Ignited (Roman Holiday 5)

When he didn’t speak, she reached out and insinuated her hand beneath the cuff of his pants. She found the skin above his sock—hot, slightly damp—and slid her hand up to wrap around his calf.

He went so still, his body a held breath. She situated her hand against his muscle, snugging in, and left it there.

Tell me.

Tell me.

His inhale broke the silence, and the story came. “That was a weird summer in my hometown, Heraly. It’s really small, less than ten thousand people, about four of whom spoke Spanish, and they found out one day that the government was going to send fifteen thousand Cubans to the fort. Like, tomorrow. The fort isn’t even a real fort. It’s just some barracks and a fence. There aren’t soldiers stationed there or anything. So they weren’t ready at all, but it was kind of exciting, too, right? And Wisconsin people are all about being helpful, so …”

He trailed off. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to respond, or what to say. But then he started again.

“The government was dithering around trying to figure out what the immigration status of all these people should be. Because here they were, some of them psyched to be in the land of freedom, some of them just shoved out the door without being given any choice, and they’ve got no paperwork to tell you who’s who. Murderers and petty criminals, enemies of the revolution, rapists, little kids with no parents, guys who’d been thrown in jail for being gay, schizophrenics, mechanics, food cart owners—here they are, mixed up together in Fort McCoy, Wisconsin, and the government’s telling these nice Midwestern folks, ‘Just deal with it, okay?’ ”

Another long pause.

“That’s so screwy,” she said.

He glanced at her, amusement on his mouth but not in his eyes. “So every Spanish speaker within a hundred miles gets hired on. And social workers, Catholic charities people, anyone who thinks they can help. Patrick was a social worker for the diocese. His wife, Laurel, was a high school teacher who spoke Spanish. They signed up right away.”

He widened his legs on the step, leaned forward so he could gesture with his hands in the air between his knees. She felt his energy beneath her palm, his calf muscle bunched, twitching.

He seemed so much younger when he wasn’t wearing his costume or playing his role. Just a guy. A guy telling her a story, letting her touch him.

If he’d talked for hours, she would have listened.

“All these Cuba

ns in the barracks needed sponsors to get out from behind the barbed wire. Patrick helped connect people up with local families who were willing to sponsor them out and let them have a spare bed until they found somewhere to go, some job to do, whatever. Laurel translated for him. They had a baby, Samantha, who Laurel carried all around the camp, and here was this teenage girl who was pregnant, with no people. No mom around. Laurel connected with that, I guess. She and Patrick sponsored my mom out, and she came to live with them. After I was born, we both lived there.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Silvia. Silvia Ojito. And he was Roman, of course. My dad. I think I told you that.”

“Did they sponsor him, too?”

“No. Patrick was part of this team of social workers that was doing assessments of all the unaccompanied minors in the camp—trying to establish who needed more care, who was mentally ill, who might need foster parents, that kind of thing—and he assessed my dad. Disturbed was the word he used in the report. I saw a copy once in his file cabinet.”

Ashley had a vision of Roman, kneeling in an office, rifling through drawers for clues to who he was.

Roman cleared his throat. “I should probably warn you this story doesn’t end well.”

“I’d guessed that.”

He ran his fingers down from his knee around to the back and pushed at the lump her hand made inside his jeans. “Get that out of there.”

Chagrined, she did, pushing her fist into her lap.

She didn’t expect him to find her wrist. To take her hand and hold it at his hip.

She didn’t know that his palm would feel clammy, betraying his nerves. His need for reassurance.

A hawk swooped into view. It dropped down over a clearing where there must once have been a house—feet extended, sharp talons out—then rose into the air, something wiggling in its grip.

Roman didn’t seem to know how to keep going.

“I want to know all about you,” she said. “Don’t you get that?” Ashley squeezed his fingers, and he looked at them. Looked at her. He leaned close and bumped her shoulder with his, and it was the strangest thing. This ordinary, casual scrap of affection.

She’d had men between her legs, panting and saying her name, and still not been sure if they liked her. But when Roman bumped her shoulder she was sure.