Page 22 of Out of Control

“Is there a reason you haven’t said a single thing about said festival?”

He’s always had a good nose for smelling bullshit.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I lie. Traitor.

“Bullshit,” he coughs out.

“Fine. A lot happened. A ton. I drank. I streaked naked through the crowd. I went to a wild—” I wince and glance my grandfather’s way.

“El patriarca is right there, isn’t he?” Cruz chuckles and the knowing sound grates on my nerves.

My lack of a response is his response. “Maybe I want to keep the experience for myself. Did you ever think about that?”

“Secretive and hostile.”

“Now, how about it was a transformative experience, one you wouldn’t understand even if I could put words to it.”

“Translation being you definitely have regrets over whatever it is you did there.”

“I’m going to hang up on you. You’re being ridiculous.” I huff. “I’m going. See—”

“What if something happens to me?” he asks just before I click end on my phone.

Here comes the guilt.

“It won’t. You’ll be fine.”

“What if it does?”

“Then Maddix will be there,” I say. The pang of guilt will hit in seconds.

Yep, there it is. Right on time.

“Sofia. I want you here. Besides, you’re the only one who can run interference with Mamá or Papá or whoever decides to show up.”

“Ahh, that’s why you want me there.”

“No. I want you there because you’ve never not been to an opening weekend,” he says quietly. “Is it so wrong of me to ask you to come?”

Fuck. I pinch the bridge of my nose. All was fine with lust and sex when I was at the festival. It was simpler. Easier to figure out. To understand.

I’ve never once considered what happened a mistake—no way in hell do mistakes feel that good—but I wouldn’t say it was one of my better decisions either.

You have a one-night stand with someone you’ll never see again. With a person you leave behind and then out of the blue, wonder—or not—how they’re doing.

You don’t do it with the man you’ve been warned about. A man you know you’re going to see often.

A man you can’t stop fucking thinking about.

“You’re going, Sofia,” el patriarca says in his shaky but authoritative voice from across the patio. “Navarros support Navarros. You will be there.”

“But I have stuff to do.” I’m trying to rid his touch from my mind. His taste from my lips. “I’m trying to get everything—”

“Yes, well, this family comes first. No?” he asks without looking my way.

Cruz chuckles in my ear—clearly hearing him through the connection—and then gloats. “Perfect. See you there, Sof.”

“Grr,” I say softly into the phone. But when el patriarca speaks, we all listen.