Page 34 of Play Dirty (Villalargos University #1)

Chapter Twenty - Eight

Nico

I watch the flicker of distrust cross Shiloh’s blue eyes after I tell her about Fernanda.

I wonder what she thinks of me, what crosses through that beautiful mind when she looks at me.

My thumb presses against her bottom lip, the action catching her off guard, causing her parted lips to come together.

The motion has me questioning myself. It’s so easy for me to just touch her.

To want her, to want to trace every part of her until it’s ingrained into my brain.

Does she know she’s the only thing I still want, even when I don’t trust myself to keep her?

I hear Erikson, my little brother, fussing about eating in the kitchen.

“My grandma never met June,” I say, breaking the silence, hating the look on her face when she looks at me.

Like a riddle she’s deciphering. “She didn’t?” She raises a brow, and my thumb tugs down her plump bottom lip, caressing the outline of her jaw.

I shake my head, “I would have introduced them, but the timing just didn’t feel right.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

I shrug, my hand brushes over her cheek, pushing her blonde locks behind her ear. “I don’t know, I just felt the least I could offer you is my truth. I hate that you look at me as someone you can’t decipher.”

She knits her brows together, inching forward. “Do you want me to figure you out?”

“Shiloh , I don’t know what I want besides this.

You.” The sound of pots and dishes clattering in the kitchen pulls my attention behind us, reminding me that we aren’t alone.

But I’ll change that soon. Blondie came out seeking something real.

I guess it’s right that I make this little quest worth her time.

“I promise to tell you more. Let’s get you fed. ”

She shakes her head, scrunching her button nose slightly. “I’m not hungry.”

I roll my eyes playfully, grabbing her hand. “You will be once you smell this.”

It’s white rice and stewed chicken with beans, something so simple and so rich. Not because of the ingredients, but because of who made it, the woman who raised me and my siblings when our parents died. Despite her pain, Abuela did her best to make us happy. This meal reminds me of that.

I wonder if Shiloh will taste it— that love and the loss—in every bite.

Maybe then, she’ll understand why I don’t let people in.

Why is it hard for me to give when all I've experienced is loss? I look up to the large picture of Fernanda, holding her diploma, smiling bright, brown eyes like our mother. Brown chocolate waves falling to her shoulder, so full of life. It’s all become a distant memory now; I barely remember the sound of her voice.

And here I am about to expose more truths to the daughter of the man who has taken so much from me. However, in the same breath, his spawn fills all of the holes inside me by simply existing.

“Is she your girlfriend?” Erikson tries to whisper while looking between Shiloh and I.

“No, she’s not my girlfriend.” Little asshole smiles, turning to Shi, he points at me using his thumb. “He’s a loser, you don’t want that grump.”

She laugh s, loud and delicate all in one. Even a little snort escapes her. “You don’t have to worry, I won’t end up with this grump.”

“Good.” He says before handing me the stack of plates so I can help set the table.

I look at Shiloh, who shifts nervously where she stands.

Her jeans hug each curve of her hips perfectly, her black ribbed shirt tight on her breasts, riding a little high on her stomach, showing her dangling moon belly ring.

Anger resurfaces when I see the purple bruise blooming on her wrist. That dickhead tried to hurt her, and she had to see someone I rarely try to be. Navajas.

The persona I created to survive the hard street life, but that’s behind me. At least I thought so, but somehow my hands always continue to stay fucking dirty. Soft hands move over mine. “Can I help?”

“You want to help?”

“I’m spoiled, not incompetent.”

I chuckle at her sass. “Of course not.”

She narrows her eyes that twinkle with mischief. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, here set the table,” I say, handing her the four plastic plates.

For a moment, we just look at each other.

Then I realize the tables Blondie is used to aren’t simple ones, with just the needed utensils; instead, they are the ones with fancy silverware, china, and porcelain. “That’s all it is. Simple living girl.”

She smiles nervously, her cheeks blossoming red from embarrassment, which she tries to hide, but I think it’s cute.

I walk toward the kitchen, letting her feel helpful.

I wonder if it helps her feel better about herself.

Or did I just make her feel worse? I wish I were better with girls.

Fuck communicating at this point. Even when I was with June, she would practically break things down for me.

I’ m good at sports, but suck in the boyfriend department, or at least that’s what I’ve gathered from my time with June.

“ No es tu novia? She’s not your girlfriend?

” I kiss the top of my grandmother's salt and pepper hair and breathe in the smell of home, wrapping my arms lightly around her neck. “No es mi novia, June murió . No, she’s not my girlfriend, June is dead.” My grandmother stops stirring the beans, placing a hand on her waist, and she turns to me.

She looks puzzled. It’s not like she met June, so it’s not an attachment. It’s another question, the same one that comes up every time I visit home, and the reason I try not to come so frequently. I shake my head, answering her silent question.

“Nada aun . Nothing yet.”

“ Ella es una de las ricas? She’s one of the rich girls?

” She shifts her attention back to the food, “Be careful. Those rich people aren’t your friends.

Y el Zayden? And Zayden?” I grab the container that has the rice and begin to walk back to the small dining room, “He’s good, coming to visit soon. ”

“Good. His dad is cleaning himself up.” She adds.

But we both know it won’t last, and truthfully, it’s too late for them to rekindle their relationship.

That train has long left the station, but I don’t tell her that.

Neither does Z., he just lets her believe it could happen, just like she believes one day I’ll bring justice to Fernanda.

She never believed the cause of death. A car accident from drunk driving, when my sister didn’t drink and hardly ever partied.

Her mistake was meeting that rich asshole, who had her smiling, inviting her to lavish parties. No matter how deep I search in my brain, I cannot remember who he is. Nothing.

After we get done eating, Shiloh continues her intense soccer talk with Erikson.

I’m in awe that she knows so much about the sport.

I didn't think Blondie cared this much. It was always June who dragged her to the games. To my knowledge, Shiloh would just complain— she didn’t want to see a bunch of men running down a field.

Yet here she is talking about it —better gameplay than most.

I let them finish, noticing it’s starting to get late. “Erikson, I think it’s time to say goodbye to Barbie. I gotta bring her back to her castle.”

She slaps my arm playfully, and I pretend she just took a piece of it. “I kid. I kid.”

“Asshole.” She mutters, and my gaze follows my grandmother, who has been awfully quiet, just looking between us two. I’m sure she can see the invisible link that draws us together, just like June saw the day she left my dorm crying.

Not only could I not get hard, but to make matters worse, I called her Shiloh. Closing my eyes, I think of that night, replaying it in my mind like a curse.

“It ’s okay,” she breathes, biting back the tears as she slips into her leggings. I prop my elbows on my legs, watching her as her body shakes from the anger. I called her Shiloh, fucking Blondie’s name. “I’m going home.”

“You don’t have to, I’m sorry.”

She looks over her shoulder, looking at me with pity and sadness rather than resentment. “Seriously, it's okay.”

“It’s not, I just called you by your best friend's name.” I let out opening my arms in the air, she slips on her shirt, untucking her brown waves from beneath the collar. “So, it happens.”

I shake my head. She's doing this again. Being so fucking understanding, and I know it’s fake. A mask to hide how she truly feels. “Fuck, June. It’s not.”

She stomps, “You’re right, it’s not.” She finally breaks, a small laugh escaping her lips. “I thought I could get you to see me, but clearly I’m just standing in the way.”

No.

I wanted to say, but I stayed quiet, and maybe this is where it all went wrong…

I let her leave without stopping her. I tell myself that I did, but the truth is, it felt like a heaviness was lifted from my heart as she stepped out that door.

I just never expected that it would be the last time I saw her.

Snapping out of the memory, I rise to my feet and help clean up the table as Shiloh and Grandma finally break the ice.

Leaning into the doorframe, my heart feels less heavy watching her glow... No mask. No hiding. No pretending. Just existing, and she looks magical. “Hate to break the fun, but we’ve got somewhere to go.”

Shiloh looks over at me, the look in her eyes full of warmth, buzzing with life.

A look I haven’t seen since June’s death.

For a second, I contemplate just staying, but I have other plans that involve my own selfish need to have her to myself, and I do think we need to talk. Not fuck. Not kiss, but talk.

We are du e for that much.