Page 71 of Play Dirty
A picture of a woman.
She looks like the woman in the newspaper clipping. My gaze snaps back to Nico, and the resemblance is uncanny. Before I can respond, he whispersin my ear, his hand resting on the small of my back. “That’s Fernanda, my sister.”
I gape at him, my mouth parting as I look at the man who holds more than my heart, confirming what I’ve always known.
Nicolas Reyes is a liar.
Chapter Twenty - Eight
Nico
Iwatch the flicker of distrust cross Shiloh’s blue eyes after I tell her about Fernanda. I wonder what she thinks of me, what crosses through that beautiful mind when she looks at me. My thumb presses against her bottom lip, the action catching her off guard, causing her parted lips to come together.
The motion has me questioning myself. It’s so easy for me to just touch her. To want her, to want to trace every part of her until it’s ingrained into my brain. Does she know she’s the only thing I still want, even when I don’t trust myself to keep her? I hear Erikson, my little brother, fussing about eating in the kitchen.
“My grandma never met June,” I say, breaking the silence, hating the look on her face when she looks at me.
Like a riddle she’s deciphering. “She didn’t?” She raises a brow, and my thumb tugs down her plump bottom lip, caressing the outline of her jaw.
I shake my head, “I would have introduced them, but the timing just didn’t feel right.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
I shrug, my hand brushes over her cheek, pushing her blonde locks behind her ear. “I don’t know, I just felt the least I could offer you is my truth. I hate that you look at me as someone you can’t decipher.”
She knits her brows together, inching forward. “Do you want me to figure you out?”
“Shiloh, I don’t know what I want besides this. You.” The sound of pots and dishes clattering in the kitchen pulls my attention behind us, reminding me that we aren’t alone. But I’ll change that soon. Blondie came out seeking something real. I guess it’s right that I make this little quest worth her time. “I promise to tell you more. Let’s get you fed.”
She shakes her head, scrunching her button nose slightly. “I’m not hungry.”
I roll my eyes playfully, grabbing her hand. “You will be once you smell this.”
It’s white rice and stewed chicken with beans, something so simple and so rich. Not because of the ingredients, but because of who made it, the woman who raised me and my siblings when our parents died. Despite her pain, Abuela did her best to make us happy. This meal reminds me of that.
I wonder if Shiloh will taste it— that love and the loss—in every bite. Maybe then, she’ll understand why I don’t let people in. Why is it hard for me to give when all I've experienced is loss? I look up to the large picture of Fernanda, holding her diploma, smiling bright, brown eyes like our mother. Brown chocolate waves falling to her shoulder, so full of life. It’s all become a distant memory now; I barely remember the sound of her voice.
And here I am about to expose more truths to the daughter of the man who has taken so much from me. However, in the same breath, his spawn fills all of the holes inside me by simply existing.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Erikson tries to whisper while looking between Shiloh and I.
“No, she’s not my girlfriend.” Little asshole smiles, turning to Shi, he points at me using his thumb. “He’s a loser, you don’t want that grump.”
She laughs, loud and delicate all in one. Even a little snort escapes her. “You don’t have to worry, I won’t end up with this grump.”
“Good.” He says before handing me the stack of plates so I can help set the table. I look at Shiloh, who shifts nervously where she stands. Her jeans hug each curve of her hips perfectly, her black ribbed shirt tight on her breasts, riding a little high on her stomach, showing her dangling moon belly ring.
Anger resurfaces when I see the purple bruise blooming on her wrist. That dickhead tried to hurt her, and she had to see someone I rarely try to be. Navajas.
The persona I created to survive the hard street life, but that’s behind me. At least I thought so, but somehow my hands always continue to stay fucking dirty. Soft hands move over mine. “Can I help?”
“You want to help?”
“I’m spoiled, not incompetent.”
I chuckle at her sass. “Of course not.”
She narrows her eyes that twinkle with mischief. “What does that mean?”
