. He took a long sip of his wine, and we sat there, listening to slow jams on the radio and staring at nothing in specific.
"I do believe you owe me a dance," he said suddenly a moment later. I arched an eyebrow; now remembering he had asked me to dance with him at the celebration. He sorted through the songs on his IPod before connecting it. A slow but familiar melody extinguished the silence in the room.
He offered me his hand. I hesitated but accepted it anyway, slowly sliding into his embrace. My casted arm on his shoulder and his hand on my waist, we allowed the dance do the talking for us. The song by Juan Luis Guerra, telling the story of love that was lost and found in a small city in Japan. I almost laughed.
I smiled self-consciously, memories of happier times and joyful dreams coming to the foresight of my mind. We danced slowly, our steps becoming more sensual and eager with which step. I suddenly worried that I had drank too much alcohol, but that wasn't true. I had full function of my body and awareness of how close our bodies were pressed. I could feel his muscle under my hand on his shoulder, his breath on my neck and my breasts pushing against him.
I was floating on a cloud. My body relaxed, and I gave in to my impulses. The song changed to yet another slow Caribbean tune by the same artist. I felt at home in his arms, letting my head drop to his shoulder. I could feel the rhythm of his breathing under my palms. I felt him exhale and pushed my head up to look into his eyes.
"Can I kiss you?" I asked shyly, because I was dying to kiss him, even it was the last time.
He kissed me. I kissed him. It was the type of romance that was felt, not necessarily lived. Men had gone out of their way to do romantic gestures for me in the past, but it never meant anything. Could this be…? I found myself kissing his neck and unbuttoning his shirt to uncover his skin with my one hand. He laughed.
"Let me help you." The shirt was on the floor within seconds, followed by the rest of his clothes. My dress joined the pile ten seconds later.
"Stay with me," he pleaded.
"I can't," I replied. There was hurt in his eyes when I looked at him, our eyes locking. We stared at each other, registering the position of our bodies on the soft rug.
"We should stop." I wiggled out of his hold, grabbing my dress and sliding it on. We sat together in silence, and I bumped my shoulder against his in an attempt to get him to talk to me.
"It would be unwise," I insisted, trying to reason with him. He stood and grabbed his phone, scrolling quickly through in information on the screen. He didn't look happy.
"It looks like Tank needs some help," he said.
"Maybe you should see what he needs," I answered, because I didn't want to make it worse for him. I had gotten drunk in the moment, forgetting the reason we could not be together.
Once he was gone, I used the time to scold myself. What was I thinking? I never let my hormones drive my actions, never. I laid back and stared at the ceiling hoping it would give me the answers I need. Here I was, telling this man that I didn't want a relationship with him, and then I sort of assault him? I blushed. God darn it! What is wrong with me? How is that supposed to help my case?
I took a long shower, and then slumped on the sofa with my guitar on my lap. The music on the radio was not enough to process my feelings. The task of playing the guitar alone distracted me from thinking about how much I… I lusted over him. It also helped process these feelings. The world seemed to dissolve with every stroke of the strings, telling my story to the beat of the music. I played until I felt sleepy, discarding the guitar to the side before falling asleep.
-rs-
The screaming woke me up. I looked around, startled. The room around me had changed. It quickly became clear to me that I was in Lester's room, and he was lying next to me. The idiot must have carried me to bed sometime during the night, and I was too sleepy or drunk to notice. I watched him sleep, struggling in his sleep, mumbling incoherent words.
"Shit," I spat, understanding what was happening. I tried not to touch him and alarm him. I couldn't gauge the seriousness of his nightmare. Where had Lester's nightmares taken him? He gripped the pillow, the veins on his hands and muscles standing up in relief. I was sure he was about to rip the thing in two.
I knelt on the bed, careful not to startle him. He was in a dream, reliving a moment in which he might have had to defend himself. I rested my good hand on his shoulder, slowly getting closer.
"Lester," I called out gently, attempting to bring him back to the present. All the books on PTSD I had read mentioned how stimulating one of the six senses could help patients ground themselves to the present. "Lester, don't make me throw a shoe at your head."
My mother said those words to my father when he made she angry about something, usually when he worked long hours without resting. I caressed the skin under my hand, leaned forward and kissed one of the scars on his chest, finally biting lightly on his skin. He stilled for a few seconds. The wild look in his eyes should have scared me, but it didn't. I stored that information in the back of my mind. Something to think about later.
"Hey," I said, moving over to straddle him instead.
"Hey," he breathed.
"Would you like some warm milk with honey?" The questioned seemed to confuse him. He stared at me, his eyebrows slowly furrowing. I wiggled a little to remind him that we were not in his nightmare anymore. He groaned.
"Okay," he said, and I was determined to keep it that way. I boiled some milk in the kitchen. My mother had convinced me that microwaved milk just didn't taste the same. I could hear Lester in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. I was curious, but I knew that asking him to relive the experience would only torment him. We didn't know each other long enough for him to trust me with his secrets, and I planned to leave town within a few hours.
-rs-
"Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle l'a tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose." I often sing in the shower when I need to think, and lately I have been doing a lot of singing. My friend, the Bombshell Bounty Hunter, disapproved of my intentions.
Let us backtrack here for a second. Six months ago, my friend Stephanie Plum and I came to Trenton with the intention of uncovering a sex trafficking ring and recovering a girl, Leticia Movio.
Stephanie and I had met by chance four years earlier. It was during a retrieval stint that went terribly wrong. She was shot, and she was pregnant. Long story short, she and I began working together. Months later she had a baby boy. This boy turned out to be the son of Ricardo Carlos Manoso's aka Ranger. Ranger didn't know anything about Ricky for almost four years. Steph had left Trenton before knowing she was pregnant.
How and why my friend kept this child a secret from his father was a mystery to me. All I know is that sometimes fear makes us do the stupidest things. It paralyzes us and makes us act recklessly. Regardless, Steph, Ranger, and Carlitos were now on the track of emotional recovery, slowly becoming a family and learning to forgive.
Me? I'm running away.
"Il me dit des mots d'amour, des mots de tous les jours, et ça m' fait quelque chose." I sighed, the lyrics of the song continuing to play in my head. The cold water was hitting my bare skin, leaving the area around my shoulders red as it dripped down my body. I didn't like that the bathroom also smelled of him, like Lester Santos.
It took me a few seconds to register the movement in the room. The years of training had sharpened my ability to notice slight changes around me. My intruder shoved open the shower curtain a second later, and I had an arm around his neck soon afterward.
"Angel," Lester choked.
"Why would you come in the bathroom like that?"
"I heard you singing, and I wanted to join you." I thought over the words for a few seconds, becoming conscious of my nakedness against his unclothed skin. I pushed him off and used the shower curtain as cover.
He was naked and delicious, and I wanted him far away from me. There was a physical attraction between us, and there was the potential of something else. We both felt it, and it didn't matter how much I pushed away that thought. It kept coming back. Lester was charming, funny, and kind…
"Thank you," I said holding tight to the curtain, "that's very thoughtful."
He smirked, leaning slowly towards me as if not to scare me off. The kiss he planted on my lips was sweet and light.
"I'm going with you," he said.
"Where?"
"New York," he responded. "That is if it's okay with you. I would like to give us a chance."
"Lester, how well have you thought about this? You barely know me."
Just then the doorbell rang. He looked over his shoulders and pecked my lips again before leaving to answer the door, another stolen kiss. I locked the door after him, and I pressed my forehead against the cold bathroom tiles, dreading letting our relationship come to this point.
Lester didn't know about my past or about the pains I carried deep. He didn't know that loving me would destroy him. He didn't know that love, like some dreams, are only for those that are whole.
If anything, the night had strengthened my resolve. Lester was a soldier. He had demons that accompanied with my own demons would only destroy us both.
I never dealt with someone as insistent as Lester. And it didn't doubt that if he wanted to follow me to New York, he would do it. My breath started to quicken, and my throat left dried. I was having a little panic attack.
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