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Book Announcement!
Hey guys!! I know I've been quiet on the fan fic front but that's because I've been working on my first published short romance book! As most of you know, @bullet-prooflove and I are writing a series, The Outlaw Royales, and my book is quickly approaching the line in the publishing dates! If you want, you can follow me over on Instagram for more book and series updates!
Los Regalos (Horacio Carrillo x Reader)
Pairing: Colonel Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader
Rating: PG (if you squint)
Summary: You're new to Colombia and the Search Bloc, loaned out by the Army to help sift through the wiretaps, sat phone calls, and other communications. Everything is off to a normal start until someone starts leaving little gifts on your desk and you're determined to figure out who it is. Carrillo is not married in this fic because I'm the author and I say so.
Author's Note: Anon who suggested this prompt, I am forever in your debt. I hope you let me know who you are because I loved writing this. And I'm leaving it open for further one-shots if you want me to continue to add to it.
Los Regalos (Gifts)
The gifts show up on your desk randomly.
At least, you think they’re gifts. The terrible thought that they could have been just left on your desk absentmindedly and were meant for someone else crashes into your thoughts. But if that were the case, it should have stopped after you claimed the small, potted orchid as your own. And the pound of Robusta coffee with a handmade ceramic mug. A box of cocadas, which you sincerely wish you knew where those came from because they were fantastic. Today, it's a beautiful ceramic bowl with different types of fruit in it. Most of which you have no idea what they are. Or how to eat them.
“Another gift from the secret admirer?”
You look up to see the two DEA agents that have been assigned to work with the newly formed Search Bloc come into the shared office space. It was Agent Peña that had spoken.
“Yeah,” you answer. “Although I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with some of these.” You pick up a bright pinkish-red fruit. “Like, what is this?”
“That’s a pitahaya,” Peña says. “In the US we call them dragon fruit.”
So that’s what a dragon fruit is.
“Now this one,” Peña picks up a green spiky fruit, “is a guanabana. Don’t eat the skin or the seeds inside it, they’re poisonous. Just eat the meat.”
“Good to know,” you take the fruit and put it back into the bowl. You’re still relatively new to Colombia, assigned to Centra Spike under the umbrella of the Army. Your job is to listen to phone calls made over the wiretaps and satellite phones, trying to figure out what was from the narcos and what was just common chatter. Your family thought you were running through the barrios of Bogotá and Medellín, in a flak vest and gun, shooting down sicarios and arresting drug dealers. You tried to explain to them that you live at a desk with headphones over your ears but they preferred their version of events. It made social events more interesting for them.
“You figure out who it is leaving you these things?” Agent Murphy asks.
You shake your head. “Not yet. The mystery continues.”
You thought it could be one of them since you’re an American, with the Army, and trying to get adjusted to life in a foreign country. But Murphy is married and trying to get adjusted himself and Peña doesn’t strike you as the type to bestow little gifts to a secretary that he barely knows and speaks to in passing. Which leaves the Colombian police officers that surround you. And that suspect pool is quite large.
Trujillo is a common face in this area of the office, working closely with Colonel Carrillo. And even though you’ve had personable conversations with him, they’ve remained professional and distant. And he’s been the friendliest officer you’ve interacted with so your options are very broad as to who is your secret admirer. You pick up another piece of fruit, an uchuva, a small yellow berry, and smile. Whoever it is, they’re scoring some major points with their thoughtfulness.
***
Carrillo has no idea what he’s doing.
It’s been years since he’s attempted to get a woman to notice him. The last time his eyes were set on a potential companion, her father decided that she was better suited for an officer with a higher rank and so he lost his Juliana to a then lieutenant colonel. He wonders how her father feels now that he’s a colonel and head of the specialized group tasked to track down Escobar. He hadn’t thought of pursuing a romantic entanglement since he lost her.
But then you walked in, on loan from the United States Army, to help organize the information that came flooding in from the various wiretaps and sat phone calls. You sat hours on end everyday, listening to those calls, transcribing the conversations, and deciding what was helpful and what was just everyday talk. You had been here for three weeks, new to the country, new to the job, but had dug in with a determination that he rarely saw, even from his own men.
He listens to the wiretaps too. He hears his men talk about their fear for their lives and their families. He hears them doubt what is the right thing to do. He hears them cave to their fear and help the narcos. He understands why they do it but he can’t abide by it. He sifts through his officers like farmers sift through their crop: keep the good pieces and discard the rotten ones. It’s making him distant from his emotions and his desire to be around people. He’s becoming weary of sizing up everyone he encounters to see if they’re a threat or an ally.
He listens to your phone conversations too. Even though you are a US citizen, part of the deal is that any American is subject to the same transparency as the Colombian army and police force. You signed off on that waiver of privacy and so he listens to your conversations with zero guilt. That is until he realizes he has heard your voice so much that he can recognize it with as much accuracy as he can Escobar’s. That is when he realizes there is something intriguing about you.
He has your voice memorized so he moves on to studying your appearance and routine. You arrive ten minutes early every morning, dressed neatly and with care, with jeans and a nice blouse. The only thing that confuses him are the worn Converse sneakers you always wear. Jewelry is limited to simple earrings and a necklace; you don't wear any rings on your hands or bracelets on your wrists. Your posture is straight as you sit at the dented, metal desk in the main office area.
Whenever you come across an officer that is giving information or making arrangements to receive bribes from the cartel, you would bring the file and tape to him at the end of the business day. It is the only time that you darken his door. He would take the items from you and note the sad look in your eye when they left your hand, like you were responsible for the breach of conduct. You are a lovely combination of beauty, efficiency, and empathy. And you have caught his attention. Now what?
Is there a difference between catching a criminal and catching a paramour?
He goes back to listening to the phone conversations, mostly with your sister and mother. You talk about the various things that you’ve discovered that are unique to Colombia: flowers, foods, and drinks in particular. You’ve recently started talking about books you want to read now that the newness of everything is starting to fade and you can concentrate on a hobby. You mention authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez with his famous One Hundred Years of Solitude, but then mention how you want a more authentic social commentary and had recently bought a used copy of The Vortex by José Eustacio Rivera. If you wanted an authentic social commentary on just how greed-fueled the rubber industry was, you certainly picked a good book.
The conversation turns to family updates and he stops listening in to convince himself he’s giving you some semblance of privacy. He takes out a small notebook and makes a note to bring his copy of Las Estrellas son Negras by Arnoldo Palacios to leave on your desk tomorrow. The book isn’t uplifting in any sense of the word but it is considered to be classic, albeit an unpopular one. If you’re wanting to read something deep, and if you do end up enjoying The Vortex, then you should like Palacios’ book.
While he’s thinking about the novels, something comes to mind concerning the rubber manufacturing in the jungle. There had been some aerial shots of a possible drug lab in one of the many overgrown spaces between Medellín and Bogotá that he wanted to look over again. They weren’t on his desk any more, or any of the other desks in the room so he heads over to the file room where they’ve most likely been returned. He passes by your desk but you’re not there, maybe on your lunch break, but he notices some of the fruit is already missing.
The file room door is propped open which immediately annoys him. The room is supposed to be locked both with an old fashioned key lock and an electronic passcode, not propped open with a…shoe? He makes a disgusted noise as he kicks it out of the doorway and goes into the room. As soon the door clicks shut, someone drops a file and goes running for the door.
“No, no, no, no…”
It’s you.
And you’re missing a shoe.
“Damn it!” You hit the door with an open palm and turn towards him, ready to unleash a severe reprimand until you realize it’s him. Most of your fury dissolves into contrition as you take in a deep breath. “Buen día, coronel.” (Good day, Colonel.)
“Buen día, señorita.” (Good day, miss.) He waits to see if you’re going to say anything else but your eyes are trying to look at anywhere in the room but him. They finally settle on your feet: one still encased in the converse sneaker while the other is bare. Your toenails are painted a light pink. “Am I to understand that was your shoe holding the door open?”
“Yes, sir.”
Your formalness stings slightly until he realizes that you don’t know he’s been listening in to your conversations, gathering information, and then providing you with the little gifts on your desk. Perhaps he should stop. Perhaps you would have no interest in him whatsoever. Perhaps there is someone else, if not here in Colombia than back in the States.
Perhaps, it’s just not meant to be.
However, isn’t that what giving a gift is all about: you give with no expectation of receiving something in return?
***
You can’t believe your luck. Not only are you indefinitely locked in the file room but it is with the head of the Search Bloc, Colonel Horacio Carrillo. This also happens to be the person at the top of your suspect lists for leaving the gifts at your desk. And you’re not sure how to feel about it.
He’s not your boss, per say, that would be the US Army and you’re of a low enough rank no one pays you any mind back at the Embassy so dating a local wouldn’t cause any disturbances. Lord knows Peña gets away with it all the time. But Carrillo is in charge of the special unit that you’re assisting so that throws the line of conduct into some shade. Secondly, you hardly know him. He rarely speaks about himself, his personal life, and he’s here so often you wonder if he even has a personal life. Married to a job, especially one like this, does not check any boxes on the dating checklist.
However, he is respectful to all those around him. You wouldn’t use the word kind, even though the thoughtfulness of the gifts would give you some evidence for using that word. He treats his men well, checks on them, prays through the rosary with them before particularly dangerous raids, and shares in the workload. His treatment of the Americans in the Search Bloc is the same as that of his own men. You’ve also noted that he treats the women in the office, you included, with the same expectations as his men: do your job well, he’s pleased and will let you know; do it poorly, and you can go elsewhere.
Now you wonder if that’s his current thoughts of you, missing one shoe and having just displayed an unprofessional burst of anger. You try to recenter yourself and gain some semblance of competency. “The locks are broken on the door.”
One of his eyebrows ticks up at the comment. “Both of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
He moves closer to the door and you step away from it, having a good idea what is about to come next. Sure enough, he tries kicking the door open but it doesn’t even budge. You raise a finger hesitantly to prevent him from kicking it harder and hurting himself.
“Um, the electronic lock is actually a double deadbolt.”
The kick to the door did alert someone walking past that there is an issue as someone called out on the other side. “¿Quién está ahí?” (Who’s in there?)
Carrillo yells back both his name and yours as the officer says he’s getting help for them. Your brain has stuttered to a halt and he must notice because a quizzical look crosses his face.
“What?”
“You remember my name.”
The confused look changes into something that looks akin to shame before he turns away. “I know everyone’s name in the unit. Wouldn’t be much of a leader if I didn’t.”
You suppose that is true and the thought that he knew it because he liked you dissipates. You go back a couple rows to the file that you dropped in your mad dash to try to stop the door from closing. He follows you, at a respectful distance though, but then helps pick up the spilled contents of the file. As he looks at the pictures, he laughs slightly.
“I was actually looking for these pictures,” he tells you.
“Oh, really?” You take the rest of the file over to the small window where there’s some light. They’re aerial shots of an abandoned rubber plant in the jungle. Or at least it looks abandoned. “I wanted to look at them again to see if there’s anything we missed that might give away something about it being used.”
He stands next to you in the light and looks at the pictures in his hands. “I feel like we are missing something.”
There’s no table in the room so you put the pictures down on the floor and sit down there to look at them. He does the same and soon both your heads are down, studying the pictures. You watch his hands as he drags his fingers over the photos, looking at each grainy detail for something. He isn’t wearing a wedding band.
And speaking of examining details, your eyes can’t help but drift up from his hands to the strong, exposed forearms, the shifting of his biceps under the sleeves of his green fatigues. You probably couldn’t wrap your whole hand around his upper arm but now you kind of want to try. You had to admit, as intimidating as Carrillo is, he is also quite handsome with his sharp, coffee colored eyes and straight nose.
There is a part of you that wishes he is the one that is leaving those gifts. You can’t just outright ask him, he’ll most likely deny it if you do. So you need to get it out of him without him realizing it. He’s a skilled interrogator, at least according to Peña, but you do have a slight advantage: he’s not going to expect you to be gathering information from him. Besides, you do like a challenge.
Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a couple of the uchuvas, the small orange colored berries, and pop one in your mouth. When Carrillo’s eyes flick up to yours to see what you’re doing, you hold one out to him. He takes it with a wry smile.
“Careful, we may have to ration these.”
“I have a few more.” You wait until he’s focused again on the surveillance pictures before you speak again. “You know, I would love to know where you got those cocadas. The chocolate ones in particular were wonderful.”
He hums distractedly. “There’s a bakery two blocks from here that carries them.”
Okay, that answer doesn’t confirm or deny anything. Damn. Maybe it’s not him then and the slight disappointment that settles in your stomach is surprising. You had wanted it to be him. You go back to looking at the pictures and notice something: the electrical box on the outside of the building. You shuffle through past pictures, taken a week before, and find it: evidence. It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s there.
“Look,” you put both pictures down in front of Carrillo. “The electrical box had vines and dirt on it two weeks ago, but a week later, the vines are cut back and it's been cleaned.”
“There it is,” he says with a satisfied smile. “Evidence to support a raid. Well done.”
You can’t help the wide smile that erupts across your face.
A voice from the door shouts to you two. “¿Coronel?” (Colonel?)
“Sí.” (Yes.)
“Deberíamos sacarte en veinte minutos.” (We should have you out in twenty minutes.)
“Gracias, Trujillo.” (Thank you, Trujillo.)
You start gathering up the pictures and put them back into the folder, handing the collected papers and pictures to Carrillo. He takes it with a small smile.
“I wonder what other mysteries we could solve in the next twenty minutes,” he says looking around at the boxes of files surrounding you both.
You sit back against the shelf behind you. “I actually have a mystery that I would like to solve.”
He nods, his facial features schooled behind a mask of indifference. “Okay.”
The question about the cocadas didn’t reveal anything so you try another approach. “I think someone is listening in on my calls.”
“That’s expected when you work in this unit.”
“Oh, I understand that. That’s not what bothers me.” You specifically use the word “bothers” to make it sound like it’s making you uncomfortable. Knowing how much he respects those who work in the unit, the thought of his actions making anyone uncomfortable will not sit well with him. And judging from the small frown and minute shifting he’s done, you’re right.
“What is bothering you then?”
He sounds so disappointed when he asks that question, you want to hug him and tell him that you know it’s him and to please not stop because it's the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for you. So you choose your next words even more carefully.
“I’m bothered by the fact that I can’t thank them for their thoughtfulness. Whoever is listening to my conversations is picking up on the things that I want to see, like the orchid, or try, like the fruit and the coffee. I’m particularly excited to see what book appears tomorrow.” You pause for a moment. “Do you have a favorite book, Colonel Carrillo?”
His face is still smooth of emotion. “I do.”
“What’s the title?”
“I guess you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow when I put it on your desk.”
“So it is you.”
“It is.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “If you would like me stop-”
“No,” you cut him off. “Please don’t. It’s very nice, very kind.”
“As are you.” He sits up straighter. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner tonight?”
“I would love that. I’m going to have to ask my boss if I can leave a little early and he’s kind of a stickler for the job coming first though.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Let me chat with him. I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I don’t know, he can be quite a hard ass.”
“So I’ve heard.”
You both laugh quietly when the sound of a power drill comes from the door. Most likely they’re trying to dismantle the keypad to manually disengage the deadbolts. Carrillo stands up and reaches down to help you to your feet. Your hand slides easily into his as he tugs you upright. For the briefest moment you think he’s going to kiss you, he’s standing so close and your hands are still clasped together. But then the keypad drops heavily to the floor and startles you both back to the present. Your hands untangle, he picks up the file from the floor, and you both put your professional masks back in place.
“Would seven be a good time for you tonight?” he asks quietly.
“Yes, that would be perfect.”
“I’ll meet you outside your apartment.”
You can’t help but grin at the thought but quickly tamper down the butterflies in your stomach as the deadbolt lock pops and the door swings open. Carrillo motions for you to go first and as you do, Murphy hands you your sneaker.
“Cinderella.”
“Thank you, Agent Murphy.”
Carrillo nods to Trujillo. “See if we can get that fixed before the year is out.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Peña has a downright devious look on his face as he studies yours. “So…what happened?”
You put your shoe back on, leaning down the tie the laces. “We did what you were supposed to be doing…working.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious,” you point to Carrillo’s office. “We found evidence for a raid at an old rubber factory in the jungle. Go.”
He shrugs before moving off in the office’s direction. “I want details.”
“There are no details, asshole.” Well, no details yet at least.
Murphy shakes his head. “Come on, Javi, it’s Carrillo. Can you picture him dating anyone, let alone picking out orchids and sweets?”
“I guess you’re right.” Peña pauses before walking into the office and points at Trujillo who just passed in front of him.
You shrug your shoulders in a “maybe” response, throwing Trujillo under the speculation bus. You’ve just reached your desk when Carrillo comes to his office door to close it and calls over to you.
“Why don’t you head home a little early?”
“Are you sure?”
He gives you a slightly stern look that says “I thought we discussed this already?”
“Thank you, sir.” You pick up the bowl of fruit before heading out the door to get ready for dinner. You need to make sure there’s some cleared space for tomorrow’s offering.
Alright guys, it's happening!!
So if you follow @bullet-prooflove, you have heard of the Outlaw Royales Short Romance stories that she and I are working on together. She's writing six of the stories, I will be writing four of them. I am super excited about this opportunity and if you want to join in on the excitement, keep following me here on tumblr or over on instagram at Lara Cook.
And I do want to say a heartfelt thank you to all of my followers for sticking with me through all the ups and downs and fandoms. I feel honored by every follow, like, comment, and message. Thank you so much for the support and encouragement through the years! I would not feel ready enough to go out on this venture without you guys!
Hinky’s Masterlist
Minors DNI: The content on this blog is intended for adults (18+). By following or engaging with this content, you are agreeing that you are 18 or older. Do not interact if you are not 18 or over.
Ask: I love analyzing character, plot, storytelling methods, so if you ever want to talk about those things, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me! I also love hearing other people’s ideas so please, share those as well!
A03: Here is the link to my AO3 account. I have a lot of stories with OCs there if you like reading those. I’ve just started getting into writing the Reader stories.
Tag List: Sign up for your favorite characters here!
Fic Fests:
October 2022 Fic Fest
**All stories are Fem!Reader and are explicit
Dustland Fairytale - Complete
Mariposa - Complete
Pura Vida (An Alternate Ending to Mariposa) - Complete
Los Regalos - Ongoing series
La Chaparrita - Ongoing Series
After We Fall - Ongoing Series
By Land, Sea, and Air - Ongoing Series
How To… - Ongoing Series
The IT Series - Ongoing Series
The Penny Series - Ongoing Series
The Tremont Tempest - Ongoing Series
The Dog - Ongoing Series
The Lens - Ongoing Series
Sacrifice - Complete
Oneshots for Sacrifice:
Otherworldly
Ghastly
La Finca - Ongoing Series
Eldritch - Complete
The Florist - Complete
The Community Universe (in collaboration with @bullet-prooflove)
The Medic Series (Coco Cruz x OFC! Morgan Fox)
The Preacher’s Wife Series (Hank Loza x OFC! Maggie Fox)
The Gin Blossom Series (Gilly Lopez x Reader)
Stand Alones:
Vanishing Act (Kevin Jimenez x Fem!Reader)
Dog Days are Over (Chibs Telford x Fem!Reader)
Strings (Les Packer x Fem!Reader)
The Drowning Kind (Sean Renard x Fem!Reader)
The Seasons Series:
The Fall Series (Porthos x OFC Reader)
The Winter Series (Aramis x OFC Reader)
The Spring Series (Athos x OFC Reader)
The Summer Series (Treville x OFC Reader)
Boss Mare Series (Jamie Dutton x OFC reader)
The Hare (Richard “Ritchie” Jerimovich x OFC reader)
Out of the Woods (Mitch Keller x OFC!Reader)
June Bug (Goodie Carangi x OFC!Reader)
Forged (Bill Bevilaqua x OFC!Reader)
War of the Roses (Bill Bevilaqua xOFC!Reader)
Vice (Armand Truisi x OFC!Reader)
Update: I am on, hopefully, a short hiatus from writing. I gave myself a concussion a few days ago and writing is just not happening right now. Hopefully after a week or two of mental rest, I’ll be back at it again! I’m sorry for the delay in getting some chapters out there but here’s hoping for a quick recovery!
I don't know what's going on here, guys. I am deep in my John Doggett feels this evening and getting back into my X-Files knowledge.
Hey all, I just wanted to let you guys know that I’ll be taking Heroes, my Coco Cruz fic, down for a little bit. I decided to change some things in the story since I’ve been stuck for a while on it. I’ll start reposting when I’m certain things are mapped out the way they should be.
Sacrifice (A Narcos Fic)
Title: Sacrifice
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Eduardo Sandoval x Fem!Reader
Summary: For all intents and purposes, you should hate each other, or at least harbor a strong dislike. But life has a funny way of bringing just the right people together at the wrong time. The war on drugs in Colombia is a gigantic chess match. If you’re smart and lucky enough to survive it though, you could have a beautiful future.
Taglist: @seltsamkind @xoxabs88xox @littleone65 @dufresnes
“You really shouldn’t think so highly of yourself, Eduardo. You know what we are, don’t you?”
Your cheekiness amuses and irritates him to no end. “And what is that?”
“We’re pawns.” You rethink your statement. “Well, maybe you’re more the rook and I’m the knight, but you get my point. We’re the pieces on the chessboard that are very useful but ultimately are sacrificed in order to win the game.”
“And what makes you so sure we’re going to win?”
You never did answer him. One of the hundreds of interruptions that he can no longer remember prevented your conversation from continuing. That was always the way between the two of you. Brief flirtations with intimate moments that reality and crisis always brought to a grinding halt before those moments had a chance to be finalized in a natural order. Who knows where you would have ended up if they had reached completion.
Eduardo Sandoval has so many questions that he is desperate to find the answers to now that he has the chance. That’s the only reason he can accept for why he’s standing in a mostly empty baggage claim in some small airport in a town called Harrisburg. The United States. A place he never intended to travel to, let alone spend any considerable time visiting. But he’s not here to see the country, or the land. He’s coming to the only place that he feels will show him a shred of acceptance and softness after his being cast out of his homeland: you.
He has always found it easier to dedicate himself to people instead of organizations. People were more nuanced than the rigid structures of social constructs like politics and religion. There was more flexibility with the decision making process and there were always less people involved in that process. He pledged his heart, mind, and soul to César Gaviria and his vision for Colombia. But now that he had given all three of those, plus his reputation and career, to protect the man who was Colombia’s best chance at a prosperous future, he needs to find someone else. Apparently Colombia isn’t the only one with a future now. With a resigned sight, he grabs his suitcase off the carousel and steps outside in the sticky, humid summer air. At least that’s something familiar.
Then he sees something else that is familiar. You. Leaning against a hatchback with a bike rack on the roof, you look much like you did in Colombia: thin and wiry, dressed in khaki shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers. The only thing that is new happens to be a long, raised scar that runs along the plane of your shin. He wonders why he even came here, why he thought America was a good choice to retreat to so he could lick his wounds. But then you smile at him, push yourself away from the car with such a fluid grace that his mouth goes dry.
That too, is familiar.
“Hola, Eduardo.” You open the back hatch of the car. “I really wasn’t sure if you were going to show.”
He puts his suitcase in the back of the car. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he was going to show up either. “Well, here I am.”
You briefly touch his arm. “I’m glad you came.”
For a split second, his world rights itself and everything feels stable. It’s been so long since he’s felt that way that it disorients him for a moment. But you drop your hand and head to the driver’s side of the car and he’s off-kilter once more. He drops into the passenger seat, buckles the seatbelt and takes note of just how clean your car appears. You must have recently cleaned it. For him, perhaps? Did you even think highly enough of him to spend time doing that? As you pull away from the curb and maneuver onto the turnpike, heading east from the airport, he remembers a conversation he had with Gaviria when you were still in Colombia, assisting with the DEA and Search Bloc.
César had that half grin that twisted the corner of his mouth. It only appeared when he was truly relaxed and feeling most like his true self. Eduardo knew he was in for it just from that half grin, never mind the twinkle of mirth in his friend’s eyes. For once, he was thankful it was a late hour and it was just the two of them in the office.
“When are you going to stop throwing sand in each other’s face and just talk to each other?” He raised his hand to silence Eduardo’s defensive comeback. “Talk civilly, I mean.”
He felt heat rise to his cheeks at being called out on this embarrassing little flirtation he allowed himself to engage in with you. “When she stops picking up handfuls of sand.”
César laughed and shook his head. “My God. I have half a mind to send you out on a playground so you can push each other down in the dirt and end this nonsense.”
“She’s insufferable.”
“And you’re never difficult.” The grin grew. “You’re in love with her.”
He scoffed. “Don't’ be ridiculous.”
“Out of all parties involved, I am the least ridiculous.” The smile lessened. “Is it because she’s an American? CIA?”
Eduardo didn’t think himself to be a nationalist, holding to the belief that Colombians were superior to any of the other nationalities, arrogant Americans included. But did you grate on his nerves because you were one of the gringos that were invading his country and trying to tell them what to do? Was it because you were one of the top intelligence officers the CIA had to offer which was why you were the courier that ran classified files between the Embassy and the Presidential Palace? He can’t put his finger on what it was exactly that set his teeth on edge when you entered the room. “I don’t know. She’s just…” he made an exasperated noise.
“Just promise me that when the time comes, you will take a chance. If not with her, then with someone else. Your level of dedication and loyalty should be focused on more than just a figurehead. Countries are made up of people and those people start with families. Strong families create strong countries.”
So he promised. And now he’s here, sitting in your car and studying your profile. He tried to imagine himself with other women. The smartly dressed secretaries and interns that took up residence in the presidential offices. He met the dignitary's daughters and senator’s sisters, but they all seemed vapid and flat. They were black and white and you were screaming technicolor.
He always came back to you, no matter how hard he fought against it. You were brash, loud, inappropriate, so…American. He tried with everything in him to dislike you, to keep you at arm's length, but you danced over those boundaries as if they never existed in the first place. He fell for your sharp wit and challenging sense of humor. You met his intensity with your own brand of passion and it was both addicting and irritating.
You were passing through the Presidential offices, having just delivered an envelope of papers and pictures from the US Embassy. You were dressed in your cycling gear, garish neon green bike helmet tucked under your arm, and sweat slipping down the side of your face and along your neck. His mouth went dry at the sudden desire to trace the path of those droplets with his tongue, to taste the mix of salt and you.
And it infuriated him.
“Delivering pizzas? Or some other American food nonsense that’s in a greasy bag?” he teased, following you into the elevator. He needed to clear the lobby of reporters before César left the building for the day. But he also needed to clear his mind of you. However, it was just the two of you in the elevator and it was proving a difficult task.
“Actually it was a box addressed to you. It was ticking so maybe you should give it a good shake before opening it.” You flashed him a cheeky grin and he fought the urge to kiss it from your lips. You were so incredibly fearless, cracking casual jokes of bombs as if it wasn’t an actual threat.
“Given how you handle your deliveries, I feel fairly safe that if it were a bomb, it would gone off by now.”
You narrowed your eyes but whatever retort you had was cut off as the doors opened and there’s a group of about ten reporters waiting for him. You take note of each and everyone of them. This was something you two did have in common, constantly aware of your surroundings and the people in your vicinity. Always scanning the crowds for threats and coming up with escape routes. Perhaps César was correct. You and he were just too similar, summoning feelings of annoyance that comes from staring into a mirror for too long.
“I don’t envy you your job, Vice Minister.”
The sudden desire to hear you say his name surprised him. He wondered though, just how it would sit in your mouth and curl around your tongue. How would you say “Eduardo” in the odd twang of your accent? He tried to shake this feeling off by straightening his tie and buttoning his suit jacket. “What is the saying you Americans have, it’s a tough job but someone’s got to do it?”
***
You can’t believe he showed up. To be honest, you almost didn’t show up to the airport because you were so convinced there was no way that Eduardo Sandoval would actually arrive at your local airport. But he did. And now he’s sitting in your car as you drive him back to your little white farmhouse in the rolling corn fields of Lancaster Country. It’s surreal. You never really struggled with words but you do now and you can hear the uncertainty in your tone when you do speak.
“How was your flight?”
“Fine,” he answers shortly. But then he sighs, a short burst of air through his nose. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
You laugh, that sharp staccato of sarcasm and broken pieces of confidence. “If you don’t know why you’re here, I certainly can't help you with that.” But then you sigh quietly, seriousness and softness bleeding into your tone. “I was kind of hoping it was because you want to see me.”
“I did,” he says defensively. “I do. I’m just…not good at this.”
The desire to tease him is so strong but you tamper it down. Teasing and trading barbs was for then, not now. Now requires you both to be honest and direct with your words and intentions. “Yeah, I’m not that great with it either. I suppose if we were good at it, our time in Colombia would have ended differently.”
You have never attended a formal function at the Embassy before but when Eduardo had asked if you were going to attend the Presidential Christmas Banquet that the Americans had been invited to as a show of camaraderie between Colombia and America, you couldn’t say no. You had no idea what you were doing so Connie Murphy took mercy on you and helped you choose a dress for the party. It was an odd piece of clothing, off one shoulder, black and warm oranges of tulle and satin, embroidered around the bodice and bell-shaped skirt. You felt ridiculous in the gown.
Until you saw Eduardo’s face when he realized it was you. Then, you felt like a lady.
He never complimented you verbally but you could tell by how fascinated he had been with the dress, jewelry, and elaborate up-do of your hair, that he had been suitably impressed. He had even danced with you, a formal waltz that you had managed to follow despite your desperation at memorizing the feel of his hand on your waist. Or the exact shade of blue his eyes were. Or the bend and wave of his hair.
If you hadn’t been in love with him before that night, you certainly were by the end of that dance.
He had offered to walk you out when the evening was winding down. In the alcove of the coat check, he had put his hands back around your waist and kissed you. It had been an impromptu action, most likely fueled by too much champagne and the gaudiness of the holidays. But you memorized every detail of the action. The soft press of his lips against your own, the warmth of his body that was much closer to you than it ever had been, the weight of his hand on the small of your back, and the clean, sharp scent of his cologne.
You had been thankful for the two week break the holidays offered since it took you that long to stop grinning like the lovesick fool you had suddenly turned into. But then nothing happened. The next time you saw each other it was across one of the outer offices of the Presidential Palace. It was a brief moment of eye contact, a slight dip and nod of your heads, and then business as usual.
You were more than a little heartbroken.
“I wish I had taken you home that night at the Christmas party.”
Your eyebrows raise in surprise at not only his directness in the statement but also in the realization that you both were thinking of that party at the same time. “Really?”
“Really.” He looks out the passenger window. “When I was sitting in La Catedral with Escobar, out of all the decisions that I had made in my life and career, that was the one that I regretted the most.”
You feel uneasy with the depth of the conversation. You haven’t seen each other for a few months. He had called out of the blue asking if he could spend some time with you in the States, that he needed to put some space between himself and Colombia. There was no elaboration, just desperation. You reached out to some of your contacts who were still in Colombia, hell you even placed a call to President Gaviria himself, but all you gathered was an outline sketch of the situation.
Things had taken a turn for the worst and Eduardo’s strength, his loyalty, became the noose around his neck. Stepping onto the plane to leave his homeland had been the equivalent to stepping off a ledge. The rope snapped taunt and he landed in the front seat of your car. A stranger in a strange land.
You had told him to let you know when his flight landed and you would be there but you didn’t expect this kind of confession to happen…well, ever. He was always one to play things close to his chest. You always knew what he was feeling, maybe even thinking, but he was brilliant at keeping everyone in the dark about his long term plans and goals, never confirming or denying anything. But you knew he cared about those around him, even you. You knew that right from the start actually. There are some qualities that shine through no matter how hard he tries to hide them.
You couldn’t believe how stupid you had been. You knew Bogotá was going to be wild and almost lawless when it came to cyclists and drivers. There were no rules of the road when it came to sharing the space on the asphalt. So when the car clipped you and you went skidding across the uneven pavement, you really only had yourself to blame. After the satchel of information from the US Embassy had been delivered to President Gaviria, you had asked the nicely dressed secretary to use the bathroom so you could tend to your wounds instead of bleeding all the way out on priceless carpets and pristine marble floors. You didn’t expect for the small room to look like the OR after a surgery. Wadded up paper towels, soaked in blood littered the floor while the sink was completely discolored in varying shades of red. And you still hadn’t managed to get all the grit and gravel out of your legs.
There had been a sharp rap on the door that caused you to jump at the suddenness of the noise. “Solo un minuto. (Just a minute.)”
You tried to wipe up the blood that was staining the black and white tile of the bathroom floor but all you did was smear into pink streaks while adding to the drops of blood. You shoved a clean paper towel between your teeth as you tried swiping again at the floor when someone tried to open the door.
“¿Eres la mensajera? (Are you the courier?)” a man asked.
“Sí sí, yo soy. (Yes, yes I am.)” The situation was quite hopeless. There was no way you were going to get everything cleaned up in a matter of seconds. You opened the door and came face to face with the bluest eyes you had ever seen. They were so striking they knocked all sense out of your head and all words out of your mouth. And for someone who always has something to say, that was a true act of power.
“Tengo un botiquín de primeros auxilios, si lo quieres. (I have a first aid kit if you want it.)”
You swallowed down the nervousness that had decided to lodge in your throat. “Okay.”
He stepped into the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him. “¿Necesitas ayuda? (Do you need help?)”
You paused, struggling to find words as his eyes rove around the small room and take in the bloodbath. He didn’t wait for an answer, just opened the kit, grabbed the antiseptic, and started cleaning the road rash on your arms, hands, and legs. He took off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of the door, rolled his shirtsleeves up, and flipped his tie over his shoulder as he helped in the effort to stop the bleeding. You tried to make sure none of your blood stained his suit but he had waved your concerns away with a long-fingered hand.
“Me hará parecer intimidante. (It’ll make me look intimidating.)”
You wanted to point out that his tall, strong frame and piercing blue eyes made him intimidating enough but you couldn’t get your mouth to work just right yet. You realized as he smoothed his hands down your calf to secure a bandage, that this was the thunderbolt that people always referred to when they talked about falling in love.
“I’m glad you called me,” you finally say as you pull into the long, gravel driveway that leads back to your home.
He hums in acknowledgement of the statement but doesn’t say anything else. His eyes are constantly moving, taking in the corn fields, the line of oak trees that stand as sentinels along the driveway, the small white clapboard farmhouse that sits in a copse of trees. You park right by the steps that lead up to the porch.
“It’s not much, but it’s home.”
He takes in the surroundings with a small smile that tugs on the corner of mouth. “It’s lovely.” He reaches for your hand and you willingly give it. His lips brush against your knuckles. “As are you. Still.”
The same butterflies that you had back in Colombia whenever he had been near erupt once more in your stomach and chest. You hide their reappearance behind a smile and shake of your head. “Oh, you smooth talking politicians are all the same.”
You reluctantly slip your hand out of his and get out of the car. He retrieves his suitcase and follows you up the steps onto the porch. Your hand hesitates briefly when you slip the key into the lock and remember the one and only time you ever visited him at his home in Colombia. The fear and hesitation that you had felt as you stood on his front porch, waiting for the door to open, return in full force.
You knew the basics of what had happened at La Catedral. A miscommunication had occurred and Eduardo had walked straight into the lion’s den. Somehow, he had managed to walk out unscathed. It had been a miracle. A Catholic church sainthood level miracle. You had been watching his house, a mid-sized townhome on a quiet street in Bogotá, for almost five hours. It was one in the morning when you saw a small light turn on in an upper floor window and you breathed a sigh of relief.
He’s home. He’s safe. He’s alive.
And now that you knew that, and had confirmation, you were furious.
You got out of the car and marched across the street, stomping up the steps, and pounding on the door in three quick strikes of your fist. You couldn’t believe he did something this stupid, this harebrained, as to walk into Pablo Escobar’s prison, alone and unarmed. But when the locks on the door were released and the door swung open, tears suddenly blurred your vision.
He’s home. He’s safe. He’s alive.
And you wept with relief when you saw him standing in front of you, exhausted and weary from the experience. There’s only the briefest of hesitations before you crossed the threshold and collided with the center of his chest, burying your face into the wrinkled cotton of his dress shirt. He still smelled of gunpowder, flash bombs, and fear. He closed the door and secured all the locks once more with one hand while the other settled on the small of your back. He bent his head so his temple pressed against yours, the rough rasp of his unshaven cheek scraping against your tearstained one. For once, there was nothing to say.
It had been seven months since that kiss at the Christmas party. Seven months of looks, discrete touches, and stolen moments in abandoned offices. Those impersonal nods of acknowledgement lasted an entire week before you found yourselves alone in the elevator again and succumbed to the desire to kiss again. It was helpful that he was the one who knew where all the security cameras happened to be located in the Presidential Palace.
You never thought anyone could have meant this much to you, especially in this business of espionage and intelligence gathering, but he had snuck past all your defenses and taken up residence in your heart before you realized what was happening. You couldn’t, or wanted, to imagine an ending where you didn’t end up together, out of the shadows and living a normal life. Didn’t you both deserve that after all the sacrifices you’ve both made?
And you almost lost him. Almost lost that beautiful dream of a future.
He folded his tall frame around you. “Lo siento, mi amor. Lo siento. (I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry.)”
You hiccupped as you tried to find your words. “¿Por qué? ¿Por qué entraste allí? ¿Solo? (Why? Why did you go in there? Alone?)”
“No sé. Yo solo…(I don’t know. I just…)” he sighed heavily. “Solo quería que esto terminara. (I just wanted this to end.)”
You knew he didn’t mean to insinuate the end of whatever this was between you, but the undercurrent was still there. When Escobar is caught, you will be sent back to the States. But how could you not want this terrorist to be caught? How many lives had he taken with his drugs, bombs, and sicarios? He needed to be caught and imprisoned. In a real prison. Colombia needed peace in the same way a man stranded in the desert needed water. How selfish were you?
“Lo sé. Yo... quiero que termine también. ( I know. I…want it to end too.)” You pressed your fingers into the cords of his back muscles, your ear directly over his heart. “Solo quiero que ambos estemos vivos al final de esto. (I just want us both to be alive at the end of this.)”
His hand was in your hair, the other one holding your hip hard enough to leave bruises. “¿Puedes quedarte? (Can you stay?)”
You should have said no. Secrecy was your speciality and this was breaking all the rules. But you felt the tremor in his hands, the unsure warble in his voice, and it overwrote your common sense and logic.
“Por supuesto mi amor. Me quedaré. (Of course, my love. I’ll stay.)”
His mouth landed on yours with no pretense or warning. There was nothing subtle or gentle about that kiss. It had been raw emotion, unfiltered fear and relief that could only be shown after a near death experience. His hands, still trembling from the aftermath of being a hostage, desperately tried to rid you of your clothes. You knew, quite well, the base desire to feel the skin and nearness of another person after the type of experience he had just had. You showed some compassion and unbuttoned your shirt before he ripped the fabric with his fumblings.
He fought with your bra while you went to work on his belt, sliding the leather out of the metal clasp, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. Nothing was going to be accomplished until this desperate act of intimacy had been completed. Your hand closed around his hard length and his teeth sunk until your lower lip, drawing blood. You gasped and jerked your head back. His eyes were blown so wide with desire that there was just the faintest ring of clear summer blue around the black irises. It was like looking at the ocean from a plane: clear blue water before the seafloor drops off into the abyss.
You shimmied out of your jeans and underwear, dropping them unceremoniously on the floor of the entrance way. You made it to the steps and that’s where he laid you down and claimed you. The hardwood dug into your back with each thrust of his hips, the mixture of pain and pleasure at finally feeling him over and inside of you, completely overwhelming your senses. His mouth latched onto your clavicle, sucking a bruise over the rise of bone.
“¿Dónde? (Where?)” he panted into your ear.
Your response had been to wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper inside of you as you both came with a shudder and groan. You ran your fingers through his thick hair and down the side of his face while your heart rates slowed to a normal pace. He pulled away reluctantly with a touch of shame but you had chased his mouth with yours, assuring him that this had been a welcomed encounter. He stood up, taking you with him, your legs still hooked over his narrow hips, and continued up the stairs. You both showered before falling into bed, exhausted and tangled together.
You had no idea, no warning, as you laid in his bed watching the sun rise that morning, feeling the twitching of his greedy hands on your skin as wakefulness broke over him, that your entire world was about to be turned upside down in a matter of hours.
***
He sees you hesitate at the door. “Is everything alright?”
You shiver with a full body shake. “Yeah, fine. Sometimes the lock sticks.”
“Ah.” He knows it’s more than that. He remembers the last time you both had crossed over the same threshold and how that had ended. He still feels slightly guilty for unceremoniously taking you on the stairs and not doing things proper and right by you. He should have taken you out to dinner, bought a nice bottle of wine, at least gotten you into his bedroom before taking your clothes off. But the life you both led was anything but conventional so why would your courtship be anything different?
Which begs the question, what does your courtship look like now? What are the conventions surrounding a disgraced Vice Minister of Justice and a CIA intelligence operative? Two chess pieces that have been knocked off the board, no longer in play and returned to their box. Which brings a second question to his mind, hopefully one that is easier to answer.
Shortly after that Christmas party when he had given in to the temptation of your painted lips and delicate slope of your shoulders, you had found yourselves at the same cafe, sipping coffee and trying to appear sociable to any onlookers. Even César had joined you two for coffee eventually and Eduardo had thought you would have excused yourself. But you didn’t. Then he worried that the regular sharp-tongued barbs would start up but they didn’t. The conversation had continued as if you had been three friends having a chance meeting at the local cafe. If felt…normal.
“Do you remember that time we had coffee?”
You give him a confused look over your shoulder. “Is this your way of asking me to make some coffee?”
“No,” he scoffs. “It was the time we had that conversation when you referred to us as chess pieces.”
“Ah yes,” you smile brightly as you take down a couple wine glasses and pour a fragrant red before handing him one of them. “The rook and knight.”
“Why those pieces? I’ve always wondered.”
You fidget with your fingers as you process the question. He recognizes this now as your gathering of thoughts. Your mind moves so quickly that you blurt things out, like calling him a rook, but then you have to process why you said that. You and César were such complete opposites. He would labor over words and explanations before speaking his mind but you just opened your mouth and let spill whatever was in your brain. Two incredibly different ways of communicating, same insight and intelligence though. And for some reason, you both chose him to stand by your sides. He wants to know why. He would never get the answer from César, but he might from you.
“Well, I guess because what was happening in Colombia was nothing but a chess game. Two kings positioned their pieces across the land in an effort to conquer the board. The rook moves in straight lines, no deviations. His straightforwardness isn’t limited and he can move as many paces as necessary to protect the king. Are you familiar with the castling move?”
It’s been years since he played but he vaguely remembers it. “It has something to do with the rook moving across the board to protect the king.”
You nod. “Yes, the king can either move to the left or right to avoid capture or the rook can position itself to the same square as the king to defend it. That was your job, protect the king, no matter what. And you did.”
“So why the knight for you?”
“I guess because the knight had such a unique movement on the board. Up and over. That’s kind of how I saw my position. I would move forward for the US government and then to the side so I could help the Colombian people. And given that I was working for both countries, I had the mobility that many Americans didn’t, much like how the knight can defend, attack, and even jump other pieces.” You shrug. “I don’t know, it sounded good at the moment.”
He walks around the island in the middle of the kitchen and sits on one of the bar stools. “Obviously César and Pablo were the kings. Who were the queens?”
You tilt your head to the side as you think, exposing the long line of your throat. “For César, I would have to say Colombia. That really was his only goal, to make the country as safe and prosperous as possible. He would listen to anyone who had Colombia’s future in mind. Pablo, I honestly think his queen was his mother, Hermilda. Everything he did, he did for her or because she enabled and encouraged him to do it.”
He smiles slightly. “Yes, mothers have a way of inspiring their sons to action.”
“Mijo, you’ve barely eaten anything.”
He speared a piece of potato and dutifully put it in his mouth like he’s eight years old again and not thirty-eight and Vice Minister of Justice. Although, how long he’s going to hold that position, he doesn’t know at the moment.
“No wonder you’re so thin,” she admonished gently. “Are you sleeping any better?”
“Yes, I am.”
She narrowed her blue eyes, the same shade and shape as his own, but she refrained from calling him out on his lie. To be honest, he has barely slept or eaten since he’d come back from Medellín, from the mess of La Catedral. Of course the news reported on his capture and Escobar’s escape. Of course the Attorney General was investigating Eduardo’s “involvement” in that escape. If this had happened a year ago, he would have dusted off his shoes, straightened his tie, and walked out of La Catedral with his head held high. He would have told the Attorney General to investigate until his heart’s content and not lose one second of sleep over it. But life has a way of lining things up and knocking them down. One small event doesn’t seem so significant, but when they keep happening, when things keep falling down, there is a force that builds behind the fall. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. That reaction is what is keeping him up at night.
“How’s your friend, Eduardo? The one who is in the hospital?”
He took another bite of food to buy time as he thought of his answer. He walked away from Medellín unscathed. You are not able to walk away from Bogotá at all. “She’s alright, Mamá.”
“Eduardo.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”
She sighed and folded her napkin, placing it neatly by her plate. “I want to talk about it.”
“Why? She’s an American who got hit by a car while on a bicycle and is going back home. There is nothing to talk about.”
“When is she going back?”
He stared down at the plate of food, no longer able to put any more of it in his mouth. It was his favorite meal, the one his mother makes for him on Sundays when she watched the news and worried about him. But it just tasted like ash and regret. This was his fault. “Day after tomorrow.”
“She won’t stay here? Recover here?”
You wanted to stay. You begged your bosses to let you recover and go through physical therapy here. He had stood on the other side of the hospital room door and listened to you plead, threaten, and cry in an effort to sway their minds. But all of your superiors including Ambassador Crosby and Station Chief Stechner came back with the same answer: no. The doctors and healthcare were better in the States. You would receive more attention and better security if you were on American soil. You called it bullshit to their faces and he couldn’t have been more proud of you. But you were still leaving, in forty-eight hours no less. “She works for the American government, Mamá. She doesn’t get a choice where she's going to recover.”
His mother hummed, the noise she always makes when she disapproved of something. “You’re Vice Minister of Justice-”
“Justice,” he repeats, “not physical therapy.”
“I just think you should be able to intervene in some way.”
Honestly, so does he. But he doesn’t want to talk about that, about how guilty he feels for not checking in with you that morning. How you had allowed him to explore your body with his hands and mouth, properly and thoroughly, tangled in his sheets. You had left to report to the Embassy but not before peppering his face with kisses and leaving him to bury his face in a pillow that now smelled like you. You promised to come back that night and he was already counting down the hours.
But then the phone call came. Your voice was quiet, tamed. Your speech was slurred as you tried to stammer out what had happened. A car had taken a turn and clipped you, throwing you under the back wheel and crushing your left tibia and fibula. You got the license plate but the car was found abandoned on the other side of the city, the driver long gone. You were alive and lucky but…
“Are you going to see her before she leaves?”
He should. He needed to, if he were honest. But sometimes, even his bravery ran aground and he ended up taking a coward’s way out. “I don’t know. Why are you so concerned about this?”
“Can’t a mother be concerned for her son?”
“Her son, yes. But her son’s friend that she never met?” He gave her a playful suspicious look. “That raises some concern.”
“As does the fact that I never met this woman and now she’s leaving.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Who is going to make my son happy again?”
It had been a good question. A good enough question that drove him to visit the hospital the next day. However, when he reached your room, there was another person in the bed, a man suffering from some kind of stomach issue. Eduardo had turned around to inquire at the nurses station of your whereabouts when he saw a familiar figure in the elevator.
CIA Station Chief Bill Stechner.
He knew the news was not going to be to his liking but he stepped into the elevator anyway and waited until the door closed before saying anything.
“Chief Stechner.”
“Vice Minister. I’m surprised to run into you here.”
“Same.”
“Oh, I was just making sure one of my agents didn’t leave anything behind in her hospital room. You know how people can get when they’re all hopped up on pain meds. They can get forgetful and easily distracted. What about you?”
He bit the inside of his cheek and reminded himself to be polite. “I was just visiting a friend. I didn’t think she would be released until tomorrow.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? She’s doing better and getting out of this hell hole.” He clapped Eduardo on the shoulder. “Don’t look so angry there, Eddie. It’s not good for your blood pressure.”
The doors opened and Stechner stepped off and disappeared into the crowd of ER patients and nurses. The entire one minute interaction was more than unsettling. He left the hospital and went straight to the Presidential Palace knowing that César was most likely still there. He needed another set of eyes to figure out what was off about his conversation with Stechner. He realized as he got into his car, he was too close to the situation to see it clearly.
He had, at some point, fallen completely in love with you.
***
You keep fighting the urge to pinch yourself as you sit on the deck, remnants of dinner still sitting on the wrought iron table with refilled glasses of wine. Eduardo looks the most at peace you have ever seen him. His jaw is relaxed, his smile coming easier, and the line of his shoulders low and dropped. His fingers aren’t fidgeting, although that could have something to do with the fact that they’ve been interlaced with yours for the majority of the time. The early evening has chased away the heat of the day, a gentle breeze moves the leaves of the oak trees in a slow pendulum swing from their branches. The sky is turning a deep purple as fireflies start to blink in the grassy expanse of the horse pasture.
It’s a perfect moment and those never seem to last. Especially when your curiosity gets the better of you.
“What happened?”
His smile falters briefly. “When?”
You give him a reproachful look. “Come on, now. Why are you here? No one is telling me what happened.” You squeeze his hand. “I want to know why you’ve decided to grace me with your presence after all this time.”
“Who’d you call?”
You shrug. “Some of my old contacts down there.” You take a sip of wine and speak the next name into the glass. “President Gaviria.”
“You called César Gaviria?”
“I did. You know how I get when I’m curious.”
He huffs a laugh. “Oh yes, I know. What did he say?”
“Not a whole lot.” You frown slightly remembering that terse conversation. You had hoped the trust that had been built between the three of you would have been enough to get the truth of circumstances but Gaviria had been quite close lipped about the events.
Eduardo sighs, the air released through his nose. “He was…disapproving of how I handled a situation.”
Ah. That stays in line with what you knew of the President and his faith in his Vice Minister. Gaviria would never air his grievances, even if it would have helped prepare you for Eduardo’s arrival. “What situation?”
“My resignation as Vice Minister.” He takes a sip of wine. “Public opinion was turning against us. Escobar was still on the run from his escape from El Catedral. Sicarios were murdering police offices by the hundreds across the country. We thought bringing back Colonel Carrillo would have ended the violence given his determination to capture Escobar but…”
“The ambush.” Pieces were starting to fall into place. You had met Carrillo in passing a couple times. The man reminded you of a pit bull, broad, fierce, and locked onto a target. If anyone had a chance at capturing Escobar, Carrillo was the one. Unfortunately, the pit bull was put down.
“It was looking like Escobar was going to win and the Colombian people were looking for someone to blame. The news reporters were starting to use César’s name more and more.”
“So you took the heat for everything.”
He nods slowly. “Better the people hate me instead of César. Hopefully it will buy him enough time so he can find Escobar.”
“Who is going to replace Carrillo?”
“I suggested a Colonel who has been fighting FARC for the last three years. He has the opposite reputation of Carrillo: methodical, rule follower.” He actually smiles. “He’ll drive the DEA agents crazy. No more gringo vigilantism.”
“Watch it now, I engaged in quite a bit of that gringo vigilantism. Some of which benefited you, if you remember.”
“Not that you made it very easy for us!”
“They were giving me so much pain meds, I couldn’t even think straight! You’re lucky I dialed your number and not some random Colombian’s.”
“I think it would be safe to assume they wouldn’t have understood what you were saying. César and I barely understood it.”
“But you did understand it. Finally.”
***
“What did she say again?”
Eduardo dropped the handlebars of the bicycle onto the floor. His hands were covered in grease, sweat plastering his dress shirt to his back, and the desire to just give up grew with each passing minute. But he had to keep going.
“She said for us to take a close look at her bike.”
César, with equally dirty hands and rolled up shirt sleeves, tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Did she say her bike specifically?”
“No, she said ‘my mode of transportation.’”
“She didn’t have a car?”
“No. She used public transportation or military vehicles. This,” he points to the pile of metal, “was what she used to get around Bogotá.”
César wandered around the small living room of the one bedroom apartment that you had inhabited. Eduardo had told him of the conversation with Stechner at the hospital and both men agreed that Stechner was most likely worried that you had left some important files or tapes behind that he couldn’t find. Then you had called from your American hospital, still groggy from the pain meds, and told him he needed to look at your mode of transportation to find what Stechner was looking for.
“Eduardo,” you had said, slurring the last half of his name, “you have to find it before he does. Please.”
Your desperation had been palpable.
“Maybe,” César said, his eyes roving around the apartment, “she meant something else other than her actual bike. A model, perhaps, or…”
“A picture.” Eduardo saw it, a framed print of tree branches that give the illusion of a bike, hanging over your desk. He and Cesár carefully take it off the wall and inspect the front of it. Turning it over, Eduardo used a pen knife to slice open the back of it. Sure enough, there was a thick manila envelope in the back stuffed with pictures and intel about a new group that was being formed: Los Pepes. Eduardo and César sat at your small kitchen table and looked through all the documents and pictures. After an hour, César huffed a short laugh.
“So this is why she didn’t want Chief Stechner to find this.”
Eduardo looks at the picture César is holding up. It’s of the Castaño brothers and Bill Stechner.
***
“What did you do with the packet of information?”
Eduardo smiles. “We memorized it and then César took it home and burned it in his fireplace so nothing could be brought back to you.”
That means much more to you than it should. “Did it help?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’m sure eventually it will. Any information can be helpful in a war such as this one.”
“A war we’re no longer fighting in now.”
He pulls your hand up to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. “A war we both survived though.”
You suppose that is true. You both are lucky, much luckier than most. Which is why you decide to push your luck. “How long will you stay?”
There’s no hesitation in his answer. “However long you will let me.”
“Eduardo-”
“I love you. I have for a while now. And I’ve never done anything for myself. Everything about my life has been driven by someone else and their needs. Now, it’s my turn and I choose you. I want to be with you.”
You’re thankful for the darkness to hide the tears that are stinging your eyes now. You have loved him from that moment in the bathroom when he patched up your road burns. You have loved him and every battle of wits that you two ever waged. You loved him enough to dress in a ridiculous ball gown just to feel his hands on your waist for a two minute dance. You loved him enough to confront him about the events at La Catedral. And you loved him enough for tears of bitter regret to fall as they loaded you into a medical helicopter to prematurely take you home to recover.
“I love you too and you have no idea how happy I was that you called me, that I was the place you wanted to come to after everything fell apart.”
He actually smiles and laughs, a completely genuine show of emotion. “I have to admit, I was afraid you were going to tell me to go elsewhere. Somewhere considerably more south.”
“Oh stop!”
“I was!” He laughs again but turns serious quickly. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want your life from Colombia to follow you home.”
You take in a deep and full breath for the first time in years. “Colombia, Pennsylvania…the place doesn’t matter. Eres mi hogar. (You’re my home.)”
“Y tu eres mio. (And you are mine.)”
You stand up from the table, keeping your hand in his and gently tugging him to his feet. You lead him back into the house, through the kitchen and into the hallway. You start walking up the stairs but stop a few steps up and turn around. “You know, we could just-”
He surprises you by sweeping your legs out from underneath you and holding you bridal style. “Oh, I’m going to do right by you this time.”
“My my, sir, you are such a charmer.”
“I’ve been told I would make a good politician.”
You slide your fingers through the curling hair at the nape of his neck. “I wouldn’t quit your day job.”
He makes a disappointed noise as he continues to climb the stairs. “I may already have.”
“Oh dear.” You press your lips against the side of his neck, your tongue pressing against his pulse, and you feel his steps falter.
“You may want to avoid doing that until I have you safely on a bed.”
“I do like to live dangerously.”
He huffs in mock-frustration and looks around the landing at the four doors facing him. “Are you going to help me out here or what?”
“There’s three bedrooms and a bathroom. Take your pick.”
He gives you a desperate look, much like the one from his return from La Catedral. “I want your bed.”
Desire erupts from under your skin, not just from his words, but the emotion behind them. You do like to play chess, the thrill of trying to out-guess your opponent but there is something about that feeling of elation towards the end of the game: the winning move. So you give him the rook’s directive.
“Straight ahead.”
And he complies with zero hesitation. He pauses only for you to reach over his shoulder and flip on the lightswitch, before dropping you on the bed. You bounce a couple times, laughter bubbling up and out of your throat until his fingers find the scar on your left shin. His thumb slides down the raised, shiny skin where you’ve lost feeling in that particular area. But you still feel it in your heart, as if he’s touching your soul.
“What happened?” The question is quiet and serious, just like his sky blue eyes.
You shrug. “I got hurt, I healed up.”
He gives you a mildly annoyed look. “Querida-”
“Hey,” you slip your hand around his jaw and pull him up towards you. “We can talk about that later.”
“I feel like I let-”
“You didn’t. Not at all.” You smile up at him. “You’re going to let me down if you don’t kiss me though.”
He acquiesces to your request by pressing his lips to yours and you feel like you’ve been hit with another thunderbolt. You need him in every way imaginable. You need his skin against yours, his weight on your body, his mind engaged with yours, his heart beating in rhythm with yours. Your hands start fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt and you feel his lips pull into a smile against your own.
“Un poco desesperados, ¿no es así, mi amor? (A little desperate, aren’t we, my love?)”
“Cállate, Eduardo. (Shut up, Eduardo.)”
And so he does, tugging you up into a sitting position and pulling your shirt over your head. His hands immediately drag down over your breasts before reaching behind you and unhooking your bra. You roll your shoulders and slip out of the satin garment, falling back against the well-worn quilt on your bed. His mouth chases your descent, landing on your neck and moving down over your collarbone before closing over one of your nipples.
You try to get your brain to communicate with your fingers as you’re still struggling to unbutton his shirt but you finally manage that task despite the way his tongue is flicking against your already peaked nipples. You push the fabric off his shoulders and he’s forced to sit up to remove the shirt completely. His physique hasn’t changed at all since the last time you were in this position. He’s still blade thin to match his sharp wit. His hands are drawn to the rise of your breasts.
“Eres tan hermosa. (You are so beautiful.)”
“Me alegra que pienses eso. (I’m glad you think so.)”
He tuts in mild disappointment at your flippant comment before returning to your lips. He gently squeezes one of your nipples between his fingers and when you gasp, he slips his tongue past your lips. Your own hand slides between your bodies and palms his hard length, causing him to surge against you. You smile.
“Now look who’s desperate?”
His hands push yours aside as he undoes his belt and he starts to remove his pants. “I was trying to take it slow.”
You’re already shimmying out of your shorts and underwear. “Since when have I ever taken anything slow?”
His knee knocks into yours, making you spread your legs wider to accommodate him. “Do we need-”
“No, I’m good.”
You know the time to take things slowly will come either later on tonight or tomorrow morning. But right now, you need to feel him inside of you. You wrap your hand around him and give him a few quick strokes which makes him close his eyes.
“Querida, please.”
If it were any other time, you would draw this out until he was incessantly begging and pleading but you don’t want to admit that you’re just as desperate. You missed him so much, this connection that you two share. You line him up to your entrance and tip your head back when he finally slides into you. This, you decide, is what coming home feels like. This delicious feeling of culminating excitement and satisfaction. His hand curls around your jaw, the pads of his fingers pressing into your cheek and neck.
“Te amo, querida,” he whispers against your lips.
You almost lose your voice when you feel him pull back and rock forward again. “Te…te amo, Eduardo.”
He murmurs things that you can’t hear against your skin, things in lilting Spanish. You hook your legs over his hips and feel him slide deeper inside of you. He uses more force with each snap of his hips and soon he’s hitting that sweet spot deep inside of you. The last time you had been with someone had been with him and now that you’re together again, there’s no slowing this down for either one of you. Your fingernails press down into the sinews of his shoulders as you feel the breaking of your orgasm wash over you. He presses his face against your neck and emits a low groan as he comes inside of you.
And there it is, the moment you’ve been waiting for: your heartbeats are in sync. The world has righted itself. Both of you have finally come home.
He raises his head and leans his forehead against yours, blindly kissing your lips and almost missing your mouth. “Te he extrañado mucho. (I’ve missed you so much.)”
“Well,” you slide your fingers through his hair, “there’s only one way to avoid that.”
He hums in question as he traces your cheekbone with his lips. “¿Y cómo es eso? (And how is that?)”
You take a deep breath. “Stay.”
He smiles against your cheek. “If you insist.”
