The car comes to a stop in front of my building and I get out. Desperate to get to Pilar, I bypass the doorman and make my way toward the bank of elevators. My phone rings again . . . and again, I ignore it. In fact, I shut the fucking thing off completely. I don’t recall a time in which I’ve ever done that before. I’m always waiting for a call, ready to make a move. I’m a fucking puppet to anyone who holds the strings.
The doors open to the top floor and I unlock the door to the penthouse. Miguel immediately pushes off the leather sectional.
“Where is she?” I ask, tossing my jacket on the back of the couch.
“In your bed.”
My eyes narrow and my jaw tightens.
“Lose the death glare, Joaquin,” he says, rounding the coffee table. “I didn’t touch her.”
Maybe I was wrong to assume my relationship with Pilar was a secret, or perhaps he’s come to the conclusion by witnessing me with her tonight. Either way, relief swarms my being knowing he had enough sense to know not to touch what is mine.
“I figured she needed a shower, so I took Mariana off table service. She went back to the club after we got Pilar situated.”
Giving him a curt nod, I unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt.
“How is she?”
“I don’t think there’s anything left in her system to throw up,” he answers, crossing his arms. “She probably should’ve been taken to a hospital, but you know that already, don’t you? In fact, you knew that when you ordered me to shoot her with a dose of Narcan.”
“You got something you want to say to me, then say it. Don’t be a pussy.”
He shakes his head.
“What happened tonight wasn’t some fluke thing, Joaquin. You know it and so do I. The only people who don’t is the woman lying in your bed and Rocco. I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate and you need to take care of her,” he says, motioning toward the bedroom. “But when the dust settles, you might want to take a look around because Pablo should’ve never gotten through those doors much less been able to sell his product.”
Everything he says is true, I just haven’t had a chance to process anything that went down tonight. Still, I don’t like having the truth brought to my attention by someone under me.
“Is that all?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s all. I’ll see myself out.”
“You do that,” I tell him as I start for my bedroom.
I hear Miguel close the front door and I take a step inside my bedroom immediately spotting Pilar in my bed, her brown waves still damp from the shower are splayed across my gray pillows. An ache stirs in my chest as I stare at her and soon my throat begins to tighten. I should’ve felt like this two weeks ago when she stood in this very room with tears streaming down her face, begging me to choose her. To have faith in her love. Instead, I gave her a thousand dollars and sent her on her way.
Swallowing past the emotion clogged in my throat, I kick off my shoes and start for the bed. I peel back the comforter and gently climb in next to her. For a second I remain completely still, simply taking in the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
“Lo siento, hermosa. Lo siento por todo,” I rasp.
I’m sorry for hurting you.
I’m sorry for loving you.
But most of all, I’m sorry for what we lost.
My eyes drift lower and with a trembling hand, I lift the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing, exposing her flat stomach.
For a short while, there was life inside there.
A life we created.
A life I asked her to terminate.
Tears fill my eyes as I rest my hand to her stomach, and I bow my head.
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
Chapter 3
Pilar Lopez
The sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing me to open my eyes. At first nothing registers. Not the pounding headache or the fact that my entire body feels hollow and certainly not Joaquin’s body pressed tightly against mine. It takes every bit of strength for me to keep my eyes open and every ounce of willpower not to relish in the intimate way the man who broke me is currently holding me. Instead, I remind myself of the facts.
He’s using you, Pilar.
You’re nothing but another notch in his belt.
A body he can use, abuse, and break.
Something easily discarded.
Those cold-hard facts are the exact thoughts that ran through my mind as I sat in a sleek leather booth last night and stared across the crowded club at Joaquin. He had no idea I was there, and as crazy as it sounds, that cut me deep. Not deeper than the abortion, but it still hurt. You see, I’ve always had this idea that love is more than an emotion, that it’s a connection. It’s walking into a crowded room and not being able to see the person you love but knowing they’re close. It’s feeling their presence because whenever they’re near, you’re whole.
The first time I felt it was three years ago. I was working at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach as a maid and had just finished making up one of the guest rooms. I pushed my cart into the hallway and the door across from the room opened. I felt him before my eyes even met his, before my browns met his blues. I knew the man dressed in a sharp suit was the other half of my soul, the piece I was missing. The love that would complete my life.
However, to him, I was simply someone who’d bring him clean towels and sadly, three years later, I’m not sure much has changed. While I don’t change his linens anymore, I’m still just something of convenience. I’m a willing body and a decent piece of arm candy for the occasional business function. I’m not the missing link to anything. Not his soul and surely not his heart.
In fact, I’m not even certain Joaquin has a heart, because if he had, he wouldn’t have acted the way he did or said the things he did when I told him I was carrying his child. That undoubtedly was a missing link, a piece of him he so easily wanted ‘taken care of’.
“You’re awake.”
The sound of his raspy voice startles me and I instinctively turn my head. Our eyes lock as he reaches out to gently caress my cheek.
“You scared me,” he murmurs huskily. “I thought I lost you for good.”
As badly as I want to believe him, I know better. Nothing scares Joaquin unless it jeopardizes his place in the underworld, another point he proved when he handed me the money for the abortion. A child didn’t fit his lifestyle, he claimed. To him, it was an unfortunate mess that needed to be swept under a rug.
Anger floods my veins as I recall laying on top of the sterile table. I stared at the halogen lights above me with my legs spread open and cried as they drained the life from my body. He wasn’t there holding my hand, assuring me I was doing the right thing. Nor was he there to remind me of his argument, citing a child of his would only suffer because of the choices he made and the lifestyle he lived. No, Joaquin wanted no part of anything.
Not the child.
Not the abortion.
Not the heartache.
I suppose I’m lucky he provided a car to drive me to and from the clinic. Maybe I should get down on my hands and knees and thank him for the heating pad he bought me when I told him the cramping was unbearable. I bet he’d like that.