Chapter Eleven

Javier woke up slowly, then all at once, his limbs locked around one of his pillows with a vise grip similar to an anaconda.

"Chiquita." He spat out, blinking rapidly, his blurry vision trying to take in his surroundings, mostly the pillow he'd been wrapped around, which in his sleep, he'd thought was Emma.

Not Emma, just him, alone in his apartment, the boxes pushed against the wall adjacent to his bed filled with the haunting mementos of his former life, still not unpacked six months after his arrival in the Sunshine State.

Could they really call it the Sunshine State when so many of his days here had been coated in fog?

He supposed so... though it wasn't the sun itself that made his days any brighter.

He groaned, stretching his long legs out, thumbing at the sore spot that plagued his lower back more and more these days, then buried his face in that pillow, wishing it smelled like honeysuckle rather than the woody scent of his own skin.

He'd dreamt about her, but he couldn't remember the details, just knew that she had been there, all soft and sweet, pushing away the dark, savage images that normally plagued his mind at night.

He wished she'd been there when he woke up. But fuck... no, he couldn't think like that.

He'd been spending far too much time lately thinking about things he shouldn't.

Like Lorraine... he'd been thinking about Lorraine.

It had been fifteen years and a handful of months since he abandoned her on their wedding day. He'd been the same age as Emma was now when they got engaged... which was concerning to think about. She was the only woman, outside of a few girlfriends in high school, that he had ever done more than just fuck. Done a lot more... almost fucking married her.

He'd thought that he loved her, thought that marrying her was the right thing to do. That's what you were supposed to do, especially in a small town in Texas, where everyone has expectations. Lorraine was nice, a nice girl. She went to church every Sunday and wore conservative, floral dresses, never drank too much, was always serving everyone sweet tea and homemade cookies.

He would have broken her heart eventually, even if he hadn't left her that day, by becoming the man Columbia had turned him into. He still held some guilt, deep in his heart, for leaving her the way he had, even if she had forgiven him, ended up marrying someone else, popping out a couple blue-eyed kids.

He had known then, just like he did now, that he hadn't loved her the way he should've. That's why he didn't show up to the altar that day, dressed in a tux, promising to be by her side through sickness and in health. She hadn't made that knot of insuppressible, burning need erupt in his chest every time he thought of her, hadn't driven him crazy with a smart tongue or a stubbornness that made him want to bend her over and take her no matter their surroundings, hadn't made him sick with worry each and every time she was out of his line of sight.

How ironic, how painstakingly unfortunate was it that he'd found someone who did make him feel like that... now, when he was no longer a good man with any glittering promise.

When he thought of Lorraine now, Emma was always there, a thick, inescapable presence right at the forefront of his mind. They were so different. Where Lorraine was nice, and compliant, and soft-spoken, Emma was stubborn, and smart-mouthed, and brash. The one thing they had in common was they were both sweet, so sweet, too good for him.

If he had met Emma back then he wouldn't have known what to do with her.

He still didn't.

Of course, fifteen years ago Emma had been ten, which was grotesque and perverted to have to acknowledge. But they were adults now, he reminded himself, she was twenty-five, the same age he'd almost gotten married at.

Still, he found himself wondering what kind of kid she had been, out of nothing beyond curiosity. Had she been just as stubborn? Arguing with her parents over bedtimes and dessert and then later in her teens, over how late her curfew was, parties and boyfriends.

She never talked about her family, or her childhood, or why there were no photos of either in her apartment. Was that just because of their deal? Or was there something more sinister in her past keeping her quiet?

He wanted to know and that wasn't fair.

Wanted to keep her safe, wanted to remedy anything that had hurt her in her past, keep it from continuing to cause her harm now and in the future.

Never wanted to let her go.

He couldn't keep her to himself though, she was too delicate, too sweet, too fragile for his crude, brute hands. If only he could rid himself of the selfishness that held him hostage, chained him to her like she was the only source of light on Earth.

It was her day off. He tried (and failed) to keep himself away from her when she wasn't easily accessible behind the bar counter. The last few times she'd been off, he'd shown up at her doorstep long after the sun had set, engulfing her puffy, pink lips in his the moment she opened the door.

He grabbed his watch from the bedside table, squinting as he stared down at the clock face. It was only 9am, he had twelve or more hours before it was acceptable for him to show up at her apartment.

Just sex.

He didn't think he could wait. That greedy, all-consuming need clawing at his chest and ripping him open from the inside out.

He dragged himself out of bed and padded over to the bathroom, yanking on the hot water, and stripping down. Maybe a long, hot shower would clear his mind, ease the ache drilling away in his core.

__________

She was just getting out of bed, eyes barely open, coffee just starting to patter away into the clear basin when a knock erupted at her door.

She knew that knock without even having to check the peephole. Hard, precise, three timed strikes against the wood.

Her heart leapt into her chest as she shuffled her way to the door. He always came over on her days off, but not until much later.

Maybe there was something wrong, maybe he was here to tell her he was leaving, mysteriously disappearing off to the next town or city, to antagonize some other bartender.

She clicked the lock and tugged the door open, greeted by the towering expanse of him, his shoulders visibly losing tension as soon as she was in front of him, his dark eyes eagerly scanning her form, before softening as they reached her eyes.

"Hi chiquita." He exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath for the last several hours.

"Everything okay?" She asked, her voice pinched and high, suddenly feeling very awake.

He nodded, "Just uh-- wanted to hang out, that's um-- that's allowed, right?" He ruffled the back of his hair with one large hand, a pair of yellow-tinted aviators were tucked into the open collar of his shirt, his arms looking like they were about to bust open the taut sleeves.

Her heart skyrocketed, but she worked to dismiss the tug in her chest as she shrugged, stepping out of the doorway, and shuffling back into the kitchen.

He followed her, carefully closing the door behind him as he watched her get on her toes to grab a mug from one of the cupboards.

"Coffee?" She asked, peering at him over her shoulder. She was all soft and sleepy, still clothed in a simple Nirvana t-shirt, the material worn and torn at the shoulder, dipping down to the middle of her bare thighs. She was so beautiful it hurt.

"Yes please." He voiced, glancing from her to the small kitchen table, then over to the couch. He didn't know where she drank her coffee, so he just stood there, waiting as she reached for a second mug and grabbed the carafe.

"Sugar or cream?" She inquired, tugging open the fridge.

He shook his head.

"Of course not." She muttered under her breath, pouring a generous amount of half and half into one of the mugs, spooning some sugar into it as well, giving it a stir before she took both mugs, handing one to Javier on her way to the couch.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, taking the spot next to her when she sat down, tucking her feet under her and leaning back against the arm of the couch.

She glanced at him from over the rim of her mug, "Just makes sense, you don't really strike me as the type to enjoy things. Everything has to have a purpose, a utility, doesn't it, Javier?"

She saw too much, but not enough to know that he was enjoying her, all soft and warm, curled around her sweet, milky coffee. Dark, blue eyes staring up at him.

"Coffee is for waking up." He said simply, taking a long sip from his mug.

"It's also for enjoyment." She retorted, winking at him, her presence slowly unthreading the knot in his chest that never seemed to loosen unless he was next to her.

"Subjective." He declared, taking another long sip before reaching forward and placing his mug down on one of the little coasters that littered her coffee table.

He wanted to tug her to his chest, wrap himself around her and breathe in the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle that he could just barely make out as it permeated the space between them, remedy the ache that had been clawing away at him since he woke up.

He glanced around her apartment, instead of yanking her into his lap like he wanted to, took note once again of the lack of photographs. The question ate away at him, crawled up his throat and threatened to spill out.

What happened to you, pretty girl? My pretty girl.

"Why are you really here?" She asked suddenly, still curled around her mug, her perspective eyes searching his face as he looked over at her.

He didn't have an answer, not one that was allowed or appropriate. He just wanted to be near her, bask in her presence, let it ease away the tightness in his chest, the images that plagued him whenever he wasn't next to her.

"If you just want a morning fuck then--" She started, her voice sharp and cold, her eyebrows pinched together as he interrupted her with a quick shake of his head.

"I told you; I just want to hang out." He said, his hand reaching up to scratch his cheek.

"Hang out?" She repeated, deadpan, her fingers beginning to toy with the hem of her shirt.

Just sex.

He nodded.

Enigmatic, strange, pretty, pretty man.

"You're weird, Javier." She spat out, shaking her head as she stood up, taking both their mugs and depositing them in the kitchen sink.

He watched her, intently, as she paused in the kitchen for a moment, her ass brushing defiantly against the fabric of her oversized shirt, her little fingers pressing into the base of her neck, massaging at a tense spot there that he wanted to ease away with his much larger hands.

"I'm going to shower." She declared as she spun around to find his dark eyes already on her. "You can just... sit there, I guess."

His spine twitched, feeling the need to follow her, not wanting her out of his sight for a minute. She didn't give him a chance though, stalking off down the hall before he could even stand up from the couch.

So he sat there, basking in the scent of her that engulfed her entire home, sweet honeysuckle and strawberries and fuck he could drown in it. He heard her turn on the hot water, the pattering off it echoing down the hallway. His eyes drifted across the room then snapped and settled on a little notebook perched at the edge of the coffee table.

His hand twitched from where it rested on his knee.

What did she have hidden in those pages? What secrets lived there, details of her life that she still hadn't shared with him... probably would never share with him.

What happened to you, pretty girl?

The curiosity drilling away in the back of his skull urged him to pick it up, devour the words like the starving man he was. But he couldn't, couldn't betray her that vehemently. If she did the same thing with the boxes he had stacked up in his bedroom he would lose his mind.

He wanted to know, but he also wanted her to want him to know.

That wasn't fair, of course it wasn't... he didn't want her to know about his past, so why should she share anything from hers?

You do want her to know, a nagging, unfamiliar voice rang out in the back of his head. You want her to know, you just know that she'll never want to see you again once she does.

A thick, viscous wave of dread coursed through his veins, surging up and coating his tongue, bitter and arid. There had never been a moment before, a singular thought or point of weakness, when he'd toyed with the idea of telling her about his past. But now it was there, sharp and ringing out, rattling around in his skull, and making him feel like he was about to fold in half.

I want to know her, want her to know me, better than anyone else.

No, no, no. This was all sick, twisted, and wrong. He was being self-destructive, or maybe he'd gone fucking mad. He could never tell her anything about him, nothing more than she already knew. She was all he had here, his only thing that wasn't tainted by Columbia, or the narcos, or his failure. She didn't falsely exalt him as a hero, like everyone back home in Texas did. She wasn't ashamed of him for leaving the DEA, like everyone down in Mexico was. She wasn't scared of him, like everyone in Columbia was.

With her, he was just Javier. He could not fuck that up, no matter how insane he went, no matter how thick and urgent the need for her to know him, really know him, became.

He was snapped out of that vicious cycle when the door to the bathroom clicked open, and Javier watched as Emma padded to her bedroom on bare feet, wrapped in a white, fluffy towel, her hair snaking off her head in wet, dark ropes.

He needed to touch her now. Needed her to pull him out of the madness that was quickly encapsulating him whole.

He stood up, his body moving on its own accord as he walked down the hall, entering the open bedroom, where Emma was still wrapped in her towel, idling at her open, overflowing dresser.

Javier only moved in one of two ways: loud and furious, or so quiet that he could barely be heard by anyone with hearing less than that of a dog. When he entered the room, and gently placed his hands on Emma's waist, she yelped, unaware that he'd gotten up from the couch, her heart slamming in her chest as she whirled around, nearly losing her towel in the process.

"Jesus Christ, you scared me." She barked at him, lightly smacking his chest and staring up at him, those worry lines etched between her eyebrows.

He reached up, without thinking, and swiped his thumb across that agitated space.

"Sorry chiquita." He whispered, his low baritone making her stomach cramp up before he tugged her to his chest, crushing her against him with his vast arms, his face pressed into her damp hair, inhaling deeply, frantically, like he was losing oxygen in his lungs, like he needed her to breathe.

She melted into his warm, strong embrace, but in the same moment she felt a tense bout of nerves begin to crawl its way from her gut, up to her chest. Something was wrong with him, that was apparent in the desperate way he was holding her, clear by the fact that he'd shown up at her apartment at 10am to hang out. But she knew, if she asked him what was wrong, he would build that wall back up, deny his strange behavior, immaturely pick a fight with her as a means of distraction.

So, she just let him hold her, his arms locking her to him tight, his right hand clutching a handful of the towel that was still wrapped around her with white knuckles, his prominent nose pressed into the top of her head so the only thing he was breathing in was her.

"Sorry-- just need-- just a minute." He mumbled against her. She smelled so intensely of honeysuckle straight out the shower, her soft skin warm to the touch, her tiny hands gently running up and down his sides in a manner that was making him dizzy.

He needed more, more, more, would never get enough.

Regardless of what he needed, he forced himself to let go of her, his heart clenching painfully at the concerned look plaguing her lovely features as he walked back out of the room without saying anything, reinstating his presence on the couch.

She stood there for a moment, her heart pounding erratically in her head. Something was going on with him, something that he wouldn't dare tell her about, just like he wouldn't tell her his last name or what he was doing before he appeared at her bar all those months ago. But to hell if she wasn't going to try to find out.

Emma got dressed, tousling her hair with the towel to get it at least partially dry before she stepped back into the living room, to find Javier sitting exactly where she'd left him, almost as if the strange experience in her bedroom hadn't happened at all.

"I'm going to the beach." She declared, little hands on her hips like she thought he was going to protest her statement. "Do you want to come." She said it more like a remark than a question.

He nodded once, standing up from the couch and following her as she grabbed her keys and bag and headed out the front door. He lit a cigarette as soon as they were outside, taking a drag, then placing it between her fingers when she looked up at him expectantly.

"Are we walking there?" Javier asked as he followed her down 11th, toward Judah.

"It's like 30 blocks to the beach, of course we're not." She said, like he was supposed to know more than the five-block radius that surrounded their apartments and the bar. Perhaps he should have... he'd lived in the city for half a calendar year already, but he hadn't had much reason to stray from that tiny portion of the Sunset.

Emma paused at the corner of 12th and Judah, peering up the street expectantly.

"We're taking the train?" Javier asked, his jaw clamped a tad tighter than usual.

"Yeah." Emma shrugged, tugging her bag higher up on her slight shoulder.

It wasn't that Javier had a particular aversion to public transportation, although he had seen terrorists disguised as narcos blow up their fair share of buses... it was that he had a reluctance to anything that he wasn't in control of. Even being the passenger in a car was unfavorable. He needed to be the one driving, in all aspects of the word.

That was one of the things that drove him the most insane about Emma. She made him feel out of control, like he no longer knew which way was up, like his emotions weren't something he could suppress and contain and negate.

The train rumbled up the tracks, screeching to a stop in front of them and popping its doors open. Emma entered first, head held high on her neck as she slid the driver a dollar in exchange for a transfer ticket.

Javier did the same, his eyes manically scanning the occupants of the car as he stayed close behind Emma as she walked further down, to two empty seats near the rear.

She slid in, staring up at him as he continued to survey the train, his eyebrows pulled together, further etching that v between them.

He could feel that heavy, ghost weight in the back of his pants as he planted himself in front of her, hand locked on the top of the seat he should've been occupying. There was no real indication that anyone in the train was dangerous, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Javi." She called over the ringing of the bell that chimed just as the train started screeching back down the tracks.

She could see that faraway look in his eyes, the way his hand twitched, reaching for the back of his pants before he instead took a firm grasp of the top of the seat next to her.

Nothing is going to hurt me, pretty girl.

If that was true, then why was he looking at every person in the car like they might pull a gun out at any moment?

His eyes snapped to her face, then carefully took in each of her features, like he was looking for any obvious signs of harm, like he hadn't followed her onto the bus and watched her sit down, unscathed.

"Sit." She ordered, patting the spot next to her.

He shook his head, once, firm.

"Are you scared of the bus, Javier? Big, strong man terrified of public transportation..." She teased, her voice high and mocking.

Not scared of the bus, chiquita. However, I am terrified of anyone on the bus trying to harm you.

He didn't say anything, not a witty rebuttal or a grunt, just flashed her an annoyed glare and continued to stand there, looking all wide and intimidating, his large hand white knuckled as it gripped the seat next to her.

She rolled her eyes, refusing to be protected by him even if there wasn't any threat on this particular train. She shuffled down the small row of seats, pushing at his side so she had enough space to get out and stand next to him.

"Sit back down, Emma." He scolded, using the hand that wasn't gripping the seat to take hold of her bicep and try to yank her back down, behind him, where she was safe, where he could keep an eye on the train and shield her if necessary.

"No, you freak. I'm not going to sit here while you stand there like a deranged bodyguard." She huffed, tugging her arm out of his grip, and shoving her way into the aisle.

Stubborn, infuriating, little girl.

He settled for crowding her into the small space between him and the small row of seats, his hand now gripping the overhead bar, the bulging expanse of his bicep inches from her face.

She took in her new position with an exhausted huff of air out of her nose.

"You're stupid." She scoffed, peering up at him as he glanced down at her, chin nearly meeting his chest with how low he had to tilt his head down.

"You're infuriating." He retorted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

She tried to push at his chest in retaliation, but he caught her wrists with one large hand, tugging her to his chest, wrapping his arm around her waist and keeping her there, furious little face pressed into the bare skin exposed by the open collar of his shirt.

"Let me go." She muttered, voice muffled against him, her actions opposing her demand as her arms snaked around his torso and took hold of the back of his shirt.

He chuckled as he stared down at her, burying her face further into his chest, "So convincing, chiquita."

She did roll her eyes against him, despite his inability to see her, but the warmth tunneling into her chest as he held her against him was negating her ability to push away from him and reinstate her annoyance at his irritating behavior.

The train reached its last stop, at the very end of Judah, and Emma pried herself away from Javier, walking through the nearly empty train to the open doors, Javier so close behind her that her hand brushed his hip with each step that she took.

They exited the train and the wind immediately whipped Emma's hair around her face, causing her to fumble around in her bag for a scrunchie, that she quickly used to tie her still damp hair back into a haphazard bun.

The beach was nearly empty, apart from a few surfers braving the choppy waves, and a couple people walking their dogs. Emma bounded down the steps and onto the sand, where she quickly tugged her sneakers off, shoving her socks into her shoes that she dangled from her fingers as she began walking toward the water, which was gray, surging, bubbling white and foamy as it lapped out against the shore. There was a thick cloud of fog strung out above the horizon, hanging there like an omen.

Javier followed her, a good few feet of distance between them as his boots sunk into the sand. This was not the beach he had been expecting... but then again, what had he really expected? This was San Francisco, not Cancún...

She plopped down a bit further than halfway down the beach, seemingly content to sit on the ground without a blanket as she dug her toes into sand. When Javier finally reached her, he collapsed onto the ground next to her, grunting as tugged his boots off to dump out the sand that had accumulated inside of them during their trek.

She giggled as she watched him, relishing in the small smirk he gifted her in response to her teasing.

"What's the deal with this, chiquita?" He asked her once his boots were back on his feet, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle in front of him, his bulk leaned back and propped up on his hands. "Not exactly prime beach real estate."

She shrugged, letting her eyes close as the wind blew across her face, tugging a few strands of her hair loose. "I love it. I come here almost every day that I don't work unless it's raining... sometimes even if it is raining."

He just stared at her, hoping that if he stayed quiet, she would keep talking.

"It's just--" She turned toward him slightly, those loose strands of hair continuously blowing into her pretty face. "Everyone has this idea of what a California beach is supposed to look like-- warm sand, blue skies, clear water, hot girls in bikinis suntanning on blankets, muscled frat guys playing volleyball or football or whatever." She threw her hand up in a dismissive wave. "I love that San Francisco just wholly dismisses that, says fuck you here's wind, and fog, and freezing ass water." She paused to glance out across the beach, her chest feeling light and fuzzy, even more so than when she was here alone, "There's something beautiful in that, the disparity between expectations and the reality of it."

Javier didn't say anything, didn't think he could, just admired how her voice shook with passion as she spoke, how pretty she looked as she continuously tried to get those stubborn pieces of hair to stay behind her ears.

When she spoke again her voice was lower, more thoughtful, "I love and hate San Francisco. Everything that's ever happened to me has happened to me here. Everything good and everything bad is right here. And this-- I don't know-- it sounds stupid-- but this beach has always felt like an emblem of all of it. Good and bad. Beautiful and ugly."

She glanced over at him, her lips hinting at a smile as his pretty brown eyes locked on hers. She wanted him to tell her something now, not that she had taken him here as a greedy means of give and take, even though that's all their relationship was. Give and take. Just sex. If she couldn't know his last name or why he had scars all over his chest, then she wanted to know what he thought was beautiful, what he thought was ugly, what existed in both spaces for him.

And he just sat there, a heavy weight on his chest, because he knew that she was sharing something deeply personal with him. Even if it wasn't the reason why she didn't have any photos in her house, or why she only seemed to hang out with him. This beach was a part of her, one she probably didn't show to many people... maybe not to anyone. She deserved something in return, she deserved so much, so much more than he could ever give her.

That nagging voice in the back of his head screamed again. Tell her, talk to her, you're a coward.

"I-- I uh--" Javier swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the thick confines of his neck. "When I was a kid, my dad used to take me fishing on Lake Travis all the time. I didn't-- I didn't really like fishing, didn't like hauling all our shit onto the boat, didn't like gutting the fish, didn't like having to eat it for the next week after we got home. I would always dread those trips." He paused to tear his gaze away from her eyes and down to the shore, "But every time I got there, I would just-- I would haul my body as far over the side of the boat as I could, peer down into the water and just stare at it. And now when I-- when I think back to those trips I-- I miss it. I miss that water, I miss my pops, I miss the innocence of it all." He turned back to find her staring at him, those dark blue eyes-- those Lake Travis blue eyes-- slightly glossy. His heart clenched painfully in his chest at the sight.

He wanted to tell her that her eyes reminded him of that lake, reminded him of home, reminded him of before. But before he could speak, she scooted closer to him, leaning over and resting her head against his shoulder.

His heart stuttered, leaping into his throat.

"Thank you." She whispered, turning, and pressing her cold face into the warm skin of his neck.

He wrapped his arm around her, tugging her even closer to his side.

"Thank you, chiquita." He hummed, turning his face to press a deep kiss onto the top of her head.

Then they turned their attention to the water, her curled up against his side, his cheek resting against the top of her head, a light, fluttering feeling enveloping both of their chests.