His eyes cut her, got under her skin, like shards of glass.
Atl whirled away and Domingo found enough courage to pull her toward him. She rested her good hand against his chest, frowning.
“I don’t want you getting hurt,” he said. “That’s all. I’m sorry.”
She nodded, found the buttons of his shirt, toying with the top one, undoing it and doing it again, her finger sliding to touch the hollow of his throat. His blood, she could almost hear it cresting up to meet her caress.
“Atl,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Can I kiss you again?”
“You didn’t kiss me the first time,” she replied, remembering the pitiful peck he’d given her the previous night.
He attempted a second kiss, this one a proper one, though truth be told he wasn’t terribly good at kissing. All he could manage was to part his lips and stand stiff as a board. She pushed back against his kiss, challenging him, until he seemed to relax, placing an arm around her waist and she reciprocated by resting a hand on his nape, her fingers tangling in his hair.
When the kiss ended she did not distance herself, her body flush against him. Her irritation had faded. There was comfort to be had in his nearness.
“You’re shaking,” she said, realizing it sounded like an accusation and not bothering to sweeten her voice.
“Yeah, well, you’re very pretty,” he mumbled.
They were quiet. She didn’t really want him to speak and just stood there, next to him, the lantern draping them in a vague halo of light, illuminating his features, though she could have seen him well enough without its assistance.
Domingo took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure whether you liked me,” he said.
She brushed his arm, giving him a sideways look. “I like you,” she said simply.
It was no lie, but she didn’t enjoy saying it. It sounded childish. The kind of thing girls might write on a piece of paper and pass around a classroom, giggling. Something she’d never done, nor would she have wanted to, had she had the chance. She was of an entirely more practical nature.
Atl took off her jacket, attempted to take off the blouse and found her fingers fumbling the job. Thankfully, he didn’t ask if he could help her. Instead, he wordlessly pulled the blouse from her shoulders, undid the zipper of her skirt. The shoes should have been no problem, but he had her sit on the bed and pulled them off anyway. He managed to avoid looking at her the whole time, his eyes darting to the far corners of the room.
It made her grin.
“Maybe I should turn the lantern off,” he offered.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
Domingo removed his vest, shirt, and belt, though he hesitated at the trousers and shoes and Atl wondered if he was going to get in bed with them on. Finally, he kicked the shoes away, undressed entirely, and sat next to her. Atl looked at him, first a clinical examination of his neck, shoulders, arms. He was a rangy thing, nothing but bones, though she didn’t find this displeasing. She discovered a scar upon his collarbone and touched it.
“I liked you since I first saw you in the subway,” he whispered. “I’d have done anything to meet you. Never thought you’d speak to me.”
She tilted her head. She’d liked him too, the moment she’d seen him sitting in the subway car, wrapped in his yellow jacket. She liked how he looked terribly unsure of himself. She liked the way his hair fell over his face and she liked his smile, which seemed so honest. And he was beautiful, didn’t even know it. It was charming.
“Atl—”
She silenced him with a kiss, weary that he was going to say something dumb, and pushed him down on the bed, pressing her lips against his neck, not for a kiss, but to feed. When she raised her head she did kiss him on the mouth, the sweet taste of copper on her lips. He let his breath out in one long, shaky exhalation.
CHAPTER
33
A look at the computer’s database had shown Ana that Archibaldo had stayed out of trouble for the past year. When she phoned his number on file, she got his ex-girlfriend, who, upon learning a cop was looking for him, gladly told Ana that Archibaldo had opened a tea shop on Darwin Street, at the edge of ritzy Polanco. It was his newest front.
The tea shop was called Safari and the outside was painted a deep purple. The inside was pretentious, with a zebra skin—no doubt synthetic—hanging from a wall. Long, glistening metal tables stretched from one side of the joint to the other. The attendant told her there were “private” drinking cubicles in the back and asked if she was interested in renting one.
“Yes,” she said. “And please tell Archibaldo that Ana Aguirre is here to see him. I’ll be in the back.”
The girl looked at her skeptically. “The owner is not around.”
Ana sighed, taking out her badge and showing it to the girl. “Tell him and give me a cubicle.”