Page 9 of No Sweeter Poison

“I don’t love anyone. Not really. My family is shitty, dysfunctional, and a touch chaotic. But I love Karina,” she tells me. “She’s more than a friend or a cousin. More than even a sister. She’s like an extended part of me. Every year we take a trip together and pick a country to visit. This is our last trip before she gets married in December. Back-packing across Europe—six cities in twelve weeks. Barcelona is the first stop.”

The glow that once surrounded her dims. Even the fire in her deep red hair seems to go out.

“I hate her fiancé. And I don’t mean ‘he’s taking away the most important person in my life’ kind of hate. I mean, ‘he’s an awful person who needs to die alone in a ditch somewhere’ kind of hate. I don’t know…I guess I thought that during our trip I could find a way to convince her to call off the wedding. Brent isn’t a good person; we went to college together—I know what he’s like when she’s not around. But I didn’t speak up when I should’ve and now it’s too late.” She gives a light shrug. “Even if I told her the truth about everything, I doubt she’d believe me. And he isn’t worth ruining our relationship.”

“What’s the truth about everything?”

She hesitates. “He cheated on her.”

My glass stops at my lips. I set it down.

Dahlia covers her face to conceal her shame. “God, I know. Please don’t judge me.” Her hands drop to the counter. “But I don’t have proof. Only a gut instinct and that isn’t enough. What if I’m wrong and I ruin her relationship? She’ll hate me forever.”

I’m not sure what to say to her in response.

“We’re Latin. We’re Catholic. For women like us, marriage is a different kind of beast. Infidelity? Swallow it. Because men have needs and urges and they’re weak; women are stronger. That’s why it’s our responsibility to forgive them.” Dahlia catches her breath. “If you knew Karina, you’d know that the only way for her to see the truth is if she does so herself. No one in the world can make her see what she doesn’t want to. Besides, what if I’m wrong—?”

“What if you’re right and you’ll save her from the mistake of a lifetime?”

An image of Diego shaking the life out of me before a church altar flashes in the back of my mind. Part of me understands. There was nothing in the world back then that could’ve made me see the truth until I was forced to realize it for myself. I had to figure out on my own what kind of woman Regina really was and by then, it’d been too late. If such is the case for Karina, then one can only hope she has her rude awakening before walking down the aisle and not after.

Dahlia finishes what’s left of her drink and slides off the stool she’d been previously seated on. She wanders over to the balcony doors and looks back over her shoulder, a question in her eyes. I nod and refill both our glasses, taking them with me as I join her outside.

Warm, salty air envelops us like an embrace. All around us the city glimmers violet, red, and orange with hints of blue as the Mediterranean twinkles in the moonlight. Dahlia glows from head to toe, the light from the city making her burn deep red and amber like the last stubborn remnants of a once powerful flame. Wind shifts and sways around us and her skirt floats slightly upward before clinging to the shape of her. She has a Marilyn Monroe moment and reaches down to smooth down the red and black fabric, those delicate fingers of hers tracing the outlines of roses. Both of our glasses are resting on the balcony ledge and as she’s about to reach for hers, the wind hits again, and her skirt flies upwards.

She rushes to push it down, but my hand suddenly has a mind of its own. It moves and grazes her bare thigh, and she stills completely—cheeks reddening, goosebumps covering her skin. I leave my hand there, even after the wind calms and her skirt falls back into place.

Dahlia reaches for her glass and drinks more than I’m comfortable with. Not because I care about how much she drinks but because I won’t do anything if she isn’t sober enough to say yes. And I very desperately want her to say yes.

“What about you?” Her voice is quiet, and she concentrates on the glass in her hands. “What brings you to Barcelona?”

I’d laugh at her attempt at small talk if I wasn’t so busy trying to figure out how to undress her. That skirt is doing things to me and as much as I’d like to spare it from brutal ruination, I can’t find a zipper or buttons. Which means she probably had to drag it up and over her thighs, wiggling and jumping, to get the narrow waistband over her ass. Judging by the curve of her backside as my hand continues its ascent…

God, I really hope she stays the night.

D ahlia

“My family business is here,” is the answer he finally settles on.

“Mmm…” I take another long sip and soon the glass is half empty. I feel a slight buzz but am nowhere near drunk enough to have any courage. A second question comes to mind. “And do you like it here?”

“I like it enough,” comes his noncommittal response. “I wasn’t raised here though. My father was born in Argentina and raised in Colombia. My mother’s from Puerto Rico. My childhood was a bit all over the place.”

“Why?”

He waits a beat before responding. “We have a very…large family business.”

He drags his hand up the length of my thigh and it distracts me from probing any further. Alejandro lifts his freehand to the nape of my neck where each little touch is like the spark of a live wire under my skin. His fingers are long and graceful, grip strong as long tendrils of my dark red hair wrap around them. For a moment I think he might lean forward and kiss me, but he doesn’t. Instead, his other hand wanders further up my skirt, the touch explorative and gentle, without feeling like an invasion.

I’ve never felt my heart race this quickly before, as if I’m inching closer and closer to the top of a massive rollercoaster but don’t fear the fall. He’s done nothing but let his touch wander across my skin, run his fingers through my hair, and it’s easily the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.

Which means I’m either embarrassingly inexperienced or he’s damn good at what he does.

Finally, he leans down and his lips barely brush mine as he reaches my neck, pressing a kiss against the base of my throat.

“You had a lot to drink.”

“I didn’t.” I hardly recognize the desperation in my own voice as I speak.