Page 37 of His to Bedevil
I’ll play by his rules for a little while, but only for Matches. I, too, have power here. A woman’s strongest asset. Our sexuality. A woman can get anything she wants from a man because at the end of the day, they’re all just men. They think with their dicks and can’t turn down an offer from a beautiful woman. Pigs. They’re all straight-up pigs.
I’m dancing with fury when there’s a knock at the door. My head snaps in that direction, and I hesitate for a moment. Alejo is usually here to answer the door.Fuck, see? This is what he’s done to me!He’s made me reliant on him for stupid shit like answering the fucking door.
Chin up and shoulders back, I head for the door and open it with newfound confidence. I’m going to charm the lipstick off of his mother.
“Hola, Irma!” Señora Martinez sings, and kisses each of my cheeks, grasping my shoulders. Then she stands back and smiles as she looks me up and down. “You are a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”
I’m not athing, señora.Instead of telling her that, I return her smile and gesture for her to enter the room. “Come in, Señora Martinez.” I close the door behind her, and she saunters into the room as if she owns it.
“Ay, flaquita.Please call me Benita.”Flaquita? Benita?Is this some kind of joke? Did Alejo somehow track down people from my past that would know the nickname I grew up with? And there’s no way her real name is Benita. “Is something wrong,mija?”
I hadn’t even realized I had stopped in my tracks untilBenitais standing in front of me, frowning in worry. My mouth is suddenly dry, so I swallow, trying to make it so I am capable of speaking. “My mother’s name was Benita,” I say barely above a whisper, and rapidly blink away the fogginess in my eyes.
She gives me a warm smile again. “Oh, what are the chances? And did you say ‘was,’querida?”Dear.
I nod my head. “Um.” I’m not sure what to say here. “I, uh… I lost touch with her many years ago.”
She frowns again and takes my hand in hers, giving it a nice squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Irma. Come, let’s sit.”
We go over and take a seat in the sitting area. I sit on the love seat facing the French doors, and she takes a seat across from me in a nice sitting chair. “I would offer you something to drink, but I don’t exactly know how to do that.” I smile and give a little nervous chuckle.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I know you’re still adjusting here. I told Juanita to give us a little time to chat before she came up to offer us drinks and lunch.” She waves a hand around, and I can’t help but gawk at her beauty and confidence. “So, tell me. Where is your mother from?”
“Cuba. A small town south of Havana.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” Her accent is thick, and her voice is smooth. There’s a sense of strength coming from this woman. As if you can literally see how strong her backbone is. Her eyes are kind, but they also seem like they can turn to ice when she deems it necessary. She’s nothing like my own mother. My mother is weak. She’s spineless and aloof. A pitiful excuse for a woman. “So, that’s why your Spanish is so naturally spoken.” I knit my eyebrows because she hasn’t heard me speak Spanish yet, has she? “Juanita told me. She absolutely adores you already.”
Just then, there’s a knock at the door. I look to Benita to tell them to come in, but she’s looking at me like it’s up to me.Oh, right. This is technically my room.“Come in!” I call out in my most sophisticated voice.
Juanita enters, her hair still up in a little French twist with gray combed through her dark locks. She’s only about an inch taller than me, and is your typicalabuelita. A little pudgy and all smiles. She could either threaten to smack you in the mouth or wrap you up in a big hug, peppering you with sloppy kisses.
“Hola, señora, señorita,” she chimes as she approaches us.
I smile at her. “Buenos días,Juanita.”
“Can I get you two some lunch?” she asks with her very thick accent.
We both agree to lunch and some mojitos. I could really use a stiff drink right now, but a mojito sounds thirst quenching. Seeing that it’s been five hours since I woke up this morning, I wonder where Alejo is. Has he paid Matches a visit yet?
“So, Irma, tell me more about yourself. What did you do before you met my son?” Her eyes twinkle, and something tells me this is a test. What exactly has Alejandro told his mother about me?
“I, uh, I’ve kind of bounced around from job to job.” It’s not a lie.
“But you are from Miami, no?” she asks, and I cannot get a read on her. Like her son, she’s able to come off detached, feigning indifference, when inside she’s calculating.
“I am. Born and raised.”
“And you say you’ve lost touch with your mother?” I nod and swallow hard. Where are those damn mojitos? “What about your father?”
“He died when I was very young.”
“I’m so sorry,mija.” And she genuinely looks it. “It must have been so hard on you and your mother.”
The lump in my throat is rapidly growing, but luckily I’m saved by the bell. Our drinks are here. A young and pretty maid, judging by her uniform, comes in and serves us our drinks. “We’ll take another one,” Benita orders in a commanding tone, not even looking at the young woman. I knew she was a woman not to be trifled with.
The young woman leaves the room, and I suck down half my drink while Benita politely sips on hers. “So, your father. I assume you look like him?”
I nod mechanically. “He was Irish.”
