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“What did you do?”
“A small fire. I had no choice.”
“Are you all right?”
“Alive and standing. You preferred the beard?”
She torqued her lips into a smug smile. “I liked the way it scratched between my thighs.”
“That’s because you can’t remember my full face in your pussy,” I whispered in her ear.
She shivered and nudged me in the ribcage. I refocused on the bride, but with Grace standing next to me, the only thing I could really focus on was the access underneath her dress. She leaned into my side, her soft arm resting against mine. The bride approached the front, and the music stopped.
“I can’t wait until you remind me.”
I couldn’t wait either. I wasn’t sure how much time we had left in Costa Rica, but I’d draw out every second I could. The team of contractors at Grace’s salon had been working around the clock, and they’d be done within days. If Silver Securities got it right, Chad Hartley would be behind bars before they finished. Reality was knocking too fast, and I expected news before the night’s end. Rachel was supposed to arrive this morning with a satellite phone, but I hadn’t seen her.
“I can’t believe you did all this for the village.”
Grace watched the bride and groom twirl on the dance floor.
“It makes me feel better than saving pool frogs.” I shrugged my shoulders.
“I loved having you save those toads.” She snuggled in closer, and I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, bringing her to my body.
The intimate ceremony, filled with customs and dances passed through generations, was the eighth wedding I’d attended in this village, but I wanted to make this one special. Once we returned to the States, who knew when I could come back? The case against Chad could drag for years.
The couple was pronounced wed, blessed by Abuela, and they kissed. Grace looked up, and I looked down, sharing her sentimental smile. Hot pizzas were removed from the oven, and the party shifted to underneath a tent, where I enjoyed a crispy crust.
I had just stuffed the third jalapeño empanada into my mouth when Grace passed me a glass of guaro.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it taste like?”
“More like vodka than rum, and it burns.”
“Have one with me?”
“I thought you didn’t want me drinking.”
“We’re at a wedding in a tribal village decorated like it’s Paris Hilton’s wedding. I think this occasion is special enough.”
“All right. Dip your lips first. It will evaporate before it gets to your tongue.” I passed her back the glass.
“Just on my lips?”
“Yeah. Gently. The way I like to taste you.”
She bit her lip, gave me a self-conscious look, and tilted the glass at her lips. One, two, three… I stopped the count as she emptied the glass and shook her head. Shudders flew through her body. She stomped her feet on the ground like she was getting ready for a takeoff, and I laughed.
“I said, your tongue only.”
“I heard you.”
She grabbed a bottle of guaro off a table and shoved it into my hand. “Your turn.”
I set the bottle back on the table, popped a fried sweet potato in my mouth, and spun her in a circle. Grace laughed, forgetting all about the alcohol, likely because she already had a glassful flowing through her veins. The stars came out, and we moved onto the dance floor. Grace had learned a traditional dance and gyrated to the drum’s beat. The tune slowed, and I took her into my arms. She slid her hand along my face.
