Playboy Pablo

Chapter 2

“What you’ve been wishing on me all these years,” I whisper. “I fell in love.”

I look up to see the smile form. It’s what she’s always wanted for me. She’s been married to Han forever, has been in love with him for even longer. So she’s never agreed with the way I live my life and can’t wait for me to settle down. To find someone to take care of me, the way she takes care of Han. The way our mother still takes care of our dad.

But I told her it would never happen—it wasn’t what I wanted. Why bring a book to the library? Why bring sand to the beach? Why buy the cow when you get the milk for free?

Are you starting to see the picture here?

So, I see her beginning to smile when, in a small voice that I don’t even recognize, I say, “She’s marrying someone else. She didn’t…she didn’t want me, Maria.”

Sympathy spreads across my sister’s face, like jam on bread. And then determination. Because Maria is a fixer. She can unclog drains, patch dented walls, and remove stains from any rug. I already know what’s going through her head at this moment: if her baby brother is busted, she’ll just put him right back together again.

I wish it were that easy. But I don’t think all the Krazy Glue in the world is going to piece my heart back together again.

Did I mention I’m a bit of a poet too?

“Okay. We can fix this, Diego.”

Do I know my sister or what?

“You go take a long, hot shower. I’ll clean up this disaster. Then, we’re going out. The three of us.”

“I can’t go out.” Hasn’t she been listening? “I have the "fever".”

She smiles compassionately. “You need a good, hot meal. You need a shower. You’ll feel better then.”

Maybe she’s right. God knows what I’ve been doing for the last seven days hasn’t made me feel any better. I shrug and get up to do as she says. Like a four-year-old with his wooby, I bring my prized pillow with me.

On my way to the bathroom, I can’t help but think of how it all happened. I had a good life once. A perfect life. And then it all got shot to s**t.

Oh—you want to know how? You want to hear my sob story? Okay, then. It all started a few months ago, on a normal Saturday night.

Well, normal for me anyway.

Four months earlier

“f**k, yeah. That’s good. Yeah, like that.”

See that guy—black suit, devilishly handsome? Yeah, the guy getting the bl*w j*b from the luscious redhead in the bathroom stall? That’s me. The real me.

“Jesus, baby, I’m gonna come.”

Let’s freeze-frame here for a second.

For those ladies out there who are listening, let me give you some free advice: If a guy who you just met at a club calls you baby, sweetheart, angel, or any other generic endearment? Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s so into you, he’s already thinking up pet names.

It’s because he can’t or doesn’t care to remember your actual name.

And no girl wants to be called by the wrong name when she’s on her knees giving you head in the men’s room. So, just to be safe, I went with baby.

Her real name? Does it matter?

“f**k, baby, I’m coming.”

She removes her mouth with a pop and catches like a major leaguer as I jizz in her hand. Afterward, I move to the sink to clean up and zip up. Redhead looks at me with a smile as she rinses with a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash from her bag.

Charming.

“How about a drink?” she asks, in what I’m sure she thinks is a sultry voice.

But here’s a fact for you—once I’m done, I’m done. I’m not the kind of guy who rides the same rollercoaster twice. Once is enough, and then the thrill is gone and so is the interest.

But, my mother did raise me to be a gentleman. “Sure, sweetheart. You go find a table, I’ll get us something from the bar.” Redhead put in quite an effort sucking me off, after all. She’s earned herself a drink.

After leaving the bathroom, she heads for a table, and I go toward the oh-so-crowded bar. I did mention it was Saturday night, right? And this is REM. No, not R.E.M.—rem, like REM sleep, as in when you dream. Get it?

It’s the hottest club in Mexico city City. Well, at least tonight it is. By next week it will be some other club. But the location doesn’t matter. The script is always the same. Every weekend my friends and I come here together but leave separately—and never alone.

Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a bad guy. I don’t lie; I don’t sandbag women with flowery words about a future together and love at first sight. I’m a straight shooter. I’m looking for a good time—for one night—and I tell them so. That’s better than ninety percent of the other guys in here, believe me. And most of the girls in here are looking for the same thing I am.

Okay, maybe that’s not exactly true. But I can’t help it if they see me, f**k me, and suddenly want to bear my children. That’s not my problem. Like I said, I tell them how it is, give them a good time and then the cab fare home. Thank you, good night. Don’t call me, ’cause I sure as s**t won’t be calling you.

Finally getting through the crowd to the bar, I order two drinks. I take a moment to watch the writhing, twisting bodies melt into each other on the dance floor as the music vibrates all around.

And then I see her, fifteen feet from where I’m standing, waiting patiently but looking a bit uneasy amongst the arm-raising, money-waving, alcohol-craving herd trying to get the bartender’s attention.

I told you I’m poetic, right? The truth is, I wasn’t always. Not until this moment. She’s magnificent—angelic—gorgeous. Pick a word, any f**king word. The bottom line is, for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Her hair is long and dark and shines even in the dim light of the club. She’s wearing a red backless dress—sexy but classy—that accentuates every perfectly toned curve. Her mouth is full and lush, with lips begging to be ravished.

And her eyes. Sweet f**king Christ. Her eyes are large and round and endlessly dark. I imagine those eyes looking up at me as she takes my c*ck into her hot little mouth. The appendage in question immediately stirs to life at the thought. I have to have her.

I quickly make my way over, deciding then and there that she is the lucky woman who’ll have the pleasure of my company for the remainder of the night. And what a pleasure I intend to make it.

Arriving just as she’s opening her mouth to order a drink, I intervene with, “The lady will have…” I look her over to surmise what she would be drinking. This is a talent of mine. Some people are beer drinkers, some scotch and soda, some an aged wine, others are brandy or sweet champagne. And I can always tell who’s what—always. “…a Veramonte Merlot, 2003.”

She turns to me with a raised brow, and her eyes appraise me from head to toe. Deciding I’m not a loser, she says, “You’re good.”

I smile. “I see my reputation precedes me. Yes, I am. And you’re beautiful.”