It hurt, hurt so bad.
* * *
Chapter Nineteen
Three hours later, she answered the door, joy surging through her—he'd come back—only to see Antonio and his new boyfriend, Steve. They carried large coffees and a bag of donuts. As she tried to disguise the letdown, the two men gathered plates, then set everything up outside on her tiny balcony in the morning sun. Antonio made her put her foot up on the extra chair.
She pushed down a few bites. Hopefully the guys would think that the pain in her ankle had caused her lack of appetite and reddened eyes.
Their company was a nice diversion. Of course it was. She wouldn't waste any more tears on Cullen. The culero, the desgraciado, the hijo de puta. He didn't deserve her.
He didn't.
Steve studied her. “Are you hurting, sweetie?”
Andrea winced. Don't use mi Señor's word. She managed a smile. “No. I'm fine.” She picked up her coffee and took a sip.
More muscular than Antonio, Steve wore a T-shirt and jeans, and was definitely the dominant one in the relationship. She'd wanted Antonio to find someone nice, but today…today it hurt to watch.
Antonio set his coffee down and cleared his throat. “I swung by Rosa's last week and got an earful about your wonderful new boyfriend. Gorgeous and such a stud and really hot, according to Jasmine.”
His recitation cut through her hard-won equanimity like a knife. Her breath caught for a second, and then she forced a matter-of-fact tone. “He came to Abuelita's birthday party. But he's not a boyfriend. We're n-not”—her voice cracked—“not seeing each other anymore.”
Antonio scowled. “But you got back together after he straightened out the other sub, right?”
“How do you know anything about that?”
“Who do you think told him where Aunt Rosa lives?”
Her mouth dropped open. “I-I figured it was some police thing.”
Antonio snorted. “Hardly. He was so pissed off when we talked that I thought he'd get out the thumbscrews. And now you look like hell, and it isn't because of your ankle. What happened?”
“He wanted…” Her eyes burned, and she turned her face away, blinking hard. Wussie, crying over a bastardo. “He didn't like me to be so independent. He said if I didn't look to him for help, then he didn't want to be with me.”
Antonio set the fork down gently. “Hell.”
“Yeah, well, me importa un carajo.”
“Bullshit. You do give a damn.”
“No, I don't. I stand on my own two feet. Where does he get off wanting to make me dependent on him?” She tried to bolster up the sense of righteousness and found only aching misery.
“Listen. It's not like that. You can be independent and still…”
Steve looked at her over the top of his coffee and set it down without drinking. “Did you know your uncaring boyfriend phoned Antonio this morning? Before the sun was even up?”
“What?”
“Yeah. All worried about you. He wanted to make sure Antonio kept an eye on you.”
Señor had called Antonio after he left? Warmth ran through her, then receded, leaving her colder than before. “Well.”
“That's not the point I'm making, though.” Steve's brows drew together, and he squeezed Antonio's shoulder. “Your boyfriend said you'd been injured badly enough to go to the emergency room. And that you hadn't called anyone. Do you know how upset Antonio was?”
The verbal blow was totally unexpected, shocking as a slap across the face. Her coffee thumped on the table, sloshing brown liquid over her fingers. She stared at Antonio and saw the truth in his eyes. She'd hurt him. “But—”
“I know why you didn't, chica, but… How would you feel if I landed in the hospital and didn't call you?”
Hurt. Angry. Really hurt. She shoved her chair back, limped over to the railing, and gripped the wood. Her vision blurry with tears, she watched as two young men jogged down the sidewalk, veering around an old lady walking her Yorkie. A car door slammed, and a woman hurried into the building across the street, carrying a bag of groceries.
Normal sights and sounds of living. Only silence came from behind her. Silence from her Antonio because she'd wounded him. Just like she'd wounded Cullen because she hadn't called him. Because she'd wanted to do it all herself.
Her lip quivered, and she bit it, using the sharper pain to hold back her tears.
After a minute, she forced her fingers open, released the railing, and returned to the table. Steve had his hand on Antonio's shoulder, holding him in the chair.
She smiled, just a touch of amusement trickling through her at the fury on Antonio's face at being kept from her.
“Thank you,” she said to Steve. “I needed a moment.”
He nodded and dropped his hand. “I figured.”
She bent to give her best friend a hard hug. “I'm sorry. I wouldn't hurt you for anything.” But she had.
Because of Papa. She'd let her father mess her up more than she'd realized, let him shape her view of the world. She sat back down, saw Antonio's reddened eyes, and her heart squeezed. Dios, I've screwed everything up. How could she fix it?
“I'll try, Antonio.” But she'd promised her Señor the same thing, and she hadn't tried at all. No wonder he'd washed his hands of her. “I really will.”
He nodded. Then he scowled at Steve. “You and I are going to have a talk later, amigo.”
“Bring it on.”
Andrea thought for a second she'd caused a fight, but then Steve's hand slipped under the table, and Antonio flushed a dark red. No, they probably wouldn't fight later.
When Steve sat back and picked up his coffee, Antonio grinned at him before looking at her. “So what are you going to do about Cullen? You still want him?”
More than she could possibly say. “Yes.”
Steve asked, “Maybe if you tell him you're sorry and—”
“He said, 'Don't call.'” Just the memory of that made her want to cry.
Antonio winced. “Pretty harsh, chica, but I've never known you to give up without a fight.”
“No.” She stared at the table. But I don't know if I can be what he wants; I don't know if I want to.
* * *
The week limped on, much as her gait. But although her ankle improved, the pain of Master Cullen's rejection never eased, throbbing inside her like a deep gouge in her heart.
With her laid up, her employees took over her jobs, leaving her with too much time to think. Or maybe just enough time. By Friday afternoon, her anger had faded. Cullen and Antonio had a point. Her need to show her independence bordered on crazy.
Although Mama had liked people, Papa had been a loner, always preferring to do things himself. And after his discharge from the military, he'd grown even more reclusive. He'd despised having to ask for help, and she'd absorbed those feelings and made them her own.
Why hadn't she seen that before?
She snorted. Because no one had ever cut me open inside and left me bleeding before.
But people needed help now and then, and it didn't make them helpless or worthless.
And there was even more to it. When Papa asked for something, and she could fulfill that need, she'd felt good—responsible and caring. In a relationship, both people should feel responsible and caring, and she'd denied Cullen that satisfaction.
Now she knew what she'd done wrong, she'd fix it.
If he let her. “Don't call,” he'd said. Fine. I won't call him.
She punched buttons on her phone and waited, her lip between her teeth. Would a secretary answer? Could she tell a stranger what—
“Shadowlands.” Master Z's voice. Oh, Madre de Dios, she'd far rather have spoken to a secretary.
“Hello. Um, I'd—” Would he remember her? Or maybe they'd already found a new trainee to take her place? If so, the guard wouldn't let her in, not even to see Cullen.
I want to come back. Nothing came out of her mouth even as she called herself names for the silence.
“Is this Andrea?”
“Yes.”
“Are you returning to us, little one?”
Oh, he made it so easy, and his voice was so gentle. “I'd like to return.”
“Of course. Tonight?”
The rush of anticipation at seeing her Señor made her hand shake. “Oh, yes.”
“Excellent. We're having an auction, and the trainees will be needed to inspire the rest. Wear only fishnet stockings, a garter belt, and sexy shoes. I have extra clothing upstairs if you need it.”
Auction? What kind of auction? And yet she knew exactly what kind. A thrill of excitement ran through her. Might Master Cullen bid for her? What if he didn't? “Ah…um. Okay. Yes, Sir.”
She heard the amusement in his voice as he said, “I look forward to seeing you, little one.”
* * *
That night, Andrea hung her long knit dress in her locker at the Shadowlands. After squeals of joy from Heather and Sally and a slap on the back from Dara, and babbling about what happened to Vanessa, the talk turned to the auction.
“We haven't had one for almost a year.” Standing in front of the mirrors, Sally put her hands on her hips and shimmied. “Do you suppose I can get Master Marcus to bid on me?”
“What are you offering?” Dara asked.
“I'm still trying to make up my mind.”
“What does that mean?” Andrea finger-combed her hair and checked her makeup. She'd worn more tonight than normal…just because. Liar—just because she'd see Master Cullen. “What offering?”