Needful Surrender

AURORA

Esteban slams the door of the hotel room shut, fastening the four locks on it. For a moment, I wonder what kind of place this is that it would need that many safety precautions.

I’ve never been to Michoacán before, though I have heard about what many have seen. The rumors. So far, it’s all turned out to be true.

It’s beautiful here. A lush landscape of green maintained by the extremely humid weather. The town of Apatzingán reminds me much of the rural place where Esteban’s mother lives, with dirt roads and buildings with old faded paint.

The people are poor but kind. There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of money, and I’m more than a little surprised by the state of the hotel Esteban has chosen to stay at. But the staff was quick to take our… Not our things. His things. Sadly, I wasn’t given much time to pack. But they took his things, made sure to get food orders, and provided us with fresh water and cinnamon and sugar gorditas to bring up with us as snacks.

The city is riddled with criminals. I think today more than confirmed that theory.

Speaking of criminals, Esteban moves past me as he dials a number on his cell phone. “Damn it, he’s not answering!”

“Who?”

“Rodrigo.” He throws the phone on the bed, wincing when he overextends his arm.

“You’re really hurt, Esteban. Let me look at it.”

I go to him, but he lifts his hand to stop me. However, he doesn’t turn to me. Instead, he keeps his hard gaze on the threadbare flowery coverlet the phone landed on. “I can fix it myself.” He makes to wrap his fingers around his arm, but grimaces before he even touches it.

“Here.” I ignore his protests, slapping his hand away and undoing the buttons of his shirt. “First of all, we need to make sure it actually is dislocated. Or you may do more harm than good.”

He lets out an exasperated breath but doesn’t try to block me again. I slide the material of his shirt to the side, my fingertips slightly grazing the warm skin of his clavicle. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, and my eyes lift to his. Instantly, I’m trapped in his brown irises, lost in their darkness.

Held in a trance that makes me forget everything but him, I inch closer to him until my chest touches his and his breath plays across my face.

“Esteban,” I whisper, responding to the ache and desire I see in him, the emotions pouring from him echoing my own. Fear, anger, hate, want. And the most terrifying of all, need.

“Why do you do this to me?” he asks as he closes the gap between us and his lips brush featherlight against my skin.

Of its own volition, my palm flattens on his chest, desperate to feel the heat of him. His strong heartbeat that tells me he’s alive and he’s here with me still.

But in the moment, I forget myself and brush over his shoulder. He pulls away, his eyes screwed shut as he moans in pain.

“Oh my god, Esteban, I’m so sorry!” I help him to sit on the edge of the bed, this time making sure to keep my eyes on his injury. “Ouch,” I gasp when I peel aside his shirt and expose the red bulge that tells me that this is in fact a dislocation. “We have to get it back in, the sooner the better. Let’s take this shirt off.”

He arches a brow at me. “Tempting as it is even when I’m still debating what to do with you—” Groaning, he shifts and grits his teeth. “I don’t think I can do it without you punching me in the face and knocking me out.”

“Well, tempting as that is too,” I tease, “you must remain conscious, because you’re too heavy for me to lift. Come on, I’ll be gentle.”

“Is it necessa—”

“So that I can use it as a sling,” I cut him off, then carefully remove his button-up, leaving him in only his white ribbed undershirt. Try as I might not to notice how perfectly it accentuates his broad chest and tight abdomen, leaving the lean muscle of his arms exposed, I can’t. It affects me in a way that shames me for so many reasons, yet my focus falters. Clearing my throat, I say, “Lie down. I need you flat on your back.”

He complies, lying so that his left arm is at the bed’s edge, watching me warily as I place a knee on the mattress. “Are you sure this is how it’s done?”

“I am. And stop looking at me like that. You’re making me nervous.”

“You’re nervous? How do you think I feel? The last time you loomed over me like this in bed you tried to kill me.”

My lips tighten so hard they hurt. “I already told you, if I’d wanted to kill you, I would have. Now relax.” I take his wrist and slowly extend his arm at a ninety-degree angle. “Breathe.”

He does so but very shakily, and I realize he really is nervous. “Did you perform this procedure in medical school several times?”

“I didn’t go long enough to learn it.”

His eyes flick to me, and he attempts, but fails, to retract his limb. “You’re joking.”

“My brother played football and often dislocated his shoulder. When he got older, he taught me how to reset it so he didn’t have to tell our parents. He was afraid they’d pull him from sports,” I add when he gives me a questioning glance. “I’ve done this so much, I could write a textbook on it.”

“All right,” he says doubtfully.