Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2 (3 page)

As we’re leaving, a group of guys comes stumbling in,
clearly inebriated and a lot loud. “
Santo Feo
,” they chant to Diego.
Speaking in slurred Spanish, I can’t figure out the rest of what they were
saying.

He ushers me out of the diner and the sudden change in
temperatures sends a chill from my shoulders to my toes. He volunteers the
sweatshirt he’s had tied around his waist. When a soft breeze kicks up the air
around us, my inclination to decline is chased away.

“Sorry about that back in there,” he throws his thumb over
his shoulder pointing toward the diner.

“Yeah, what was that about?” He doesn’t answer, but snickers
instead. When we’re at my car, I notice he’s at the driver’s side with me. I
turn to face him and my breath is robbed from my lungs and I gasp.

His eyes are smoldering even under the yellow glow of the
parking lot lights. There’s an intensity there that catches me off guard. He
doesn’t let me wonder for long. “Hey, Izzy,” I love the way my name rolls of
his tongue, “can I kiss you?”

“I, uh…” stumbling over my words, I relent with a nod. No
use fighting something I want.

He doesn’t hesitate. His right hand reaches up for the back
of my neck with a light grip, his other circles around my waist, drawing me
closer. He leans the rest of the way down to reach my mouth with his. With a
squeeze of his hand at my neck, he closes the distance between our lips and
robs me of all common sense as he gently parts them. He keeps it soft and swoon
worthy with every plunge of his tongue, swirling it in a dance with my own.
Melting into him, I fist my hands into his t-shirt.

When it’s over, it’s too soon and too late. I need more, but
I’m already sunk. I know I said he’d be good for a night or two, but kiss me
like that and I’ll beg for forever. Still holding me close, he slips his left
hand into the back pocket of my jeans to grab my phone.

Panting, I breathlessly ask him what he’s doing with my
phone. The next thing I know his phone is ringing and he’s plugging away at the
buttons on both our phones.

“I need to get back before curfew, but I’m gonna call you,
okay?”

“Curfew?”

“Big day tomorrow, I go to bed by midnight.” He gives me an
impish grin. “I made a promise to my grandfather to take school and all that
entails seriously.”

“Wanna ride?” The faux pas is off my tongue and past my lips
before I realize what I’ve offered.

“Not tonight, Izzy,” he says with a wink. “Rain check?”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say with a sigh. He opens my
door for me and I instinctively lower myself in.

“I’ll call you,” he squats down to my eye level. He places a
chaste kiss on my lips and they instantly ache for more—now, but he pulls away.
“Mmmm,” he hums his approval. “
Bella mía.
”

My beautiful.

And with that one sentiment, he pushes up and shuts my door.
He’s off and gone, before I can wrap my head around what he’s said, done.
Leaving me breathless and flummoxed, I aimlessly start my car. It’s only when
I’m on the freeway headed away from the campus that I realize instead of going
back to the library, I went on autopilot and headed home.

As I pull onto my street, my phone rings and I send it to
voicemail. The beep on my phone says whomever it was left a voice message. It’s
probably Mazzy, wondering how my research was coming. In a few moments, I’ve
pulled into my driveway and I’m gathering my bag from the back and my phone off
the passenger seat. I press the voicemail button to listen to the new message.

“Hey, Izzy,” it’s Diego. “Thanks for the first date. Can’t
wait to take you out on our second.” I have to give it to him. He sure knows
how to make me laugh. My phone starts ringing before I can finish listening to
his message. I’ve unlocked the door and am dropping my bags in the entryway,
when I look to see that it’s Diego calling…again.

“Hello?” my voice full of confusion and disbelief. Isn’t
there some etiquette about waiting a period of time before calling?

“Are you at the library?” sounding completely at ease and
not at all concerned with etiquette.

“Actually,” sounding less nervous and more embarrassed,
“there was this guy and a kiss.” Getting more flustered with my confession, I
stumble over my words, “I, uh, was headed home before I remembered where I was
supposed to go.”

And he laughs.

Oh hell
. That laugh that makes my insides turn to
mush is going to be the death of my resolve where men being even a small part
of my life are concerned. “Must’ve been some guy, some kiss.”

I make my way down the stairs to the indoor/outdoor den.
Wanting to feel the coolness of the air off the Pacific Ocean, I open the
sliding wall and grab a throw from the stack on the ottoman. I curl up on the
chaise lounge facing the ocean, tucked beneath the blanket with my phone
pressed to my ear.

“You could say that,” I laugh lightly. “You’re not going to
ask me about the guy or the kiss?”

“Both sound pretty amazing if they distracted you.”

“Uh, huh. Pretty proud of yourself aren’t you?”

“I’ve got skills, Izzy. You’ll see…” he trails off. “That
was nothing.”

It’s so much easier to be bold when distance spans between
us. “What makes you think I want to see your skills?” I taunt.

I should’ve expected what came next. “I believe the better
question is: Who wouldn’t want to see my skills?” I let out an exasperated
laugh, finishing with a hum snuggling tighter with my blanket. “I like that
sound coming from you. What are you doing?”

“I’m curled up on a lounge with a blanket looking at the
reflection of the moon on the ocean.” A comfortable quietude follows as the tide
rises, perceptibly reaching for the moon. After some time, I look to my phone
to see if we were still connected. I break the silence with his name, “Diego?”

“Hmmm?” he hums in question.

“What are you doing?”

Instead of answering my question, he asks me about following
school sports. I explain that while I enjoy some professional sports, I was
never one to follow. “My dad was a die-hard Raiders fan, especially when they
were in Los Angeles, but our thing was always music.”

“Izzy, that’s the second time you talked about your parents
in the past tense tonight.” Perceptive, isn’t he?

With a sigh, I give him the short of it: a few years ago, my
parents died in an accident. No need to sullen the mood with the details. I
also left out the part where, because of their deaths, I decided that life was
too volatile to fall in love. “But let’s not talk about that, I’m not ready to
chase you off yet.”

His laugh isn’t quite as hearty as I’ve grown accustomed to
hearing. “Ohhhh,” he draws out the word. “Izzy,
bella
, you underestimate
my tenacity to obtain what I want.”

“I haven’t decided if I want you yet,” the squeak in my
voice betraying my lie. “Let’s play a game of twenty questions and I’ll decide
at the end.”

“I’m game, but be prepared…I’ve got a dirty mind and I’m not
afraid to speak it,” he teases.

He can’t see it, but I roll my eyes anyway. “How old are
you?” Might as well start with the questions he didn’t answer earlier.

“I’ll be nineteen in a little over a month,” he answers with
unexpected ease. “How ol—”

“Why didn’t you answer that question earlier?” I interrupt.

“Is that your second question, Izzy?” A million more
questions race through my mind. He’s young.

Shit!

I grunt in frustration, “No.”

“How old are you, Izzy?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Okay.” The curiosity getting the better of me. “That is my
second question. Why didn’t you answer with your age earlier?”

“Ha ha. Izzy, I’m not old enough to legally drink. That’s
not exactly a selling point. While it doesn’t bother me that you’re older, I
certainly wasn’t ready to send you running for the hills.”

I snort. “And now you can be honest, because?” I draw out
the last word and form it as a question.

“What was it you said earlier?” He pauses. I’m sure it’s
more for dramatic effect and less for actually trying to remember. “Oh yeah,
‘There was this guy and a kiss.’ I think it’s safe to say my age won’t be an
issue anymore.”

I laugh at his arrogance. “My turn,” he quips. “Do you have
something against jocks?”

“Uhh, no. Not necessarily. It’s just been my observation
that they’re as badly behaved as rockers.” If my answer creates more questions,
he doesn’t ask.

“So, you mentioned at dinner a few sports you liked. Are
there any you don’t like?”

I answer without hesitation, remembering my younger years
when Dad tried to get me into soccer. “Easy. It’s soccer. Of all the sports my
dad tried to get me into, soccer was the only one that made pulling my
fingernails off with pliers sound fun.” On the other end of the line, it sounds
like Diego is choking. When he stops, I continue, “My dad tried to take me to a
game once. The day before the game, I fractured my wrist boxing. Dad insisted I
did it to get out of going to the game.” I chuckle at the memory. “I’m pretty
sure I muttered something like, ‘I wish’ and chocked it up to fate working in
mysterious ways.”

“You could say that again,” Diego interrupts.

I laughed at his comment. “My dad claimed that if breaking
my wrist was fate stepping in, than fate sure was twisted.”

Diego’s laugh is infectious, rumbling through the phone.
“You have no idea how true that is, Izzy.”

“My turn,” I taunt. “You said you were here on a
scholarship. What sport do you play?”

His laugh is a full roar with just a hint of something else.
Unease?
“Oh, Izzy…” he says my name like a plea and my mind wanders to what
that would sound and feel like tangled in the sheets with him. “You’re so sure
I’m a jock.”

“Oh my gawd! You do look in the mirror, right?” I ask, the
incredulity in my voice unmistakable. “You’re built like a fucking brick house,
you were working out late tonight, and you eat enough to make the average
active person fat. Not to mention you said something about curfew and a bid day
tomorrow. So yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re a jock.” I pause to consider the
possibilities. “If I had to guess, I’d say football or baseball, tight end or
short stop.”

“Well, you’re kinda wrong and kinda right.” I wait for him
to continue. “I don’t play baseball, I have a tight end and there’s nothing
short about me.”

“Ha. So you play football!” I get a little excited that I figured
it out.

His nervous chuckle is not lost on me. “Yes and no.”

His answers are confounding. “All right Mr. Vague, spill!” My
patience is running thin with his indirect answers.

“Well,” he starts, “I do play football,” saying it with a
bit of an accent.

I consider what he’s said when he doesn’t continue right
away.
Oh no
. I realize my slip-up as I connect what he just said to my
years of studying Spanish.

“But you know it as soccer,” he puts the nail in my coffin.

“Fuck me,” I say barely audible. It’s all I can muster with
my foot in my mouth. I’m not sure how long he lets me suffer in the silence
before he breaks it and puts me out of misery.

“Don’t worry, Izzy. You’ll love soccer soon enough,” he
really doesn’t sound put off.

“Is that so?” I toss back, slightly annoyed with his
presumptuousness. “If my dad couldn’t, what makes you think you can?”

“
Bella—”

“Bella?”
I interrupt. That’s the third time he’s
called me that.

“
Bella
,” he repeats. “It means beauty, beautiful in
Spanish.” He then pronounces my first name as it would be pronounced in
Spanish,
ee-sa-bay-ya
. “
Izabella
. The fact that beauty is in your
name only further proves my point. Your beauty was literally written into your
name.”

“You’re good,” I admit with a soft chuckle. “Probably so
good, you’re trouble,” mumbling the rest.

“
Bella
, my skills off the field will have you begging
to see my skills on the field and I’m all kinds of trouble.” Letting me know he
caught my mumblings. “But something about you tells me you like trouble. Maybe
I’m just the trouble you’re looking for.”

“Mmmm,” the sound coming off way more sexy than indifferent.

“After that sound coming from your mouth…” He pauses,
probably for dramatic effect and possibly to make me nervous. I assume. I’m definitely
a little nervous. “Pleasure or pain?”

I surprise myself with my immediate answer, “Both.”

Diego coughs out a laugh. “You don’t even know what I was
talking about. I was wondering what you like most about getting tattooed. I
noticed you had a few.”

“Both. Pretty sure that answer will ring true for a lot of
things.” He falls silent and I don’t interrupt. Let him think about
all
the possibilities for ‘both’.

 “Oh, Izzy,” I imagine him saying this in another scenario
with less clothes and distance between us. I’m not sure, but I think the moan I
just heard came from me. His hormone tingling laugh says he heard it, too. “Top
or bottom?”

I clear my throat with an, “Excuse me?”

“Top or bottom,” he repeats, “bunk?” he finishes.  

“Ah ha. Aren’t you fucking clever?” I wonder if he can hear in
my voice that my smile reaches ear to ear. I hear it.

“That’s not an answer,” he chastises me.

I know he’s going to make this sexual, but as answers go,
“Top.”

“That’s good ‘cause I’m a bottom guy myself—,”
oh here we
go
. “It’s not that I don’t looooove the top, it’s just I prefer the view
from the bottom.” When I’m silent, he chuckles and then continues, “And being
on the bottom might seem like a lazy choice for a guy of my size,” I choke, he
laughs fully aware of how he’s affecting me. “But I feel like I have more
options on the bottom, in some ways more control. The bottom is there to hold
the top up, stabilizing the top if necessary. It’s definitely more of a hands-on
situation than being on top. Then again, I do like being on top, too.” He hums
like he’s trying to think of something. “In fact, I think some of my best
performances have been after spending the night on top.”