Page 36 of Liar
I couldn’t believe Señora Rivera, the most coveted dance instructor at the Loreto Dance Academy, invited me to perform.
And right now, as I laugh and move my body to my favorite dances, I still can’t believe it.
Spring feels like an August heat wave and the yacht deck offers limited shade from the scorching sun. Diego is aboard and trying to keep cool over by the bar, except he’s surrounded by a pack of women who are giving him no room to breathe. I’m closer to the pool, dressed in a one-piece bathing suit and three-inch heels, with my hair pulled up into a ponytail. I’m conservatively dressed compared to those around me, in their teeny, tiny bikinis and super-tight Speedos.
The word yacht suggests elegance, refinement, and money,which is why María Fernanda, so full of flash, bought it. In reality, Diego’s first car, one he had to push while running to get it started, was in better condition. This ship defies all theories of flotation. I’m waiting for the one wrong step that’ll loosen enough rust to sink this fine example of luxury-trash.
Hopefully, I’ll be gone before it happens. Diego made me promise to leave at five o’clock, before the cartel bosses arrive. The thought of me aboard with that hound dog, Ignacio, has Diego in overprotective bro-mode. If he knew the full truth of my previous encounters with that man, I’d never make it out of ourcasita. Why toss kindling on a fire that can be set ablaze by the slightest spark?
El Calaca’s sneering face crosses my mind. But I can’t worry about him, not with this huge opportunity to impress Señora Rivera.
Eduardo is exceptional today. Maybe it’s the carefree vibe or the musicians playing traditional dance songs. He hasn’t missed a step, which is saying a lot. Earlier, he got a splinter in his foot from the rotted wooden deck before wizening up along with everyone else and putting on shoes. My heel has snagged in jagged holes too many times to count but I’m light on my feet and I don’t let it bother me.
The band begins to play my favorite song.
“Ready?” I call out to Eduardo.
“Yes, Luciana. Let’s go.”
I let the music take over, my body moving in memory to the subtle changes in tempo like I’m dreaming on my feet. Dancing has always been my passion. My religion. Ambition. Escape. It comes from my heart in an expression of joy—or in the worst moments of my life, pain. I perform for an audience, but I dance for myself.
I might be today’s entertainment but I could dance like this forever.
The tempo picks up, as if the musicians heard my thoughts. Everyone around us stills as Eduardo begins to dance around me in perfect rhythm.
Out there, somewhere on deck, Señora Rivera is watching, inspiration enough to fall in step and give her a show. Eduardo and I are in perfect sync as we clap our hands and let the moment take hold of us. We go on like this for several minutes, building toward our grand finale—until Eduardo decides to free-style and break from choreography specifically designed to offer la señora a sneak peek of what’s to come.
I’m grasped by the hips then twirled like a top, which I barely execute without breaking a heel. Then he dips me, deeply, so my back is horizontally positioned over the pool. Far enough so the tip of my ponytail glides across the water.
Our audience gasps.
I count off seconds in my head, readying to be pulled back onto my feet.
But Eduardo ... ¡Dios mío, no!
He is staring down at me with a lovelorn look in his eyes. My own widen when he leans in, fully intent on kissing me.
How awkward. And if I don’t reciprocate? Will he let go of his hold on me?
My conservative one-piece suit isn’t designed for swimming. The salesperson warned me water will cause the white crochet thread to stretch, loosening the weave and leaving possible gaps in coverage. Which will turn a pretty suit with decent coverage more into the shape of the potholder I butchered while knitting when I was a child.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
Eduardo’s grin falters.
We’ve spent a lot of time together recently, practicing for Nacionales. I’ve noticed a change in him; his desire to please me, the looks that linger a bit too long. He’s a good guy, with a lot to offer.
Except he’s not for me.
What’s missing isthat spark. That buzz of electricity that sets the air on fire and makes everything around it fade to smoke. That same wild excitement I felt the night I methim,and every time since.
Hayden.
I mentally shake my head at my silliness. I’ve never been the girl who loses her head over a boy. Giddy and laughing and swooning at the mere mention of him.
Girls behaving badly over my brother are as common as unwanted eggshells in egg salad. One time, I stepped outside to discover one camped out by our front door, stalker-style. Poor thing was there for hours, waiting for Diego to leave the house. A case of infatuation and desperation walking hand in hand.
I did empathize with her. What is it about crushing on someone so hard, it causes this nauseatingly sweet, yet oh so distorted feeling of euphoria? I’ve seenhimonce since the firing range. Outside in his Jeep, waiting for my brother. I stood in the doorway, hoping he’d acknowledge me. But he didn’t look my way, not even once. Reason enough to forget him. Layer in how he’s a cartel boss with mafia ties, and it pretty much sums up all the reasons to ban him from my thoughts.
