Page 53 of Sin of Love
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Rafael Lazcano—ElJefe—is a handsome, white-haired man with cunning eyes and unnaturally smooth, caramel skin. Maybe he has the same plastic surgeon as the wives? He ignores me, much as I expected, though he does raise an eyebrow at the diamond on my ring finger.
Marco isn’t real.
Julep is uncharacteristically nervous. His knee bounces against my leg beneath the table as he and his father speak in rapid Spanish. I don’t hear a word.
Marco was never real.
I sit with my hands folded in my lap, a dumb-doll half smile on my face, and think about how the first time I stepped foot in the Pacific Ocean I was stung by a stingray. The pain was so unexpected, so completely outside my experience, that I sat on the sand and stared at my swelling leg like it didn’t belong to me. When Nate came out of the water a few minutes later, he took one look at me and raced to the nearest lifeguard station.
Marco isn’t real.
I think about my mother, who, if she saw me now, would nod her head and praise her God for punishing me for the crime of my birth. She never told me explicitly that I was a child of rape, but… “Your daddy was a murderer. Killed my innocence and gave me you in return. A demon’s own child.”
And if there are angels and God, and demons and the Devil, it doesn’t matter much anyway, because I’m still going to die—
Marco was never real.
—and I’m taking Julep with me whether or not there’s heavenly reward or hellfire waiting.
* * *
It’s easy.So much easier than I ever imagined. There’s no fear when I do it, either. My motions are smooth, automatic. Like breathing or riding a bike.
Drop napkin. Lean down to pick it up. Scoop packet of tea from my bra. Open it with my nail. Palm it. Knock over my wine as I reach for the bread basket.
“What the fuck, Deirdre!”
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.”
Blushing and acting near tears, I mop at the mess while the guards in the room buzz like hornets—accidents make them twitchy. A waiter tries to take over. We bump shoulders. He babbles apologies; I serenade him with forgiveness.
“For the love of God, just sit down!” snaps Rafael from the other side of the table.
I drop immediately into my chair, eyes down in deference. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
He grunts. “At least she has manners.”
Julep’s stare sears the side of my face. He’s trying to figure out my play.
“She does,” he tells his father, though I hear the skepticism under the words. To me he says, “No more wine for you tonight.”
I nod. “Of course.”
Still staring at me, Julep reaches for his own glass of wine. Deep, bloody burgundy—his favorite color. He sips slowly, commenting on the excellent vintage, punishing me because he knows I barely had a sip before spilling mine.
I say nothing. Perfect doll. And a few minutes later, he rewards me.
Grabbing my chin, he holds the wine glass to my lips. “One sip, doll.”
I suck as much as I can into my mouth, earning a savage pinch on my thigh. His eyes, though, laugh at me. He loves my tiny rebellions.
Appetizers come and go.
More conversation I ignore.
I stare at a generic, ocean-themed art print on the wall, waiting for the first prickles of warmth on the back of my neck. As I wait, I dream of stingrays and the calming sound of ocean surf, and the original ending of Anderson’s The Little Mermaid, wherein Ariel’s prince marries another and she willingly dissolves into sea foam. I always thought that sounded like a nice way to go.
