I’m excited just thinking about it.
“And no special friend, love?”
“No, Papá. Not a one.”
“Well, good. I’m glad to hear that. Because if you get another boyfriend like that guy with the ring in his nose and his brow, I’m going to throw up.”
“Papá . . . ,” I say, laughing heartily.
“By the way, Bicharrón told me a few days ago that Fernando will soon be in Jerez. Oh, I think he’s in Madrid today, and he’ll probably try to pay you a visit.”
Here we go with Fernando again! My dad and Bicharrón have spent their entire lives trying to get Fernando and me together. After talking about Fernando for a while, his marvelous job as a cop in Valencia, and what an excellent guy he is, I change the subject again and come back to soccer. My father always gets revved up when we talk about soccer, and I like that.
Five minutes later, I say goodbye and hang up. I look for Curro, who’s lying on the floor, and bring him up to the couch. He’s having a hard time breathing, and that hurts my heart. My cell buzzes. It’s Fernando!
“I’m in Madrid. Shall I come by and we can take in the game together later?”
I respond, “Of course!”
At about two thirty in the afternoon, I heat up a little something. After I eat, I decide to lie on my couch, and I’m in dreamland in minutes. My cell buzzes me awake. It’s my sister.
“Hey, what are you up to, hon?”
“Sleeping, until you woke me.”
“Were you out partying last night?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“With whom?”
“With no one you know.”
“Is it serious?” she asks, curious.
When I hear that, I grin.
“No, it’s nothing important,” I say, shaking my head.
She keeps me on the phone for half an hour. Like always, her conversation focuses on her disastrous marital life. When I finally hang up, I see that Curro is still on the couch. He hasn’t moved. When I come close, he looks up at me. I kiss his head and almost burst into tears. I contain myself, murmur a few sweet nothings, and go get myself a Coke. I need one.
When I come back to the room, I decide to check my email. I notice an address that surprises me. It’s Eric.
From: Eric Zimmerman
Date: July 1, 2012, 4:23 a.m.
To: Judith Flores
Subject: Proposal
Dear Miss Flores:
Please remember I’ll need a response in reference to the offer I made you.
Cordially,
Eric Zimmerman
My mouth agape, I have to read the message again. I can’t believe this guy!
From: Judith Flores
Date: July 1, 2012, 4:30 p.m.
To: Eric Zimmerman
Subject: RE: Proposal
Dear Mr. Zimmerman:
My answer to your proposal is NO.
Sincerely,
Judith Flores
I send the message, and a strange excitement washes over me.
Good for me!
But just a few seconds later, that excitement drains away when I see that he responds immediately.
From: Eric Zimmerman
Date: July 1, 2012, 4:31 p.m.
To: Judith Flores
Subject: Be professional and think about it.
Dear Miss Flores:
Sometimes it’s best not to rush things. Think about it. My offer is good until Tuesday. I hope you enjoy your Sunday and that your team wins the Euro Cup.
Sincerely,
Eric Zimmerman
I just stare at the screen, speechless.
Why can’t he just accept my response?
I’m tempted to write him an email that will make him feel like an idiot, but I won’t. There’s no sense in trying to explain something to someone who thinks of you only in terms of sex.
Pissed, I close the laptop and decide to do my laundry.
When I start sorting the dirty clothes, I run into the underwear Eric ripped off me. I close my eyes and sigh.
I open my eyes, get up, and go to my bedroom. I walk around the bed and open a drawer. There are the gifts he gave me: the vibrators. I look at them a minute, then slam the drawer shut. I return to the laundry.
The washer starts its cycle, and ten minutes later, I’m still looking at it going round and round, just like my head.
“I hate you, Eric Zimmerman!” I cry in frustration.
My feet take charge, and I head for my bedroom once more. I open the drawer again and just stand there, staring at the vibrator with which we had so much fun.
Everything in me wants to play with it.
I won’t!
But unable to get Eric Zimmerman out of my head or out from between my legs, I throw off my pants and panties and sit on the bed, the vibrator in my hands.
I touch the controls, set the power at “one,” and the purring starts.
Then I go to “two,” “three,” “four,” and the max, “five.”
I play with the vibrator in my hands while my sex—especially my clit—screams for it. I lie down on the bed. I turn off the vibrator and run it on my labia, surprised by how wet I am already.
I turn it back on. It starts to hum, and I close my eyes. I up it once and use my fingers to spread myself open and rub it next to my clit. An irresistible heat overtakes me, and I begin to pant. I remove the vibrator and bring my knees together. But I want more.
I open my legs again. I turn up the vibrator once more and place it where my desire grows. I think of Eric. His eyes. His mouth. How he touches me. I get aroused thinking of his face, his gestures. Thinking about yesterday afternoon gets me going. Me, legs akimbo on the bed, while Eric took what he wanted and I lay in complete surrender.
I’m hot. I jack up the vibrator once more. The heat is unbearable. A red-hot desire to come rises inside me. The wave takes over as I imagine all kinds of games with him. Eric!
My climax hits, and I writhe on the bed. I open my eyes while the heat still has me in its grip, and feel how I’m drenching my hand. I close my legs tightly and ride the moment. I feel thousands of new sensations. The only thing missing is . . . Eric.
Five minutes later, after my breathing has returned to normal, I sit up on the bed. I look curiously at the little gadget and smile. Even though I’ll never admit it to him, I did, in fact, think about Eric.
Fernando gets to my place at seven thirty that evening. As usual, he’s smiling and happy. He gives me a peck on the lips. At eight, we arrive at the club where my friends and I have decided to watch the Spain-Italy final. We have to win. The crowd surrounds us as I begin to sing. I’m wearing the flag around my neck, and my face is painted with our national colors, red-yellow-red.
Nacho shows up. He’s a friend, a tattoo artist. We have a very special friendship. We tell each other everything. When he sees Fernando, Nacho just cracks up. He knows what kind of relationship I have with Fernando, and it amuses him. He doesn’t get why Fernando’s still after me despite all the obstacles I put in his way.
The game starts at quarter to nine. We’re all very anxious. C’mon, Spain!
At minute fourteen, David Silva scores a huge goal, which makes us all jump with joy. Fernando hugs me, and I hug him back. Italy toughens up, but at the forty-one-minute mark, Jordi Alba hits another goal, which has us screaming like crazy fools. Fernando kisses me on the neck; feeling good, I let him. By halftime, he’s holding me around the waist.
When the second half starts, things are getting wild, and Fernando takes advantage of the situation by pulling me down on his lap. I let him. I’m ecstatic when, at the eighty-four-minute mark, Fernando Torres—my Torres!—scores the third goal! Hurray!
Seeing me so committed to the cause, Fernando lifts me up in his arms and, overcome, plants a championship kiss on my lips. He lets me go, and then, at the eighty-eighth minute, Juan Mata hits a goal after a pass from my Torres. This time, I’m the one who jumps into Fern
ando’s arms and gives him a kiss infused with pure Spanish fervor.
When the game concludes, my friends and I celebrate big-time. Fernando is right by my side, and at a particularly horny moment, we sneak into the men’s room. For a few minutes, I let him kiss me and touch me. His hands are all over. But oh God! I can’t get my boss out of my mind! Suddenly, Fernando doesn’t exist. Just Eric.
I need him to be possessive and challenging, yet Fernando is everything but that. I finally get him out of the bathroom without his having climaxed. He’s pissed off; but even so, it has zero effect on me. When I refuse to go to his hotel, he leaves, and honestly, I’m more than fine. When I get home around three in the morning, I climb into bed and smile at the thought that we’re Euro Cup champions.
I refuse to think about anything else.
14
I’m up at seven thirty Monday morning. Curro is calm. I give him his breakfast and medication. Then I take a shower. Ten minutes later, I get dressed and put on my makeup.
I get to the office at eight thirty. I run into Miguel in the elevator, and we high-five over the Euro Cup. We go up to the cafeteria and take a seat at our table to have our coffees. Ten minutes later, I drop the madeleine in my hand when I see Eric come in with my supervisor and two others.
He looks impressive in his dark suit and light-colored shirt. I can tell by his dour expression that he’s talking business. When they get to the counter and order their coffees, he sees me. I keep on talking, enjoying my colleague’s company, though I can see in my peripheral vision that they’ve taken a table far from ours. Eric sits in the chair facing me. He looks at me and I look back. Our eyes connect for a fraction of a second; as expected, my body reacts.
“Well, well, the bosses have arrived,” says Miguel. “I heard you got stuck in the elevator the other day, with the new big boss.”
“Yes, with him and a bunch of other people,” I say indifferently. But determined to learn more about Eric, I press Miguel. “Hey, since you were his father’s admin, do you know how he died?”
Miguel glances back at the bosses’ table.
“To be honest, he was a strange man who didn’t talk much. He died of a heart attack.” When he sees my supervisor laughing, he whispers, “But what I see now is that your supervisor likes the new big boss. Just look at how she laughs and touches her hair.”
I can’t help but look back at the table, and again, my eyes meet Eric’s cool and icy stare.
“Did the elder Mr. Zimmerman have any other kids?”
“Yes, but only the Iceman lives.”
“The Iceman?”
Miguel laughs. “Eric Zimmerman. Haven’t you seen that frigid expression of his?”
That makes me laugh.
“From what I hear, he’s a tough nut to crack, much tougher than his father.”
“He’s the only living child?” I ask.
“He had a sister, but she died a few years ago.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, Judith . . . Mr. Zimmerman never talked about it. I only know because one day he told me he had to leave, that he was going to Germany for his daughter’s funeral.”
This makes me feel terrible. Two deaths in such a short time must be very painful.
“Mr. Zimmerman was separated from his wife,” Miguel continues. “He and the Iceman didn’t have a good relationship. That’s why Eric never used to come to Spain.”
These details disturb me.
“Why didn’t they have a good relationship?”
“I don’t know, gorgeous,” Miguel responds as he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Mr. Zimmerman was pretty private when it came to his personal life. By the way, when are you going to go out for drinks with me?”
I put my elbows on the table and let my chin fall in my hands. I gaze up at him adoringly.
“I think never,” I say, “because I don’t like to mix business with pleasure.” I’m being ironic, but Miguel doesn’t really get it, and that charms me too.
He comes a little closer. “When you say ‘pleasure,’ what kind of pleasure do you mean?” he whispers.
I don’t move a muscle. “Let’s see, handsome. You’re the piece of candy everyone in the office wants, and I’m a very jealous woman who doesn’t like to share. So . . . you’d better find someone else, because you’re getting nowhere with me.”
“Oh, I like a challenge!”
This makes me laugh again, and Miguel too. Suddenly, I see Eric get up and leave the cafeteria, and I can breathe once more. It’s a relief to not have him so close. Ten minutes later, Miguel and I return to our posts.
Back at my desk, I see the big boss’s door is wide open. When I sit down, my cell buzzes.
“Flirting during office hours?”
That bugs me at first, but I end up smiling.
Deep down, Eric’s sense of humor appeals to me. I look toward his office and see him sitting in what was once his father’s chair. He’s trying to provoke me, but I don’t plan on playing his games.
Suddenly, my supervisor’s at my desk, blocking our line of vision. “Judith, if someone calls, connect the call to Mr. Zimmerman’s office.”
I don’t open my mouth, just nod. Swinging her hips, my supervisor disappears into Eric’s office and closes the door. I get back to work, and then, midmorning, the door opens again. She emerges with a folder in her hands.
“Judith,” she says, “I’ll be out of the office for one hour. If Mr. Zimmerman needs anything, please take care of it.” Then she turns to Miguel. “Come with me.” Those two!
As soon as they leave, my phone rings. I just know it’s him. I pick up.
“Miss Flores, may I see you in my office, please?”
“Right away, Mr. Zimmerman.”
I get up, go straight to his office, and ask, “How may I help you, Mr. Zimmerman?”
He’s leaning his head back on the black leather headrest.
“Close the door, please,” he says, looking right at me.
I sigh, then feel my skin start to burn. My damned neck is going to give me away, and that irritates me more. But I’m going to ignore it. I close the door.
“Congrats on your Euro Cup win.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Then a thick silence grows between us.
“Did you have a good time last night?” he finally asks.
I don’t respond.
“Who is that guy you kissed and with whom you spent seventeen minutes in the men’s room?” he asks.
Stunned, I stare at him.
“I just asked you a question,” he insists. “Who is it?”
Incensed at what I’m hearing, I try to contain my murderous impulses.
“That is none of your business, Mr. Zimmerman.”
Has he been spying on me?
“And what’s going on between you and my admin?”
He’s gone too far!
I blink a few times. “Look, Mr. Zimmerman, I don’t want to be disagreeable, but everything you’re asking is out of bounds. So if you don’t need anything else from me, I’m going to return to my desk.”
Fuming, and not giving him a chance to respond, I leave his office and shut the door with purpose. Who does he think he is? No sooner do I sit down at my desk than the phone rings again. I curse but still pick up.
“Miss Flores, in my office, now!”
His voice is angry, but so am I. I hang up and head back to his office, exasperated.
He comes around from behind his desk. He sits on it with his arms crossed and his legs apart. He’s trying to intimidate me. The distance between us is diminished. This makes me nervous.
“Jude . . .”
“Miss Flores to you, if you don’t mind.”
He gives me his usual caustic expression; the tension is once more thick enough to cut.
“Come here, Miss Flores.”
“No.”
“Come here.”
“What do you want?” I demand.
“C
ome here, please,” he mutters between clenched teeth. His sourness remains unchanged.
I sigh and take a step forward. His demeanor demands I step closer, but I refuse to be intimidated.
“Mr. Zimmerman, I’m not coming any closer. Fire me if that’s what you need to do to continue feeling like the King of the Universe.”
He stands up from the desk. He takes two steps toward me, and I take one back. He snorts and grabs my arm, pulling me toward the archive room. He jerks me inside, and once in the intimacy of that room, he takes my head in his hands, brings me to him, and kisses me with gusto.
He pushes me against the file cabinets, and when he feels that my body can’t back up any more, he pulls away.
“I could barely sleep thinking about you and what you might have done with that guy last night,” he confesses.
I’m flabbergasted. “But I didn’t do anything,” I say in a thin voice.
Eric presses his hips to me, and I feel his erection.
“He grabbed you by the waist. You let him kiss you, and you went into the men’s room with him. How can you say you didn’t do anything?” he says, looking desperate. “I was just outside. I saw the whole thing through the window.”
Crazy because of what he’s making me feel with his proximity and by what he’s saying, I respond, “I do with my body and my life whatever I please, Mr. Zimmerman.”
I shove him off and pull away.
“I’m not one of those little dolls I suppose you’re used to ordering about. Don’t touch me again or . . .”
“Or?” he asks hoarsely.
“Or I might be capable of anything,” I respond.
His jaw tenses. Then he steps up close to me again. “Jude, you want me as much as I want you. Don’t deny it.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. His immediacy provokes all kinds of sensations in me.
“Are you getting nervous?”
I touch my neck. I’m about to let him have it, when he makes a face at me.
“Don’t scratch, Jude.”
Before I have a chance to move, he leans down and blows on my neck. I close my eyes. My indignation decreases considerably. This was his goal, and he’s scored.
“I’m sorry I made you nervous,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m sorry, sweetness.”
His power is overwhelming. Now he has me where he wants me. I’m such a weakling!