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He nods. "Yeah. I wanted to destroy him because I imagined him touching you. I saw what he wanted to do to you, and I didn't like it."
"How many?"
He looks away. "I lost count, but they were all bad and threatened the family."
"Dean Richards?"
"Is a sick fuck that wants to fuck you. Niko…''
"Was it you?"
He takes a breath, staring at the cut on my thigh. "He doesn't look bad with eye makeup."
"He could report you, Santiago."
"Please…"
"Please, what?"
The corner of his lip twitches. "Call me…"
"I can't believe you have this thing about me calling you Santi and think hurting him is funny." I push him and feel his hot skin and hard muscles. The muscles in his stomach flex. There isn't an ounce of fat on him.
My eyes fall on my name tattooed over his heart. He said he got it because we were best friends. I was stupid and thought it was because he loved me. He has tattoos all over his body. His mother's name, quotes, skulls, angels, and my favorite, La Santa Muerte.
"Then call me Santi. It's what you have always called me."
He grabs the first aid kit and gets the gauze, tape, and antiseptic, but his head dips right before he cleans the cut.
"What…"
His tongue licks the blood threatening to spill, and I gasp; he sucks the other scars brushing softly over the raised skin, causing me to mewl. My thighs widen when his trembling hands slide up my ribs. His nose grazes my clit over my panties and breathes deep. I'm wet, and when his eyes lift, I see the turmoil.
His breath is hot between my thighs, his cheeks glisten from his tears, and the tip of his nose wet from my arousal. He closes his eyes like he is struggling and leans back, causing the air to cool my heating skin.
He cleans my wound with gentle fingers making sure the tape his secure. He stands when finished, grabs his shirt, pulls it over his hard body, and cups my cheek. "I'm no good for you, Elena. There are things you don't understand, and I can't tell you but don't hurt yourself because of me. I'm not worth it."
Something holds him back from me, but I can't risk my heart anymore. He pulls the comforter over my legs and turns off the lamp. And walks out.
"Do you want to go to the meet-up with me?"
"Huh?" I heard him, but I have never been to the meet-up. It's where the Hillside Kings hang out to smoke and drink. I've never gone but heard stories from my uncle Mase and my dad. They all have classic low riders. The women have them, too, like Linda, Maxim and Santiago's aunt.
"The meet-up?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you sure that is a good idea, Maxim?"
He places the plate of enchiladas––the way I like them–– on the small dining table in front of me. "I don't see why not. It's not like the guys don't know who you are. And you're going with me, so there is no chance anyone will mess with you."
"What do I wear?" I look down at my designer jean shorts and white Helmut Lang t-shirt. "I can't show up like this?"
He bends and angles his head under the table and looks up with a cheeky grin on his beautiful face. "You look good to me?"
I blush but play it off balling my napkin and tossing it at him, missing him by a long shot. "But I won't fit in."
He laughs and picks up the napkin from the floor. "I don't want you to change. I like the way you are."
