71 Pillowtalk

**Date = 1 July**
**Place = San Francisco (Damion’s house)**

**POV - Enrique**

The house is silent.

As if holding its breath against the storm.

I know silence. I know it in dark rooms with mossy walls. I know it in Jackson’s voice when he is holding back. And I know it in this absence.

River is not in her bed.

“River?” I call, already halfway down the hallway. “Hey, where are you?”

Nothing.

Her hoodie is gone from the hook. So are her dunk-highs — the scuffed ones with the neon skulls on the side.

“Damn it,” I mutter. Knowing.

But I still check the back porch. The kitchen. Even the laundry room. Still nothing.

“Aria!” I call, heading to the front of the house.

She appears from the room, one of Mel’s button-up nighties on, with sexed up curls. “What?”

“River’s gone.”

Her face shifts instantly — first surprise, then annoyance, and finally a dawning edge of panic. “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean gone gone.” I rush to grab my phone from the kitchen counter. “Shoes gone. Hoodie gone. Ghosted.”

“Oh my god — how long has it been?”

I check the time. “An hour … two max. She’s a stealth unit.”

“She’s nine.”

“Yeah, and she traveled alone by bus. Don’t underestimate the kid.”

I dial Jackson before Aria can finish cursing under her breath.

It rings once. Twice.

“Don’t go to voicemail,” I mutter under my breath. “Don’t —”

“Yeah?” Jackson’s voice comes through, tense and scratchy. Background wind. The sound of keys.

“Where are you?” A pause.

“Mortuary.” A gruff answer. What the fuck … no … I don’t want to know.

“She’s gone,” I snap. “River.”

There is a pause.

“Check your car,” I add.

More silence. And a click. He dropped the call.

Aria stares at me. “You think she —”

“Yup.”

“Why would she —?”

“Because she’s Jackson’s number one fan-slash-problem and she’s wild enough to want to go after Lee.”

Aria runs both hands through her curls. “Damn it, I should’ve kept an eye on her.”

“We were busy. I thought she was sleeping. This is a group fail.” And that darn kid’s a menace.

We both stand in the middle of the kitchen, letting the worry pulse in the silence.

Then my phone beeps.

Jackson: Got her. Sulking and protesting. Save.

I exhale. “Thank hell.”

Aria’s eyebrows fly up. “Did he find her?”

“She’s safe. Protest mode activated.”

Aria blinks. “Protesting what?”

“Life, Jackson leaving, getting caught out … who knows?”

“You should just adopt her,” Aria chuckles. “She fits right into your family.”

“Tempting. But I already have one broody, unpredictable, psycho sibling to deal with.”

Aria bites her lower lip — her tell-tale thing to do when she’s tense. She seems to have lost the confidence she previously had. Her new see-saw personality intrigues me.

For now, the whole cocky-flirty-I’m-gonna-break-your-heart attitude is long gone. Replaced with a hard-to-get tension. She continues with the dishes where she left off.

I begin to make popcorn, my mind yo-yo-ing out of control, thinking of my brother while at the same time trying to fight the tension building between my legs.

I hand her the spoon I used to scoop some butter with, “Here.” My fingers feather against hers. On purpose. She quickly extricates her hand, and the spoon falls with a splash into the sink. The little white nightgown she borrowed from Mel’s closet fits snug around her curves and barely covers her butt. For once, I’m glad my sister is built like a midget.

Some of her hair came loose from the messy bun on her head, and riots in a frizzy mass of orange waves around her face. I want to sink my fingers into it and kiss her senseless.

I want her. Hard and fast. Slow and sweet. On the counter. On the steps. On the sofa. Anywhere I can get her. I’m not picky.

And it’s not just physical. I genuinely like her … maybe even lov … I really, REALLY like everything about her.

I want to claim her, leave my mark everywhere on her. On the outside. On the inside. Assert ownership of her heart, mind, soul, and body … especially that voodoo little vagina of hers.

I, hands down, want to claim that. As much as possible.

She gasps, quickly looking away with flustered cheeks. She wants me too. I try not to sport a satisfied grin.

“Aria.” She does not quite meet my gaze as I stand at her side. Awkward moment … riddled with sexual tension. I hold up the popcorn bowl. “Want to do a movie?”

“Only if I can pick.”

“Sure,” I smirk. I don’t mind what she puts on the TV. I’m planning to write my own script.

The nightie pulls up when she stretches to put the plates away in the top cupboard, leaving me a decent view of a creamy butt cheek with a faint golden hue as if softly kissed by the sun.

Not sure how much more of her glorious body I can take without dropping to my knees and begging for mercy — but I stay rigid instead of moving any closer to her.

Closer will be a mistake. Definitely NOT going closer. I must back up.

I move forward.

And press her against the cupboard, cradling her between my arms, my hands grabbing onto the countertop on either side of her. I’ve always been a sucker for pale skin, red hair, and a light dusting of freckles … but this time it’s different.

From the very first moment she walked into my house, she’d wreaked havoc with my common sense. Cracked the walls around my heart. And she continues chipping, piece by piece. And it’s scary as shit.

She turns in my arms and stares at me with flaring eyes. I aim to intimidate her, but instead, I’m the one feeling highly unnerved.

“We’re not having sex again.” Her words and her body are not saying the same thing. She’s lying.

“Uh-hu.” I stare at the buttons that trail down the rift between her plump breasts. Buttons that hold the almost see-through nightdress together, and my hands itch to unbutton them and let those suckers free.

“You’re … an asshole … eh … a big fat stupid … heartless robot …”

On the inside, Aria holds a surprisingly soft, gentle, bruised heart that occasionally overreacts … BUT she’s tough, self-assured, and intelligent … she simply is not aware of it.

Setting my hands on her hips, I step closer so that her tits brush my chest. I press my mouth to her ear, “I know, baby, I’m the worst,” and suck her lobe, a motion that tugs a startled breath out of her, just a little hum of helpless arousal that turns me upside down.

O fucking hell. There’s a light tug in my belly. And a huge tug more south. Suppose I need to accept the truth. I’m a goner. I lower my lips to hers and kiss her. Hungrily. Softly. She lets out a little horny murmur … and holy shit … I’m undone.

“Eeehhh,” she yelps as I throw her over my shoulder like a professional caveman. Grabbing the popcorn with my free hand, I head upstairs.

I throw her onto the bed. Clothes disappear between kisses and teasing fingers, the movie idea long forgotten as we tangle deeper into each other, heat curling beneath the blankets like fire catching breath. We give it all. Take it all. No holding back. No barriers.

We cum together beautifully. I shoot off inside her. Naked. Natural. It’s a wonderful, unfamiliar feeling. And I love it. I think I’m hooked.

“So,” I gasp, falling onto the bed beside her, pulling her into my arms underneath the cozy blankets. “What do you want to watch?” Her breathing is still unsteady.

“Fifty Shades of Grey,” she mutters in a voice still laced with desire. I’m not sure it’s better than Twilight.”

The rain drums steadily against the windows, a background rhythm to the soft flicker of the TV. Lightning flashes now and then, illuminating the bedroom in silver bursts. Aria is curled into the crook of my arm, both of us tangled beneath a thick blanket, popcorn bowl nestled on my lap.

On the screen, Christian Grey is brooding again, dramatically unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re not even paying attention,” Aria says softly, nudging me with her nose.

“The dude’s been walking around in jeans with a whip for the last eight minutes. I’ve seen paintings with more plot movement,” I sigh. If they cut out all the sex scenes, this movie saga would be nine minutes long, eleven tops.

“You said you’d watch all of them.”

“I am.”

“You know he’s not even the broodiest person in this room,” Aria teases, glancing up at me.

I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse you — I don’t brood. I simmer. There’s a difference.”

She snorts. “You’re right. Jackson broods. You flirt.” I like the way we are right now. Cozy. Warm. Comfortable with each other. It’s nice.

I smirk. “Valid.”

“And who calls their kid Christian?” I continue. “It’s like a religion came to life.” She giggles.

“As if Enrique is so much better.” Yeah, Mom had a weird way of naming her kids.

“It’s Enrique Lucio Blackburn, actually. Labeled like an exotic wine, by a psychic, and my mother with a flair of nostalgia.”

“This I got to hear. Do tell.” Talking about my naming ceremony, that history I can actually do without wanting to throw up.

“Well, first you have to know about Rosa. Our Portuguese nanny, imported all the way from Brazil. Tiny woman, iron spine, smelled like cinnamon and doom. She didn’t trust hospitals or baby books. She trusted Dona Serafina — a fortune teller who read tea leaves in the back of a laundromat near San Antonio Park.”

She gasps but doesn’t interrupt.

“I guess it started with Ilkay. Mom, still drugged up on whatever they gave her for pushing out a baby, just shrugged and complied, putting the psychic name after the family one. And then promptly threw up on my father’s shoes. Then she continued the ritual for all her kids.”

“No,” she laughs, her breath tickling over my chest.

“True story. We each have a family name, and a Portuguese one that’s supposed to mean something spiritual.” The scary part is that our names actually do fit.

“Okay, wait. So your mom picked family names, and the nanny smuggled you all to a fortune-teller who gave you middle names based on psychic visions?”

Correct. “And possibly a bribe and some black coffee, yes.”

“You realize that’s completely insane?” she laughs softly again.

“And yet deeply poetic. It’s like we were named by a drunk Shakespeare and a gypsy who owed someone money,” I say proudly. “I like my name. I like the way I got it. That it means something.”

Aria snorts. Like a baby cow, but sexy.

“And somehow it all fits. Like Ilkay … Mom’s maiden name. She wanted to keep her family legacy strong. In comes Dona Serafina. Wore three shawls even in summer, and talked to pigeons. She looked at baby Ilkay and named him Hugo … and it fits.”

“You’re kidding. What does it mean?”

“Mind. Intellect … something smart … duh.”

Her eyes do a world-weary spiral that screams you-are-an-idiot-but-sexy.

“Now,” I simper, “Jackson and I got our names from our NICE grandfather … mother’s side. I was out first, so Mom twisted his first name, Erick … slapped a Q in there, and voilà — Enrique. She wanted to make it classy, European. Like I was born with an accent and breaking hearts.”

“Which is also true … except for the accent.” She laughs, and my heart twists. In a good way.

“So next, Rosa smuggles us out at six days old, probably wrapped in dishtowels, and takes us to Dona Serafina. And this woman — ancient creature with ten rings and a mole like a GPS marker — she takes one look at sweet little me and says — light outside, chaos inside …” I huff in a low, breathy voice to add dramatic effect.

On the screen, I watch Ana with her flat tits and anorexic body, spread out and tied up, for probably the 10th time … and that’s just in the first movie.

“All accurate, if you think about it,” I continue. Lying tangled like this, talking about shit … it’s nice. I’ve never done it before. But I like it. Very much.

“So what about Jackson?” she asks hesitantly. I’m leaning into the story … maybe just a tad too much. But it makes me feel good. Befitting. Even cheerful.

“That same psychic looked into his soul while he was just lying there in his little blanket. She went silent. Completely still. The whole laundromat went quiet. The woman crossed herself twice and told Rosa to sprinkle salt on his crib as she whispered, deadpan — baby devil eyes. He was glaring before he had neck strength.” She gurgles out a deep laugh.

“And she wasn’t wrong. Rosa tried to Sage the crib, but he bit her. At two months old. Drew blood.”

“And he knocked out three people before he could walk.” It’s probably true.

“That explains so much,” she chuckles loudly. She really has a beautiful laugh.

“Right? And somehow that made it into the birth certificate. Diabo. But we don’t say it out loud too often in case it wakes something.” She cracks up.

“Oh … that little broken black advocate at the bar was right … a child’s name calls forth the spirit that will inhabit his soul … so you’re not naming our children.” I like the way she’s thinking about having my kids. “But continue, I love this story.”

“Ah,” I say, “Then came Logan. Our sweet, feral little brother. Named after our maternal grandmother, Logita. But the adivina saw a lion’s soul. So Leonel — brave, impulsive, slightly unhinged. He once jumped off the roof because someone told him cats always land on their feet.” That someone would be me and Jackson.

She gasps. “Did he land?”

“Not even close. Sprained an ankle, walked it off like a champ. Swore vengeance on gravity.” And us. Got it too, the little bastard. Put sleeping pills in our beer, and while we were passed out, he removed our eyebrows and dyed our penises purple and green. Took a week for the dye to wash off, longer for the brows.

“And your sister?” Oh, that little brat.

“Melaena Angélica Blackburn.” I sound fondly dramatic. “Named after our fraternal granny, Leanne Mel. And Angélica, because apparently, she was too beautiful, she would ruin men … like it was prophecy.” I was there. Heard it with my own four-year-old ears. Didn’t agree … Mel was three minutes old and ugly as shit.

“And was it?” she asks with affection. I’ve noticed that Aria and Mel grew close rather quickly.

“She blinked at a boy in church, and he cried for six days. Three kindergartners proposed to her by age four. One brought her a goldfish. Jackson kept it.”

“I kinda love it. Maybe I’ll do that one day.” With our kids.

I pretend not to be pleased. “Obviously.” Lightning cracks faintly in the distance.

The movie keeps playing, somehow managing to be both awkward and strangely addictive. Christian is leading Ana into his tastefully shadowed room of trauma.

“Why are we watching this again?” I ask. This is not really my genre.

“Because you said you’d watch anything I picked, and I needed something dumb and dramatic. It’s been a long week. I deserve dumb.” Granted. It was one of the longest weeks of my life. And I had some long ones.

“I stand by my decision. This is hilarious.” I don’t see the humor in it. But it is dumb.

We watch the movie for a while, soft rain turning into a heavier downpour again. Then, somewhere between an awkward contract negotiation and Christian tying a tie around her wrist, I’m so bored that I say, “You know, this actually reminds me of military school.”

Aria turns her head slowly. “What? You had kinky sex in military school?”

I grin. “Not the sex stuff. We had to slip out for that. School was all boys.” I say, then continue, “The domination and control.”

She laughs. “You really went to military school?” Yeah, I’m not the military kind of guy. Never really was. But I actually liked the school.

“Yup. Grade nine. Jackson got us in … well, got himself in. I just … went along.”

She adjusts so she can see me better, propped on one elbow. “Why that?”

“Hell was all filled up,” I tease. “So Mom chose this place — strict, brutal, isolated. Thought it’d force him back to life.” My smile fades slightly. Not gone, just hollowed a bit. “He stopped showing up to school. Didn’t talk. Didn’t care. Got into fights. Mom didn’t know what else to do with him.”

“And you went too?”

“Of course.” My voice is matter-of-fact, like it has never been a question. “He’s my twin. And we were barely surviving at home. Grandfather was … you know. Military school meant we were away from him. Away from the house. And Jackson — he might be made of stone, but he’s not bulletproof. I wasn’t about to let him have all the fun alone.”

Aria studies me, tracing small circles around the scar on my shoulder. “Was it bad?”

I laugh. “In some ways … yeah. But also … not really. I mean, it was chaos. But the kind of chaos that made sense. And it was a lot better than the dungeons and pits we were used to.”

I look up at the ceiling as I speak, thinking back. Oddly, it was fun. “There’s something about waking up at 5 a.m. to run five miles in the freezing rain, knowing every other poor bastard around you has to do the same. Builds character. Builds calves, too.”

“So you didn’t hate it?” She sounds surprised.

“I liked it. Jackson liked it more. But also hated it more. The structure suited him. The physical aspect. The strategy. He became sort of … legendary. He’d sneak up during night raids and take entire squads out without a sound. But he didn’t like being told what to do, though. Got us into a lot of trouble.”

She giggles. “Of course he didn’t.” She’s still tracing that scar on my shoulder.

I smile, my expression changes — fondness shaded with mischief. “You want to hear the story of how I got this scar?”

Aria blinks. “I assumed it came from your grandfather. You will tell me?” Geez, am I that closed down that she doesn’t even want to ask me something as simple as this?

“No … not him. He didn’t leave many scars on the outside. Not on me.” He did leave a lot on the inside, though.

She sits up straighter. “Tell me everything.”

I take a breath, gathering the memory like a warm coat.

“So, there was this old latrine behind the east barracks. Falling apart. A little shack with a tin roof and the stench of a thousand regrets. We hated it. Everybody did. Jackson and I decided it had to die.”

Aria covers her mouth. “You didn’t.”

“We did. Jackson somehow got his hands on black powder — don’t ask — and I built a little fuse. The plan was simple. But effective.”

“You blew up a toilet?” Her eyebrows lift.

I pause, smirking. “A very old, very deserving toilet.”

“Okay, so?”

“We just lit it when one of the younger cadets, Robbie or Bobby or something, wandered to the loo. Dumb kid, in every sense of the word. Jackson saw him first. He sprinted. I ran after him.”

“You didn’t stop?”

“Oh, I stopped. Right after Jackson tackled the kid to the ground. And then — BOOM.”

I throw up my hands. “Wood. Nails. Decades of repressed emotions. And poop. So much poop.”

Aria is already laughing, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“We both got hit. Scrapnel in the shoulder, a wooden shard in the arm. Jackson got some wounds on his back and legs. And everything got covered in shit. Not even kidding. We were both covered. Head to toe. You’ve never smelled horror until it’s fermented through splinters and shame.”

She is wheezing. “That’s disgusting!” I like how her eyes got their spark back.

“Fabulous, though. The explosion woke the entire school. Sirens went off. Floodlights everywhere. We were just standing there in the mud and feces, groaning. Jackson next to the kid. Me holding my arm like I was in a war film.”

“Did you get punished?”

I give her a deadpan look. “Of fucking course we got punished. It’s a military school. What do you think?”

She is laughing so hard she almost falls off the bed.

“You’re insane,” she says, wiping tears.

I shrug. “We were young, dumb, and hormonal. Puberty struck.” She reels in her giggles. And it’s fucking cute.

“The worst thing I’ve done was thinking I killed a cat by feeding it a grape.” Jeez. She is a fucking angel. “The cat came back, but I didn’t know it would,” she says, all serious. “I was ten. I grieved for, like, three hours.”

Aria falls quiet for a moment, sobering. She looks at me like she is seeing something older behind the humor.

“I kind of get you better now,” she said softly.

I tilt my head. “Yeah?” I’m rather surprised. Maybe opening up is not so bad after all.

She shifts, curling her legs under her. “After my parents died, Leyla and I ended up in foster care. I was barely fourteen. She was two. We were lucky to be placed together.” I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.

“I never messed up. Messing up meant getting moved to a new home. Definite separation. I could not risk that.” I blink. Shit. Looks like everyone has their own shit. And their own way of dealing with it.

“What about Noah?”

“He and Jesse were placed in another home. With Alejandro. Luckily, not too far from us. Just down the block.” A smile spreads back onto her face.

“There was this girl, Susie, in my house. Absolute menace. Fell hard for D-Boy. Huge crush. Called him Poochiekins,” she chuckles.

I squint. “Poochiekins? Alejandro?” It just doesn’t match.

“I swear on my life. She wrote it on her notebook covers. One day, she tried to make him love her back by tying him to a chair, duct-taping his mouth, and waving a kitchen knife at him.” Her voice is still laced with laughter. It leaves a warm tingle in my chest where my heart should be.

“Romantic.” Is this what people call ‘pillow talk’? Is that what we’re doing now?

“He ran away to join the Navy. She stabbed a foster parent in the leg and went to jail.”

I stare. “I feel like I need to meet Susie.”

“You don’t. She collects doll heads.” Now there’s a ping of jealousy in that lovely voice. I can’t help the wide grin. It just appears.

“Maybe introduce her to Jackson … or the Texan who’s ruining our lives.”

We both start laughing again, this time deeper, freer.

“You really raised Leyla by yourself?” I ask after a moment.

Aria nods. “She was all I had. I was so scared all the time. But I used to sneak her into my bed at night and make up stories about a house by the sea and a garden full of stars. I told her we’d have that one day. That we’d be okay.”

I kiss her knuckles. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met. “You have that now. I just need to get the stars to grow.” Her body tenses, then she swallows.

“You probably say that to all the girls.” I get the deeper meaning.

“Only the ones covered in popcorn salt and foster trauma.”

She smiles, curls back into my side.

Outside, the storm keeps talking to the earth, but inside the room, it’s warm. On the screen, Christian Grey says something angsty. I will never play a role like that. And luckily, Dean knows it.

I roll my eyes. “You know, compared to Susie and the poop explosion, this movie feels really tame.”

Aria grins. “Wait till the third one. Someone gets kidnapped.”

I raise a brow. “Oh, good. Maybe it’s Jackson.”

She giggles.

“On second thought,” I tease, “He’d never let himself be taken. He’d probably kidnap himself first just to mess with the timeline.”

She smiles, her eyes soft, glowing faintly in the TV’s flicker. We just lay there, no talking, letting the night hold us. And for the first time in a week, I feel safe. Calm. Warm. And not so alone.