Snow

17 | my mamá is getting married

❝you said that i should quit what i fear,
and i know, i just wanted it to be my idea.❞

❘❘

BENEATH MY FINGERTIPS, his chest rises and falls in time with a heartbeat. A tempo taken from the torrents of rain that fall beyond his window, every soft exhale lulls the storm into background silence—leaving sólo él y yo.

As Julian sleeps, I sit awake, alert, anxious, wading through the summer heat, swimming through the silvery smoke, sinking through the cracks of a fading high. I can't close my eyes, and I can't find anything beyond the simple motions that drive my heart into synchronized sighs. I've surrendered to staying still, only tracing the inked cross on his chest. Tattooed onto tan skin, the lines separate the surreal sense of sin and divinity that Julian brings.

Divinity feels empty; absoluteness is an abstract, intangible thing I didn't think I'd ever find. But with Julian, sin feels like virtue—a holy hell I can bask in without shame.

I've never been captivated by religion before, but I want to blame some higher power for the hold on me. I want to blame anyone but myself for tugging his shirt on and slipping from the bed soundlessly with a destination branded into my brain.

Because as I move sluggishly to the closet, clutching my purse in shaking hands, I can't fucking stop myself.

Anxiety keeps rolling over, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. My knees buckle, and when they meet the wooden floor inside his closet, I take a long, long, long breath. I blink as my fingers find the zipper of his duffel bag, another uneasy jitter capturing each joint that grazes the rough fabric.

I glance over my shoulder at him, and something about the watery vision slows my heart, or my head, or the high.

It's inversion of everything I've always known. A quiet air hangs in the last fleeting moments of freedom; darkness spills in through the windows, stealing fringes of the light that casts a faint glow over every speck of ink and tan skin that reels me in. There's something that makes him look ethereal, or daunting, a ghost of leftover light and slow-burning shadows, sinking into the sheets with the promise of a new morning.

As I close my eyes, I sway; mi cabeza se siente pesada, demasiado pesada to comprehend whatever fucking romanticized bullshit Julian somehow provokes in me. It's almost violento, a trace of aggravation and self-loathing that grinds my teeth together, locks my jaw, trenches my heart into oblivion. There are stinging strands of patience that keep snapping with every... single... second...that...

Rápidamente.

My fingers work quickly, tearing open the bag that used to hold four kilos of pure snow. Three remain, still wrapped tightly, tucking the neat stacks of cash into the absolute back of the bag, and the last half of the fourth kilo is contained in a giant freezer Ziploc bag. My throat tightens as I stare at the bags of cut cocaine beside it, twisted and tied atop a stack of even smaller bags. 8 balls. Grams.

His stash is silent, and yet, it's fucking screaming.

Just a few grams. That's all I need.

Because fuck, the tiny bags fit between my fingers perfectly. They feel right in my palm, and they slide into my purse effortlessly. Some exhilaration steals my breath, and I reach for the 8 ball to feel the weight—the fucking perfection of having it at my fingertips.

"Neva?"

I spin so quickly that my head rings. Dizzy, I blink at the man in the bed, but it's the sleepy rasp in his voice that reminds me of the gravel in his veins and the smoke in his eyes. Julian. "Oh, Jules," I breathe, dropping the 8 ball discreetly. "Hey."