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“Right this way.” He gestured, walking past my body and into the living room. I dug my hand into my bag, grazing the stolen cigarette, reminding myself of what I’d done. I ignored it, pulling out a measuring tape and a notebook. I stood determined to get through the night—no more gawking, no morestealing. “Where would you like me to take your measurements?” I asked, thumbing out the tape.
“The bedroom.” He replied, reaching for a towel that was laid over a chair. I thought of Parker, his looming voice in my head, scolding about Alejandro and the power of his sex. Was I just another link in a long chain of women? I assumed so, and though I played with the idea myself, I knew better.
“No.” I assured.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I take this job serious, and I expect you will as well.” His intrigued dark brows raised as I continued, “I’m not going to just jump into bed with you, no matter how sexy or persistent you may be. Understood?” I poised my chin to meet the height of his chest, snipping at his pursuit.
Alejandro wrapped the towel over his shoulders, seemingly impressed. “You really are a good girl, aren’t you?” He asked, leaving me no space to reply, causing me to feel little. “The bedroom has a trifold mirror, bright lights, and a stool. I got that ready for you, a space to do your job.” He pointed around, “This room’s dark, but you may prefer that now, considering how red your face is.”
For a moment I looked out the window, assessing if it would shatter easily if I were to jump to my death. I was mortified. Once again, I was on the defense, but I was flipped by his intentions. I was the fool, not him, and his standards were now matched with my expectations. Did I meet his?
“This’ll do.” I winced, ignoring how naive I felt. Alex posed below a descending light, his muscles contoured by the shadows it brought. I wanted to apologize but lacked the courage to do so, so instead I changed the topic. “This fitting is pretty exciting. Ivanna said this was for an exclusive interview in June, right?” I questioned, measuring his back.
“So I’m told. It’s for theTonight Show, promoting the movie,” he added, almost bored, but then sighed in relief, “there’s also an upcoming project of mine, something more personal.”
“Like your upcoming boxing career?” I teased, but almost shuddered as he stuck his arms out. His knuckles were still bruised, healing from purple to green.
“That was different.” He assured, knowing what I meant.
“The man in Bushwick was different? As opposed to what, other ones?”
“The man himself? No. Those men are the same. But what do you know about that?” He asked calmly, not once defensive, “What have you read?”
“Only that he’s not pressing charges,” I studied his hands, “which seems odd.”
“Not odd at all. He’s the one that got comfortable, felt the need to put his hands on someone else.”
“On you?”
“No.” He snapped his finger, his thumb alone a cracking whip, “A woman.” I looked away, understanding the extent of the fight, the cause that evenNew York Prestigefailed to notice. Sure, he was violent, and violence was always wrong, but in the defense of another person, was it truly?
“That was brave of you…” I added, feeling sorry for bringing it up.
“Not brave, but impulsive. I see men like him, and I lose control.” He looked away. I could tell he regretted sharing, his normal confident stare now unsure. It was difficult imaging what losing control looked like for him, considering he was so dominant in every aspect of his life. I guess losing control equated to violence, or maybe to the correction of another being.
“Guess it's not a topic you want to bring up in the interview.”
“Better than others I guess. It’s always the same pattern, the same boring questions. People believe what they read, not what they’re told, at least for me that is.”
“Well, that’s not fair.” I immediately quipped.
“No, but it is what it is. It’s the price you pay for being famous.”
“I’m sure you’re not just a tabloid, look at what you’ve accomplished.” I motioned across the room, as if it were a trophy he’d earned. “What doesAlejandrowant to share with the world?” I asked, garnering a dark but curious raise of his brows.
“Alejandro?” He laughed softly, “They’re not interested in him, only in Alex Rivers.” The veins of his hand popped tightly, curled by the casual clench of his outreached fist.
I may not have understood, but I knew enough to see his frustration, not towards me, but the idea in itself.
“I am.” My loose confession fell out, relaxed unlike the tape in my hand which wrapped tightly around his firm chest. I was so close, smelling the familiar cherry scent rise from his golden skin. I knew so little about him, about his bold tattoos, the angel wings, and his past. Alex was for the people, but he already said, Alejandro was for me, a name he shared for my lips to speak. It was worth the question, worth the time to understand. “Why do they call you Alex Rivers?” I asked, monitoring his reaction.
“The name Alejandro never paid the bills. They thought it would cost them money. Too long for credits, too Hispanic for their audience.”
“Too Hispanic?” I asked, finding the thought a little absurd. In the fashion world, I was used to foreign names being the charm of many established designers. I never thought twice about their names, about how it could cost them money. I didn't understand.
“I was type casted. I was always a secondary role, a Mexican mobster, a construction worker, a tool to support some menacing cartel man, but never a lead. I changed my name; I changed their perception. I was no longer just Hispanic, I was relatable, a name people could speak quickly and recognize on a billboard.” He looked up at the ceiling and scoffed, “They wanted me, they just didn’t want my culture.”
