Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
The door opened, inches, and no one was there. The room was empty. Cream paneling, more gold, it was a lot, like a stomach-turning bite of cheesecake fed to a starving man, cramping in barren gut and lying too thick on the tongue—it wasn't what Cris knew. He had grown up with imitation denim patches, the Salvation Army, bla, bla, bla. This was too rich. And, in that moment, as his mind reeled, it confused him. Where was Sam? Lost somewhere in the dazzling goldwork brocades, Japan thread acting as some shining, gilt noose, no cabe duda. —He frowned and pushed the door open wider. His eyes were black-bled, lashes still-wet and sticking together, dark eyebrows pulled down, and he didn't realize he'd made a mistake until he felt the soft brush of fingers low on his shin.
La sangre.
¡Coño!
Cris tore off the blue shirt so fast the buttons popped, raining inward against the buffer of vest, and he threw the useless fabric over his shoulder, back to where the vieja watched the broadside of his back, probably still trying to piece together just what was going on. The vest came next, undone with practiced fingers and shed heavily. By then he was on his knees, black and blood on the thin carpeting, probably smearing behind him, across the tracks of burnished gold over brown, like a body broken open and spread over rails. He didn't care. He wasn't thinking about the eventualities, the consequences, about who would have to get down and clean the stains with a rag. He thought instead about Teresita, about Sofia and Sam, and he crawled to her, the girl he'd just seen executed, and he pushed his fingers through the tangled black of her hair. He knew there was no warm, sticky spread of blood beneath its thrushes, but he checked as he pulled her into his lap on the floor, as he tried to bring her closer, her head tucking to his throat—like, maybe, somehow that could protect her from something that had never happened to her in the first place. And him too.
He kissed the top of her head, and the hand that cradled her moved to take her fingers. He lifted her hand to his lips, fingertips spread like a butterfly's wings, and he kissed them.
She was still sedated, and the blue in her eyes was dark. But she wasn't wrapped in white. She wasn't soaking in arterial red. She was right here. Cris mixed curses and blessings in quiet, breathless Spanish, and held her as close as he could.