Exposed King (Boys of Brisley 2)

Chapter Seven:

The American Dream

Mia

I heard him yell about the spinach with a grin, but I decided not to turn around and look at him again. Walking away from him was hard enough as it was, and I was late.

Oliver Bishop.

I had no clue why my brain decided to repeat his full name every time I saw his face now, but a part of me assumed I just didn’t want to forget it. I met a lot of people every day at Sunday’s, making their faces and names blur together with ease the second they walked out the door, but not him. His disheveled hair and puppy-dog eyes the first time I saw him had stayed with me, along with his ability to handle my humor.

I’d always been someone who was closed off and everyone around me knew it. I’d been through too much shit, been fucked over by too many dudes not to be, but something about Oliver was different. Maybe it was the fact that everything about him was my type even though my track record would state otherwise. His pretty-boy face rocked the stubble look better than anyone else in Domingo, and his hazel eyes were more captivating, too, but it was his demeanor that truly caught my attention. He was sad. I could see that sadness lingering under the surface and yet he still smiled, still joked like he didn’t have a million pounds resting on his broad shoulders. It was something we had in common.

I knew nothing about him and yet I admired him, and every day since he’d stumbled in drunk, I found myself looking around for him while I was at work.

It was dangerous, he was dangerous. And that was exactly why I had to stay away.

As the air conditioner in my old Suburban cooled down the car, I let the thoughts of Oliver Bishop and his stupidly attractive smile drift out the cracked window. I didn’t have time for him on top of everything else, especially because I knew he deserved more time than I could give.

I focused instead on the little girl I was going to tutor. Elena was from El Salvador; her parents had moved here when she was seven for a better life — like most of our parents in Domingo did — only they were separated after a traffic stop that took her father away. No one had heard from him since. There were so many stories similar to hers, so many heartbreaking tales of fathers being sent back to their country and never heard from again, and every single one of them made the phrase “American Dream” feel more like a fantasy. I tried hard not to think about those stories too often, especially when I came face-to-face with them every single day. These kids didn’t want my pity, they wanted me to teach them English so their parents’ sacrifice wasn’t for nothing, and that was something I could do.

Students like her were the most eager and focused. They learned so quickly they made my job a million times easier. Our two hours together flew by in a blink of an eye, and I found myself driving home soon after trying not to think of who was making Ollie’s huevos happy that evening. It was stupid to be jealous about something like that when I’d clearly been the reason that person wasn’t me. I had no right to be, yet I still was.

The noise at home helped more than anything, though. Everyone was there — my loud sister Dinora was off of work, yelling down the stairs to her eldest son about him being grouchy while he brooded on the couch. She wasn’t wrong, but Jago was sixteen and if she expected anything different out of a sixteen-year-old, she was gravely mistaken. Two of her other sons, Carlo and Alex, sat on the kitchen counter singing a song I’d never heard, and I fought the urge to tell them to stop. I would have just from the look on Jago’s face and the tone of my sister’s voice, but Rio was sitting cross-legged on the floor watching them with a smile I couldn’t ruin. Rio was my baby boy, and after a kiss to his adorable little curls, I started pulling out things to feed them. I knew them all well enough to know they gravitated toward the kitchen when they were hungry. “Where’s Valentino?” I asked, curious as to where my sister’s second oldest was.

“He’s on the phone with a girl,” Alex teased, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the way he said it.

With four boys at teen and preteen ages, I’d known this day would come soon. I’d just expected it to be Jago before Valentino. “Valito!” I yelled. “Get down here and tell me about this girl!”

He thundered down the stairs as he messed with his short hair and tried to hide his blush. “There’s nothing to tell, Titi. I don’t know what you heard, but you didn’t hear it.”

“Sure, I didn’t. How old are you now? Twelve?” I knew he wasn’t, but I still wasn’t done teasing him.

“I’m almost fifteen,” he said defensively. “And Luna’s just a friend.”

“Lunaaaa?” I responded in a sing-song voice, and the other boys around me were quick to join in with some oohs and ahhs. I even heard Jago laugh from the couch. “Luna better be one of the good girls, sobrino.”

“She’s just a friend. ¡Dios mío! Can I just have food, Titi? I’m hungry,” he whined, rubbing his belly.

“Of course you are. Sit. We have leftovers.” All of them rushed to the dining table to eat as Jago walked over to help set the table. “What’s your mom doing up there? She just get home?”

“Yeah. She worked a double. I think she might be sleeping,” Jago said quietly. “Want me to go see?”

“No, she’s a big girl. If she’s hungry she’ll come down. Thanks for watching Rio today. I know there’s probably girls you’d rather be talking to than hanging out with your little cousin, so I appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it. We had fun, right, Rio? No girls allowed.”

“Uh-huh!” Rio agreed, reaching to get himself some mashed potatoes with his tongue between his teeth. “He took me to the swing set, Mamá!”

“What a nice babysitter. Don’t tell me more good things, then I’ll feel obligated to start paying him.” I pulled Jago’s head in for a kiss and pushed him away softly, both of us knowing damn well I’d pay the kid for his help whenever I could.

“How was your day, Titi?” Carlo asked, plate already halfway gone.

“Great.” I smiled, but it faded to something more like guilt when I thought of how it felt when Oliver crowded my space against the counter. It shouldn’t have awakened what it did, and suddenly I was afraid the cravings he stirred weren’t going to go away whether I wanted them to or not. Aye, Mia Camilla Perez. Now is not the time to start sleeping with a rich playboy. Now is not the fucking time.

Oliver

“Hit me.” I tapped the bar, then swiveled around on that rickety stool to make sure Rowan filled it up enough. “More, more, more — atta boy. Much better.” I took the overflowing glass and drained it, groaning as the whiskey scorched my throat and made my eyes water. I whooped, then slid it forward for one more. “Why’s it so loud in here?” I yelled.