Thirty-One

"You're being annoying," Dalton informs me while reclining his seat a few more degrees. The big fucker pretends not to see the annoyed glare Everett shoots him when the seat back collides with his knees, and he even has the audacity to let out an indulgent exhalation.

"Sasquatch," Everett mumbles, shifting his legs.

Dalton scoffs. "Please. If I were the Sasquatch, you'd be jizzing your pants with excitement. You'd drop your big, fancy camera while fumbling your dick."

"Everything you say is vile," Everett snaps before facing the window to his right. "But yes, that's probably how it would play out."

Chuckling, Dalton reaches over his shoulder and snags a fist bump from Everett. Nobody riffs off each other better than the two of them, I'll admit. It's almost enough to distract me from checking my phone again, but not quite.

"Lan," Dalton remarks, bobbing his chin. "Did you hear me? You're being annoying."

Training my eyes back on the road, I click my tongue. "Never met a guy so willing to piss off the person who literally has his life in their hands." I tap both my palms on the steering wheel. "The fuck am I doing to annoy you?"

"Being boring," Dalton replies.

"I'm not."

"Then play I Spy with me."

"Dalton, we're twenty-seven."

"I spy with my little eye…someone with a huge stick up his ass," he taunts before rolling his eyes when I simply check my phone again. "Come on. We've played I Spy on the drive to St. Michaels every year since we were four. Now you're…what exactly are you doing?"

"I'm sitting in my overpriced BMW, watching my phone, and ignoring my two best friends. What the hell else should I be doing right now?"

Dalton's eyebrow rises slowly enough for me to consider what I just said, and yeah, fine, the eyebrow has a point.

"Driving's a good option," Everett chimes in.

"Sorry," I relent. "Valeria hasn't texted me back all night, which isn't like her."

My friends are silent at first until Everett murmurs, "She always replies. Do you think her phone died?"

"She's a camgirl. She'd let me die before letting her phone die."

"Maybe she's having a good time at her father's," Dalton suggests. "That's possible, right? His place looked nice."

It's true. When we dropped Valeria off at her father's home, I was surprised to pull up to a revivalist mansion in Vienna where a hired valet service was managing a line of expensive cars around the property.

"I should have scoped out the place before leaving her there," I lament softly. "It's possible she's fine, but it's also possible she's hiding in a bathroom and left her phone somewhere else."

"Neither sounds like life or death," Dalton points out.

"I still don't like it."

"What exactly are we working with here?" Everett asks. "Because my father has every high-ranking officer on speed dial. I could have the party dismantled in minutes."

"Thanks, but the Governor of Virginia doesn't need to get on the case," I reply, although it's tempting to call in the favor. "I don't know what the deal is. All I know is he's the Mexican Ambassador, and if I had to guess, he's probably the reason why she has an aversion to lawyers."

"Huh," Everett mutters, and his gaze drifts out the window to the passing scenery.

I glance in the rearview mirror. "What?"

"Nothing," he replies, still looking away.

"Everett," I press, "what are you thinking?"

He faces forward, expression somber. "Dalton, I apologize in advance."

Dalton's brow furrows and he cranes to look over his shoulder. "What for?"

"For losing our driver to St. Michaels," Everett answers before leaning between the seats and facing me. "Look, I have a bad dad. A bad dad is a lot like herpes. Most people don't know you have it, and the people who do know never hear about the flareups."

My face is contorted into a grimace. "I hate this metaphor…"

"Ev, you know an awful lot about herpes," Dalton mentions.

Sighing again, Everett glances between us. "My point is, I may not be ashamed to talk to you guys about run-of-the-mill bullshit—like how my father was embarrassed I slept with a nightlight in elementary school, so he cut the power to my bedroom every night—"

"…That's not run-of-the-mill," I murmur.

"Not even close," Dalton chimes in, frowning. "Fuck, Ev."

"But the worse things, the things that made me realize he was irredeemable, I keep to myself. Whatever is going on with Valeria and her father is her shit. She doesn't have to share it with anyone if she's not ready, but it doesn't mean you're absolved from showing up for her like you know every godawful detail."

My hands tighten on the wheel, whitening my knuckles. He's right. I should have gone with her. I should have insisted. "Everett…"

But before I can continue, Everett reaches forward and clasps his hand on my shoulder. "Pull over, Lander."

"We're in the middle of Maryland," I remind him. "It's dark—"

"We'll call an Uber," Dalton chimes in. "Or Everett will use the moss on the trees to lead us. No clue. But if you think Valeria needs you right now…I mean, go, Lander. What are you waiting for?"

I slow to a stop on the shoulder of the highway and cut the engine before looking back and forth between my two best friends—my brothers. "Thanks, Ev. I'm going to vote for you for President one day. Dalton—"

Dalton waves me off. "Yeah, yeah, you'd marry me if you weren't clinically and terrifyingly obsessed with Valeria. Now go," he urges before opening the door.

Less than a minute later, Dalton and Everett are standing on the side of the road with their luggage, and I can't believe I just left two guys whose trust funds could buy a small European principality on Highway 50.

While I watch them grow smaller in the rearview mirror, two thoughts cross my mind:

Number one: Dalton and Everett are, far and away, the best friends a guy could ask for.

Number two: I really should have at least left them in a Cracker Barrel parking lot or something.

An hour later, I pull up to Valeria's father's home for the second time tonight, knowing this is a risk. I'm showing up uninvited to a party, which is not only something my late parents would have referred to as "gauche as fuck," but days ago, Valeria told me not to come. I could easily be blowing this entire thing out of proportion, not to mention displaying stalker tendencies.

But there's a nagging feeling in my chest, a weight growing with each unanswered text, that Valeria needs me. When the front door opens, I realize I was right. For once, I don't want to be right.

"What are you doing here?" Sebastian demands. He looks me up and down, an outright snarl forming. I assume my flawless face makes it so much worse for him.

"You're here," I mutter, taking a step forward, getting in his face. I'm so much taller than Sebastian, it borders on awkward—for him, obviously. For me, it's fucking great.

"I mean it," he presses, revealing a grotesquely prominent vein on his forehead. "She didn't tell me you were coming."

"Would she? Last she told me, the only words she'll spare you are a combination of fuck, off, you, pathetic, and dipshit. Not necessarily in that order." I conjure my phone from my pocket and dial Valeria before Sebastian can struggle and fail to come up with a respectable retort.

To my surprise, a vibration sounds from a few feet away…from a crystal bowl of phones by the door.

"What the hell," I mutter, scowling at the bowl while Sebastian rolls his eyes.

"No phones. It's a Fuentes tradition. Valeria didn't tell you?"

The way glee rises to his eyes when he identifies one damn thing he knows about Valeria that I don't is adrenaline in my bloodstream. Trouncing him would be simple. Enjoyable even. Messy, sure, but enjoyable. Logistically, he wears so much hair gel that I may have to rent some sort of power tool to make it to and through his skull, but I imagine the thing is hollow and I could display it on my coffee table. Fill it with Jolly Ranchers.

"Move," I order.

"Hell no. You're not stepping foot in this house."

I slide my foot onto the front step like a punk ass. "I'm not?"

He loathes me. "Get the hell out—"

"Sebastian," someone hisses from behind him, making him freeze. Whoever spoke pronounced his name seh-bast-eon, not how I say it, like the Disney crab. Somehow, that pronunciation immediately tells me the situation has gotten serious.

I peer over his shoulder (which is easy because I'm so tall and strapping compared to him) and recognize Valeria's father from his Wikipedia article, except he's sporting a hard frown. He rattles something off in Spanish to Sebastian, whose expression contorts into a scowl he should strongly reconsider because it's straight up ugly.

"Valeria said her boyfriend wasn't coming," her father comments when he faces me. "Valeria!"

His shout momentarily silences the cacophony of party chatter deeper in the house. Seconds later, I'm relieved when Valeria walks into the foyer with a look of abject confusion on her face until she sees me. Then everything relaxes: her expression, her posture, even her hands, which were balled into fists.

There's a lot of Spanish being spoken.

All that Duolingo? Not helping.

Valeria gestures at me, Sebastian gestures at me, and Valeria's father glances between the two with his eyebrow raised. I don't catch much of what they're saying and I feel like a gringo until Valeria's father holds up both hands.

"Come in," he instructs, beckoning me forward. "Leaving people on the doorstep isn't our culture."

I enter and Valeria's father approaches me. There's a dignity in his posture, a regalness in his spine, that reminds me of Valeria. On her, it's gravitas. On her father, it's pure arrogance. I've been around enough arrogant men to know it's intentional.

He holds out his hand. "Vicente Fuentes. Welcome."

"Lander Dawson," I reply, taking his hand and glancing at Valeria, who looks bewildered watching me shake hands with her father.

Valeria's relationship with Vicente is so off-limits, I assumed he would be an obvious asshole. I'm not exactly sure what I envisioned, but maybe a gold pinky ring that he would stroke while forcing someone to kneel on the floor as his footrest. The man in front of me, however, is…fine.

That's what makes him dangerous.

"Do you know about our Independence Day?" he asks.

"I don't," I admit, only then realizing I should have taken the time to learn. Shit. From here on out, I need to do more research on Mexican culture.

"You both missed the grito yesterday." He looks pointedly in Valeria's direction. "But we Mexicans take a few days to celebrate most things. Get a drink at the bar and meet me in the living room. We'll talk."

Vicente departs from the foyer, tugging a reluctant Sebastian with him. Sebastian shoots several glares I assume are meant to be threatening over his shoulder, but they look more like constipation. The comparison has me smirking until Valeria tugs on my jacket.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses.

"You weren't responding," I answer while looping my arms around her and drawing her into a hug. Right away, her body eases in my embrace. There's nothing else for me to explain beyond what I've said. She gets it.

She pulls back and looks up at me, her eyes staring directly into mine while she slides her hands along the plane of my chest and higher until her palms are on my cheeks. "I'm glad you came. Now, let's get out of here."

"Wait," I object when she pulls away. "Your father—"

"This is not the place for you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "Trust me."

Instinctively, I know the truth is on the other side of this figurative wall. Monthly dinners. Sebastian. The reason why she vowed to never date a lawyer. It's all so close, but I still don't see it.

"You can tell me anything, Valeria," I reassure her. "I want to bear it with you."

"You really don't. Trust me, this mess is bigger than either of us."

"Baby," I say, tracing my hand over her cheek, "you said you were going to this party because you had to. Why do you have to be here, and why couldn't I be here with you too?"

Her expression is grave. "You don't realize what you're asking. Once you see this, things are going to change. I'm not just going to be a beautiful girl who you like to make laugh. That girl is going to be gone, Lander. You need to know, and you have to be prepared for the burden of knowing."

I bow, meeting her smaller stature, ensuring she's staring into my eyes when I tell her, "Valeria Fuentes, you were never just a beautiful girl to me. You were a confident, independent, elusive woman who made her own plans and lived by her own rules. Let me be abundantly fucking clear: I want all of you, including this."