“Nothing special.” He walks off down the hall to the bedroom he shares with the baby.
Jason is a chef at a hotel near Disneyland. He works breakfast and lunch shift now, so I assume he’s picked up another shift at another restaurant. In San Diego he was a hotshot at a locally famous restaurant on the beach in La Jolla. He was probably considered well-off down there. But I’ve heard him complain enough about the daycare bill for Olivia to know that’s not the case now. Kids are fucking expensive.
When we first moved here I thought it was so he could be near his family. But then he said we were never going to see them. So that sorta sucked. It might’ve been nice to add a few real grown-ups to my life.
I take the baby back to the living room and put her back in the swing.
“Can you do laundry tonight?” Jason asks, walking out from the hallway and grabbing his keys from the small table next to the kitchen. “She’s out of t-shirts.”
“Sure,” I say, glancing down at my own soiled t-shirt.
“Be back late,” he says. He leaves through the front door and walks by through the kitchen window as he makes his way to the alley where he’s parked.
I change my clothes and put on shorts and a tank top, then start the laundry. Olivia is asleep in her swing when I come back from loading the washer, and I grab my backpack and pull out the book we were issued in English class today. I try to do all my homework in class because I’m not a homework-at-home kind of girl. But my assignment for English is reading The Good Earth, and I sorta got hooked on it in class. That teacher makes us read aloud in class. Twelfth fucking grade and we’re reading aloud. I paid no attention to what they were reading and I’m about halfway done.
But this school, you know? It’s not the best. It’s definitely near the bottom as far as performance goes. And I think that teacher knows that most of those kids will never pick up a book outside of school and this is the only way to get them to read.
I think I can finish this book tonight and have that report written tomorrow in class, so English is a non-issue for the next couple weeks.
My phone buzzes in my backpack, so I reach over and look at the message.
Unknown number: I’m at your door.
I look up at the front door, but then a knock on the slider to my right makes me jump. Mateo is standing on the back patio.
“What the fuck?”
“Let me in,” he says. I can’t hear him so much as read his lips.
“No, get out of here.” I glance over at Olivia to make sure he didn’t wake her.
“Then come outside.”
The door isn’t locked, I know that for sure. So he could come in if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. He waits.
“Shannon,” he says. “Come. Out. Side.”
I get up and walk over to the slider. His eyes track up and down my body, taking in my bare legs and shoulders. “What do you want?”
“Just to talk,” he says.
I open the slider a few inches. “I don’t want to talk, Mateo.” As soon as I say his name, he smiles and Jesus Christ, that flutter is back. I actually get wet for his smile. “I’m busy watching my niece,” I say, trying to cover my reaction.
“I need to know if you wanted it or not.”
“What?”
“Did you want it, Shannon? Because if you didn’t, I’m fucking sorry, OK?”
I stare at him. He’s got no jacket on even though it’s chilly out, and I can see all his tattoos in the light that filters through the bushes alongside the freeway. He’s very tall and I’m not, but I’m standing on the ledge of the slider, so I’m about up to his chin right now. He leans forward, pressing his hands on either side of the glass and doorjamb, so that I’m between his arms. I can’t help but look at the shadows that form on the curve of his muscles.
I have no clue what to say. Yes, I wanted it. I’d do it again if he made another move. But I don’t want to tell him that. I feel like he’s pulling me into something that feels good in all the wrong ways.
“Can I come inside?”
“My brother-in-law—”
“Is out. I just watched him go.”
“He’ll be back though.”
“When?” Mateo’s eyes drop to my breasts, which are responding much like the wetness pooling between my legs. A few seconds later and I’m throbbing for him. What the fuck is wrong with me? “When, Shannon?”
“Why?”
“Because I think I gave you the wrong impression back at school.”
“What impression did you give me?”
“You tell me.”
“Look—”
He reaches out and touches my peaked nipple. He pinches it, rolls it between his fingers. And even though I know I should stop him or slap his face, I am still.
“You like it,” he says, not a question. “Just admit it. You like it.” And then his whole hand grabs my breast and he squeezes, but not hard. A slow, kneading squeeze that ignites the desire inside me.