Dancing in a Hurricane (20 page)

He set a butcher block cutting board on the counter facing the living room and set the bowl of tomatoes next to it. "Where do you teach?"

"I'm at an elementary school. Fifth grade."

"Your first year?"

"Yes, I was slow getting my degree."

Sixto nodded. Sounded familiar. He heard the overhead garage door open, the Miata's tinny engine pull in and go silent, and the door close again.

Bree walked in carrying a grocery bag in her arms.

He watched her for a reaction to seeing Tim, but she slid the bag up, in front of her face. She set her purse on the dining room table and headed to the kitchen.

"You have a visitor," Sixto said.

Bree looked up over the bag and froze, her eyes wide. "Tim?"

Sixto walked to her and took the bag. Her face was pale, her eyes stared at the kid, and her lips looked weird. Caked on makeup and lipstick. What was going on? He went to the kitchen and set down the bag.

Tim stood. "Hi Bree. Can we go somewhere and talk?"

"After yesterday, no." Her voice sounded edgy.

Sixto looked at her. She was tense, her body stiff, her eyes wary. Was she frightened?

Walking to the living room, she shot Sixto a look that he interpreted as "please stay."

He nodded.

She sat on the couch opposite Tim.

"I want to apologize for yesterday," the kid said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Bree just shook her head.

Sixto's protective impulse went into overdrive. The teacher hurt Bree? He would have to die. Sixto took a breath and calmed himself a couple degrees. Bree could handle this.

He walked to the other side of the kitchen and opened the drawer to get a paring knife. Instead, he pulled out a large meat cleaver that he'd inherited from his grandfather. He turned to the counter facing Bree and Tim and wacked the blade's sharp tip into the thick butcher block.

They looked at him. He glowered at the teacher, communicating his irritation.

Tim looked pale. He visibly swallowed, cleared his throat, and looked back at Bree.

She made a face at Sixto that he read as surprise.

The corner of his mouth turned up and he winked at her.

She sucked in her cheeks and he could tell she was trying not to laugh.

All right, enough fun. Time to mind his own business. Sixto went back to the knife drawer.

"Are you okay?" Tim asked. "You didn't need stitches, did you?"

Sixto's hand clenched into a fist. Stitches? What. The. Fuck. The boy would die slowly. Painfully. His anger burned, escalating in intensity until his needed to attack the man who'd hurt Bree nearly overtook him. He grabbed the sharpening steel out of the drawer and walked to the butcher block. Pulling out the cleaver, he stared at Tim and slowly sharpened the edge.

Tim glanced at him, his eyes wide. He looked at the door, probably measuring his chances of bolting and making it out alive.

Bree coughed a squeaky, choking noise and gave Sixto a warning shake of her head, but her eyes twinkled with amusement. After a long moment, she visibly pulled herself together. "No. I wasn't injured badly. But emotionally, I'm anxious and jumpy. I was frightened, Tim." Her voice sounded choppy, vulnerable. "You really went too far yesterday."

Tim nodded. "I'm sorry. Will you give me another chance?"

"Oh, no. There's no chance of that happening. You need to find out what's not working between your brain and your unit." She pointed at him and made a figure eight with her finger. "Because not many women will put up with the adolescent crap you've been pulling."

Sixto felt pride swelling. He set his cleaver down and used a serrated blade to slice a tomato. Bree could handle this without his help…or his knives.

"Can you forgive me? We can start over?" Tim whined.

She sighed loudly. "I'll accept your apology."

Sixto's knife went sideways. Another quarter inch and he would have taken off his finger. He stared at Bree. Did he hear her right? She forgave the little fuck?

Tim leaned across the coffee table and handed her the bouquet.

"I'll accept your flowers." She reached for them.

Sixto opened his mouth and closed it again. She wasn't stupid enough to stay in an abusive relationship, was she?

Bree stood, her back straight, her shoulders squared. "But I don't want to see you again. Ever."

"But—" Tim held his hands out to her, palms up.

"That's all I have to say to you." She cut him off.

He stood. "But what if I—"

"No buts. Grow up, Tim. Become a gentleman."

Tim sucked in a breath and squared his shoulders, looking like he might snap back at her.

Sixto cleared his throat. When the boy looked over, he scowled fiercely.

Tim closed his mouth, walked to the door, and left.

Bree followed and locked it behind him. "Creep," she muttered. She came into the kitchen. "Sorry you had to hear that, but I appreciate your staying. And thanks…" She smiled and pointed to the cleaver. "For backing me up."

"Any time." He wanted to say more, but she should lead the conversation. Talking it out would help her start to heal.

She smelled the flowers as she walked to the sink.

He pointed to a cabinet. "Vases are up—"

She turned on the faucet and reached for the wall switch for the garbage disposal. "Bye bye Tim." She stuck the flowers bud-first into the grinder.

He laughed, set his knife down, and leaned on the counter. Good, she's well on her way to healing. "Did that make you feel better?"

She trudged around the counter and sat at her favorite barstool. "No. I'm still depressed."

"It's okay to feel down, especially after whatever happened with you and Tim. You can't always be as bubbly as a hot tub."

She made a face. "Is that what you think of me?"

"Yep." He picked up his knife and sliced a tomato.

She smiled. "You're trying to tease me out of my mood."

He glanced at her, impressed by her perceptiveness. "Care to talk about it?"

She put her elbow on the table and dropped her head into her palm.

He recognized it as her "man trouble" pose.

"The first guy who's interested in me in two years and all I get is…" She made tit-grabby motions with her hands.

Sixto set his knife down and leaned his forearms on the counter. "You want me to kick his ass?" If she said "yes," he'd gladly waive his non-violence rule and beat some sense into the boy.

"I appreciate the offer." She sighed and went back to her chin-in-palm position. "I just hope he learned something from this experience."

"What did he mean by stitches?"

She touched her lip. "It was bleeding pretty badly yesterday."

"Did he hit you?" Sixto wanted to hit him. Repeatedly.

"No. He…" She looked away. "He cornered me, kissed me. When he grabbed me, my head hit the wall." She reached her hand up to the sore spot.

"At the beach?"

She nodded. "The outdoor shower."

His hands fisted. Good thing the teacher was gone, or Bree would witness a man being pounded nearly to death. God, attacking a woman, hurting a woman. It was plain ignorant. Completely inexcusable.

"Sixto, don't." She must have noticed his tension. She put her hand on his wrist.

His body reacted instantly. Sexually.

"It's done. He's gone." She smiled. "He got
our
message."

"But will he do this to someone else?"

"I don't think so. I kneed him."

"You need him?" The light bulb went on. "Oh, you
kneed
him. His eyebrows went up. "Hard, I hope." Damn, the visual of her being attacked and having to defend herself made his arms ache to hold her and comfort her.

She nodded. "Maybe too hard. He hurled up lunch for a long time."

"You are amazing." Her hand still rested on his forearm, warm and delicate. The protective feeling surging through him was nowhere near brotherly. He wanted her, the way a man wants a woman. Shit. He straightened and removed his wrist from under her hand. They had to stop touching so much. He had to get his libido under control.

"I panicked. I didn't mean to injure him, I just wanted him off me." She shivered.

"He deserved it. You have nothing to feel guilty for, Bree." He imagined how painful Tim's injury must be. His balls contracted just thinking about it.

Emotions flashed through her eyes.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"It's the first time I've been attacked." She seemed to look inside herself. "I guess…vulnerable." She touched her tongue to her swollen lip. "I'm going to find a refresher class on self defense."

"Good idea. I'll ask around. No, better idea—text Dayami. She's up on everything in Miami."

"I will, thanks."

He pulled her chocolate out of the grocery bag and set it in front of her. "Is this to help ease your pain?"

She nodded. "But right now, a drink sounds like a better idea." She smiled. "If I open a bottle of wine, will you have a glass?"

"I've got something better." He went to the fridge and pulled out the glass pitcher. "I made Sangria for my date. Try some?"

She nodded. "Sure."

He pulled two wine glasses from the cupboard.

Her face seemed paler. "You have a date?"

"A woman I model with."

She seemed unsure what to say. "She's coming here?"

"Tomorrow." He gestured to the prime beef. "I'm making steaks."

Her eyes changed, hardened, and her body tensed.

Could that be jealousy? Interesting.

Chapter Fifteen

As Sixto handed Bree a goblet of sangria, he noticed her exhibiting the classical signs of anxiety, which in the context of their conversation, had to be jealousy. His mind turned devious. Was that the way into her bed? Shit. He had to stop scheming, and respect her goddamn boundaries. "If you don't mind, would you make yourself scarce tomorrow night? She'll be here at eight."

Bree nodded. "Okay, no problem."

He would feed Helena, pour wine for her, kiss her into a passionate muddle, and get himself laid. Hopefully, if he buried himself in another woman, he'd make his body forget about Bree. Forever.

Sixto remembered her phone call from the store. "You said you had a question?"

"Élian called me. He asked me out."

Aw, hell. She'd just gotten rid of one guy, now she had another one chasing after her? Sixto shook his head. What had he just been saying about jealousy?

***

Bree kicked around the empty house that evening and most of the next day. To be a good roommate, she cleaned the common area. After vacuuming, dusting, or scrubbing nearly every surface, she looked at the clock. "Seven thirty already?" Scrambling to "make herself scarce," she grabbed a cold bottle of chardonnay, a wine glass, and an ice pack made to fit around the bottle.

She should eat something, but the idea made her nauseous, as usual, and she grabbed a sleeve of soda crackers and went to hide in her room. She picked up her cell phone and re-dialed Élian's number.

"Hi, Bree." He sounded glad to hear from her.

"Hi. Are you busy?"

"No. Not at all." Music thumped in the background. Was he at a bar? "What's up?"

"I wanted to talk about a date."

"A date?" He sounded hesitant. "You'll go out with me?"

"Of course I will." She smiled. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

Sixto had been surprised yesterday when she asked him if he thought Élian was a good guy. He said "yes," and that was the end of the conversation. He'd grabbed the stereo remote, turned on some obnoxious rap music, and went back to cooking. She sat a moment longer, wanting to ask a few more questions, but his body language said "leave me alone." She'd trudged into her room.

An hour later, he'd left.

"I
am
surprised," Élian said, his voice sounding dubious. "Last time we talked, it didn't seem like you were interested."

"I'm sorry. I was preoccupied. But if you're still willing to go out with me—"

"Yes, definitely. Tomorrow?"

His quick change of mood made her grin. "Okay."

"I'll talk to Rico and get back to you."

He still wanted to double date? "That sounds good. Thanks, Élian. I'm looking forward to it."

"Me, too. ¡
Dale
!"

"¡
Dale
!" She grinned, starting to pick up on Cubonics.

A few minutes later, she heard a patio door slide open and the squeak of the grill lid opening. She peeked out her window. Sixto stood at the outdoor kitchen. He looked so handsome. A button-down gray silk shirt, black pants, and he actually had shoes on—he was usually barefoot around the house. This date must be serious. He looked her way.