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You look Gustavo up and down in your sunglasses, his face tinted dark pink and hazy. He’s taller than you thought he’d be.
Your brother dismounts from his horse to shake hands. Introductions. Pleasantries. That sort of thing. Gustavo kisses your knuckles when you tell him your name and you only scoff a little bit, pull away slightly for the show of it all.
Yes, he’s very tall. Handsome, too, which should be dangerous (is dangerous given who he is and what he’s here to do) but you’ve always been one for pretty things. Expensive things, like the watch on his wrist that bounces back the light of the Colombian sun. His voice is deep when he laughs, a quiet chuckle in his chest that shakes the gold hanging above the hollow of his throat. He catches you looking. You pretend not to notice.
Fabio turns to discuss something with Pablo and the other men (transports or labs or some man with a plane) but you tune it out for the most part, walking a few dusty steps to meet the warm stare of his horse. You pat at its shoulders, cooing softly when it rears against your touch until it settles again, allowing your hand on the brown velvet of its head. Horses are nice. They don’t fuss over you or where you’re going or who you’re with. They just let you be.
Fabio would never let you ride this one, of course, but that’s neither here nor there. He doesn’t let you do a lot of things. You can hear their voices back in the courtyard but you just stay by the horse, bored while they talk because business is always dull like that. You’re hungry. Tired.
Someone moves behind you and you jump, startled for a brief moment before another low laugh travels in the space between your bodies and goosebumps rise on your neck. “Scared?” the man asks, watching as you turn and twist the sunglasses off your face. It’s Gustavo.
“No,” you say after a moment, leaning against the fence. “It’s not nice to sneak up on your host, you know. Bad manners and all.”
“Well, I’m very sorry,” he responds, his lip quirking up just enough for you to see the faint edge of a dimple on his cheek. The wooden post digs into your hip as you rest against it, looking up at him with sun-squinted eyes.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” you respond, your voice notching in your throat when he comes one, two steps closer. “Not a very good liar, if you ask me.”
Gustavo smirks again, wolfish and much more attractive than it should be, bringing the smell of tobacco and sharp fruit over your nose when he reaches to fiddle with the thin strap of your dress. He rolls the yellow linen back between his thumb and pointer finger and your face flushes.
“Watch it!” Luis warns from across the way with a scowl.
Gustavo lets go, his fingers dragging against the bare skin of your shoulders. Your smile is saccharine before you turn away. “I’ll see you around,” you whisper, your sunglasses still dangling from your hand.
You’re gone with another toss of your head, up through the foyer and through open hallways as your sandals echo against marble floors.
⫸ ——–- ⫷
“Where’s Jorge?” you ask with a frown, watching as the dining table is set by women in pressed gray uniforms. He was supposed to be here, with your brothers and you. With Gacha - god, you hated him - with Pablo and with… Gustavo.
Fabio clicks off his radio with a sigh. “Business trip,” he tells you shortly, maneuvering around the chairs to walk back into the parlor, where the other men were sitting before dinner was ready.
“Oh,” you breathe out to no one in particular. “Okay.”
He doesn’t offer anything else so you just sigh, tracing the carved wooden backings of the chairs with your palm as you circle around the room. Maybe you could sneak something in the meantime.
You push past the double doors and hear the swinging of their hinges, stepping into the kitchen and eyeing the corner pantry. It’s empty save for a maid and you wave at her, watching as she leaves with a stack of china plates. You’ve always liked the kitchen, with its wide windows and tall shelves and the way it smells like flour. Things are muffled in here. Far-removed. Nothing of concern besides whether or not the oven timer works and how your little pot of thyme rests on the windowsill.
The cupboard creaks as you open it and you rest your weight on the thin wood panel as you rummage behind the potatoes. You’ve used this shelf to hide food since you were a child and it’s no different now, even though you know your family could afford to buy you practically anything these days. Old habits die hard, you suppose, and so your chocolate stash remains undisturbed.
When you close it you’re met with the sight of a shirt, striped white and blue and smelling like laundry soap. It’s Gustavo again, leaning against the edge of the counter beside you with an amused sort of look on his face. Your eyes only widen a little bit before you raise your eyebrows.
“Want some?” you offer, snapping off a corner and holding it out. “I hide the good kind in here,” you say as you motion to the pantry. Gustavo laughs, more sincere this time. His eyes do this sort of crinkling thing when he smiles. You like it. A lot.
“I came here for a drink, actually,”
You shake your head. “Mm, no you didn’t,” you lilt, biting off a piece of chocolate when he doesn’t take it. Gustavo cocks his head. Like he’s daring you to do something. You don’t know what. “I saw that they have a bar cart in the parlor,” you say after you swallow, watching him as he watches you.
“Alright then,” he concedes. “I came to see you.”
The foil package crinkles when you set it down, your hand coming up to toy with the buttons of his shirt. You drag your fingernail across them until they catch on the smooth grooves, tracing the way the kitchen lights reflect back in alabaster. He just lets you do it. Humors you. “And what would everyone say,” you hummed, “If they knew you were alone with me?”
A finger, calloused but skimming soft, hooks under your dress strap again, lifting it and letting it fall along the slope of your shoulder. The air’s heavy; a little choking in the space between. Not suffocating, exactly, but thick in your throat like the fog of summer rain. His eyes are dark. Like chocolate. “They don’t have to know.”
You purse your lips to taste the sugar still stuck to the roof of your mouth before you hear your name called from somewhere, dampened by stucco walls. “We should go,” you whisper, not making any move to do so. Gustavo’s hand is still on your shoulder and his thumb presses into the divot of sloping bone, rubbing a slow half-circle. He’s looking at you still, eyeing his slow liquid gaze at the way your chest rises with your breathing. He’s bold, you’ll give him that.
You suck in an inhale and it comes out sharp, stilted and soft in your larynx before you speak again. “C’mon,” you say, letting your arms fall at your sides. “Don’t want to keep them waiting.”
He nods and you step away, worrying the bottom flesh of your lip between your teeth to hide your smile.
⫸ ——–- ⫷
You stay in the hallway for a few minutes after, resting your head on the plaster wall as Gustavo leaves. You know on an intellectual level that toying with whatever that was could probably land you in deep shit, but you’re bored and he’s nice to you, not because he’s paid to be but because he wants to. Maybe nice isn’t exactly the right word, but he’s sweet in a heady, rich sort of way. He said he liked your earrings. Said he’d buy you more. If you let him. If you wanted him to.
When you finally go into the dining room, there’s only one empty seat.
“Sit down,” Fabio motions to the chair, guiding you forward with a light hand on your shoulder.
“Oh but-” you begin, meeting the back of a dark head, a tan cap and wide shoulders. He doesn’t turn around but you know he’s listening, even as he leans over to the man to his right and starts talking.
“Sit down,” your brother repeats, impatient. The chair scrapes against the floor when Gustavo pulls it out for you. Sharp teeth. Large hands.
So you sit, feeling suddenly very small when you’re next to him like this, close almost to touching but far enough to seem unfamiliar. His palm brushes your thigh when his arm drops and you shoot him a look. Be careful, your face warns. You’ll get caught.
Maybe he takes that as a challenge. Maybe he just doesn’t care.
Gustavo’s eyes glint as he raises a glass of wine to his lips, tinting them a light red stain. His tongue darts out and he drags it across his mouth, nonplussed as you cough into your napkin. Tease.
You eat in silence; offer half-hearted responses to the men’s half-hearted questions. They move on from you quickly and turn in on themselves, little groups of twos and threes around the table. You hear smatterings of conversation and feel like a lampshade, there to decorate ugly things and stay still.
“Having fun?” a now familiar voice asks as the empty glasses increase, prompting louder voices and the clapping of drunken hands on drunken backs.
You push the food around your plate with a lazy fork. “Hardly,” you respond, the words dry and muffled into your cheek as your face rests in your palm. “You?”
“Not at all,” he responds, looking over at his supposed business partners. Pablo’s beginning a drinking song and you roll your eyes, dramatic as you motion a pretend noose around your throat. Gustavo chuckles and you smile back, your expression turning puzzled when he clears his throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says to the men now swaying back and forth, their arms around each other’s shoulders as they join in liquor-addled singing. He pats the pocket of his shirt and spares you a split-second glance before he stands. “I need a cigarette.”
A cigarette. Gross things, really, that lingered on clothes and made your father’s lungs weak. A cigarette.
His palm slips down your neck when he’s behind you, his fingers curling hot around your hair before he lets go and walks away. A cigarette. A pointed look. A cigarette.
Oh.
⫸ ——–- ⫷
He’s on you before the bathroom door closes.
“My brothers are gonna kill me,” you groan, tipping your head back against the doorframe as Gustavo’s hands slide across your waist. “How much time do we have?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes,” he replies, kissing a wet bruise into the skin of your jaw. “Before they start getting suspicious.”
“Fifteen minutes,” you repeat, gasping on the ending syllable when his lips seal across your pulse point.
Gustavo nods, his hair brushing against your cheek as he hooks his arms underneath your legs. “Fifteen minutes.”