UNMASKED: Volume 2, Page 2

  He continues to kiss me, tenderly, as his hips move oh-so-slowly back and forth. Until his throbbing cock finally softens inside me and I let out a deep sigh.

  “I love you, Alex.”

  The words take me by surprise, so much so that I open my eyes and my stomach clenches at the sight before me. I’m in the tiny bedroom of my rental cottage in La Palma. The morning sunlight is streaming through the sheer curtains. The blankets and sheets are pushed off the bed and into a pile on the wooden floor. My nightgown is pulled up to my neck and the black panties I wore to sleep are missing.

  Instinctively, I reach down to cover myself up and find my pussy is soaking wet and my clit is sensitive, as if it’s been overstimulated. Was I touching myself in my sleep? I’ve never done that before.

  Something smells … different in here. The hairs on my arms stand on end as I inhale the scent of something briny. Images of my dream flash in my mind and I quickly yank down my nightgown to cover myself up. A wave of shame rolls through me as I slide off the bed to retrieve the covers. I toss them haphazardly onto the mattress and head straight for the shower to wash away my embarrassment.

  How can I have such poisonous dreams of Daimon after what he did to me?

  The body knows only what the body wants. It doesn’t care about the consequences to the mind or the heart.

  I push back the pink shower curtain and reach my hand in to turn the water on. Peeling off my nightgown, I toss it into the pedestal sink basin and look at myself in the mirror. I force myself to stare directly at the white streak of hair on the left side of my head and the white blotches of skin on the same side of my face. I used to avoid mirrors at all costs, but everything changed the night I met Detective Daimon Rousseau.

  He didn’t just change me into a woman. He changed me into a woman with a purpose. And my purpose was to make him pay for what he did to my father.

  Out of the darkness and into the light, a new Alex was reborn as Alyssa.

  I trace my fingertips down my left cheek, over my neck and down to my breast. My nipples are a bit darker. Maybe I was rubbing or pinching them in my sleep. That was quite a dream I had of Daimon.

  I resist the urge to move my hand further down and touch myself to the memory of my dream. Instead, I step inside the shower and force myself to sing, loudly, so I don’t have to think of Daimon and his beautiful cock.

  Oh, get a hold of yourself, Alex, I reprimand myself silently.

  I take a quick shower, running the water a bit colder than normal to cool my hot, aching skin. Then I hurry into a pair of jeans, white tank top, and sandals. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize the jeans look far too much like the old Alex. I change into a soft turquoise jersey skirt and sigh with a bit of relief. My legs are so white from not wearing anything but jeans for the past nine months. You can hardly see the white patches of skin on my left leg.

  I grab a canvas grocery bag from the hook inside the tiny walk-in pantry. Then I hang my camera around my neck and make my way outside. Closing the front door behind me, I turn around to face the Atlantic Ocean. It looks just like a “wish you were here” greeting card. Picture perfect.

  And the smells…. The whole island smells briny and sun-baked. Mix in some of the local aromas of tropical flowers, the savory smells from people cooking in their homes, and the sweet, earthy smell of grapevines. I could get used to this kind of life.

  But I mustn’t get too comfortable. I have to appear comfortable on the outside. Inside, I have to remain self-conscious and vigilant.

  I set off down the lane toward the open-air market with one thought in mind: Out of the darkness and into the light. I have to blend in with everyone else here, and they’re all so damn happy.

  A squat woman with brown wrinkled skin, wearing a flowery apron over her gauzy dress, smiles at me from where she’s sweeping her front stoop. Her husband sits in a chair at the far end of their porch, his bottom lip jutting out farther as if he’s lost his top teeth. He waves at me then flashes me a partially-toothless grin.

  I smile and wave at both of them. “Hola!”

  They must be silently wondering who this strange looking girl is who just moved in next door. I’ll introduce myself to them soon, when I have a bit more time. Today, I have to get to the market before all the ensaimadas are gone. Ensaimadas are decadently soft bread rolls filled with sweet pastry cream and dusted with powdered sugar. I’ve only had one since arriving in La Palma, but I’ve already deciphered that they are quite popular here as a breakfast item. If I don’t get to the market soon, they’ll run out.

  At the crossing, I turn the corner and I can smell the market from a block away. It always smells like a combination of fresh fish, fruit, and baked goods. A young kid, maybe mid- to late-teens is standing next to a bicycle outside a convenience store. He stares at my white hair so unabashedly, I’m afraid he’s going to drop the bike at any moment. I force a smile and he flashes me a weak smile in return.

  I really should be used to this by now. This is what I’ve been dealing with since the moment I left my apartment four days ago. From the moment I stepped into the taxi that drove me to the airport and the cab driver did a double-take when he saw two different colored eyes, my stomach has been clenched tight as a fist.

  I’m trying really hard not to get angry with people for expressing their natural shock and curiosity. After all, millions of years of evolution has taught us to shun undesirable mutations. There’s no use in arguing with a person’s natural instincts. But it still hurts.

  I arrive at the bakery stand where a long folding table is covered in an orange and blue striped tablecloth. Half the pastries are already gone, gobbled up by the early risers, but there are still three ensaimadas left. I point at them then hold up two fingers.

  “Uno cincuenta,” the merchant woman says as she begins to put them in a white paper bag.

  I don’t know what this means, but I know uno means one, so I give her two euros. She hands me back fifty cents. So cincuenta must mean fifty. I’ll have to remember that.

  I smile and say thank you in Spanish, then I use hand motions to ask if I can take her picture. She smiles for the camera and I say gracias a few times before I head back toward Dolores Street, the narrow lane I live on. Also the narrow lane that my new friend Nick lives on, which is where I’m headed. A dark flitter of movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as I pass the convenience store, but when I turn toward it there’s nothing there. My eyes flit back and forth at both sides of the street, glancing over both shoulders then forward again. Nothing and no one but locals here.

  It’s hard to let go of that paranoid sense of being watched. My father had been watching me every night for eight months. I’d grown so accustomed to that feeling. It made me both uneasy and comfortable at once knowing he was keeping an eye on me. I didn’t know I was also being watched for months by Daimon. It’s only natural I’m still on edge.

  I turn left onto Dolores and the gravity of the downhill slope is urging me toward the tiny gray stucco cottage on the right side of the lane. The house is set back from the iron gate surrounding the property and the grass is a bit overgrown, but he did mention that he’s only been here a day or so. I’m sure he’ll be outside pushing a lawnmower with no shirt on very soon.

  I lift the latch on the waist-high gate and slide it aside. Pushing it open, I step onto the cracked concrete pathway leading toward the small cottage. I close the gate softly behind me and make my way toward the front door.

  Something about the fact that he’s not up at nine o’clock in the morning, already working on taming this unruly garden, disconcerts me. I can’t help but think of Daimon. By nine o’clock, Daimon would have this garden tamed with at least three adversaries buried beneath the soil.

  I knock on the dark wood door with the intricate carvings and wait. My heart pounds as I realize I didn’t prepare a greeting in my head. What am I going to say? Hi, I brought you some bread! Not very clever or sexy, but—

&
nbsp; The door opens, interrupting my thoughts as I’m rendered speechless. Nick is standing before me in nothing but black boxer briefs. His hand is rubbing his face, attempting to wipe away the cobwebs of sleep clinging to his drowsy expression. His bare chest is smooth and golden with a light patch of hair trailing from his navel and downward, disappearing underneath the waistband of his boxers. Right above that bulge. I have a strong urge to photograph him right now.

  “Alyssa?”

  I snap my eyes upward and he looks stupefied by my presence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… I brought you something… to thank you for the bottle of wine.”

  Don’t look at the bulge. Don’t look at the bulge.

  He glances at the white paper bag in my hand and smiles. “You didn’t have to do that. What is it?”

  “Um …” I look down at the bag and catch another glimpse of his boxers, then quickly look up. “Bread?”

  “Bread?” I nod and he chuckles as he opens the door wider. “Come inside and we can share this bread.”

  I step over the threshold and into his living room. It’s small but more modern than I would have expected considering he’s only been here for a couple of days and it used to belong to his great-aunt. The white sofa and heavy wood coffee table are anchored by a soft gray area rug. Beneath the rug are light beechwood floors that extend into an open dining area and kitchen.

  “Have a seat at the table. I’m going to put on some clothes.”

  I smile as he heads toward the hallway on the left and I head for the dining table. Passing a small black desk set against the wall, I can’t help but notice a passport and two photo identification cards lying on the surface. I pause, tempted to pick them up to see what kind of IDs they are, but the sound of footsteps stops me.

  I turn around and his eyebrow is cocked as he approaches. He brushes past me and opens the top drawer of the desk. Then he sweeps all the IDs into the drawer and quickly slides it closed.

  He smiles as he gently places his hand on the small of my back. “Come. Sit. I’ll make some coffee.”

  I take a seat at a dark wood dining table in the kitchen, but I don’t bother telling him that I don’t drink the stuff. I might as well give it a try. I tried the wine last night and it wasn’t so bad. But I’ll have to watch him carefully while he prepares it.

  He’s wearing a blue T-shirt that clings a little to his chest and shoulder muscles. The jeans he wears look perfectly distressed, just like his dark hair. From a shelf above the steel kitchen counter, he grabs a glass French press coffee maker and he begins spooning some coffee into it from a jar. He seems very at ease and this house feels very lived in. It doesn’t seem like it was empty for years.

  He carries the French press and two mugs to the table and sets them down in front of me. “Do you take your coffee with milk and sugar?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I keep my eye on him as he retrieves a small carton of milk from the stainless steel refrigerator and a small jar from the counter. Grabbing a couple of spoons from a drawer, he sits across from me at the table and pours me a cup. I don’t know the first thing about how much milk and sugar goes into a cup of coffee, so I take a guess and put a splash of milk and three spoons of sugar. When I taste it, it’s very sweet, but I don’t say this.

  “Very good.”

  He pours himself a cup, but he doesn’t add any milk or sugar. He quietly sips from his mug for a minute or two while watching me. Then his face gets very serious.

  “Forgive me, but I have to ask about this.”

  He reaches forward and I flinch a little when he gently grabs a piece of my white streak of hair. I push his hand away and take a deep breath as I remind myself not to retreat inward. It’s a simple question.

  “I’m a chimera. I have two sets of DNA.” He scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion and I sigh. “This is why I’m here. I’ve been hiding all of my life. I just wanted to go somewhere I could be myself.”

  My stomach hurts at the painful truth buried in this lie.

  He smiles and tilts his head. “It’s quite beautiful. You look like a superhero.” I laugh and he smiles even wider as he leans forward. “You also have a beautiful laugh.”

  Flattery. He wants something.

  I reach for the white bag and push it across the table so it’s between us. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  He reaches into the bag and pulls out an ensaimada. Then he takes a huge bite, getting powdered sugar all over his lips and a bit on the tip of his nose.

  “These are my favorite,” he says through a mouthful of bread. “How did you know?”

  I smile at his goofiness as a strange warmth grows inside my belly. But I can’t help but feel as if something is off. I don’t know how to talk to him. He’s not like Daimon. He’s not like me. He’s normal.

  “I should get going.”

  I rise from the table and he tosses his bread back into the bag. “I’ll walk you home.”

  I chuckle and immediately wonder if I’m doing it just because he complimented my laugh. “That’s not necessary,” I say when I reach the front door. “I’m just two houses down on the other side of the street.”

  “I know. You’re closer to the ocean than I am. I’m jealous.” He stands with his hand on the door handle, making no attempt to open the door so I can leave. “Would you like to come with me to a dinner party tomorrow night? A friend of the family would like to welcome me to the island. Any excuse to get drunk.”

  “Yes,” I reply before I can overthink my way out of it.

  “Beautiful!”

  I’m tempted to reach up and wipe away the powdered sugar on his nose. Instead, I tap the tip of my nose and smile. “You have some sugar on your nose. And a little right there on your lip, too.”

  He squints at me. “I put it there for you.”

  “What?”

  Without warning, he leans forward and plants a soft kiss on my lips. I can smell the coffee and sugar on his breath as his mouth hovers over mine, waiting for me to respond. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. Daimon’s voice sounds in my mind: When you scream, you scream my name. When you come, you come for me. When you dream, you dream of me.

  I reach up and clasp my hand around the back of Nick’s solid neck to pull his lips hard against mine. I need to exorcise Daimon and his haunting voice from my mind.

  His lips taste sugary and his tongue is a bit bitter from the coffee. I can only compare him to Daimon, so I must admit to myself that he doesn’t kiss better than Daimon did. But that’s probably because he is the one who taught me how to kiss, so naturally I’m going to believe his way is the right way. Didn’t Daimon also teach me that different is good? Nick doesn’t kiss bad. Just different.

  A loud bang startles us both and we quickly turn toward the sound. The outside of the window overlooking the front garden is streaked with something dark.

  “What was that?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  He opens the door and I follow him outside to the front yard. We step off the concrete path into the overgrown grass. He squats down in front of the window and sweeps aside a tangle of weeds to expose a dead crow lying on the dry earth.

  “It must have flown into the window,” he says, standing up. “Maybe I shouldn’t keep the windows so clean.”

  “Or maybe he saw us kissing and he got jealous.”

  He laughs but, as soon as I speak these words aloud, I realize this may not be too far from the truth.

  Chapter Three

  Nick arrives at my cottage to take me to the dinner party just after eight in the evening. One thing I really like about this island is that everyone eats dinner late at night. It’s not uncommon to see the lights on and a family sitting at the table for dinner at ten or eleven p.m. Sometimes later. Though I’m trying to break my habit of existing only in the darkness, I can’t deny the comfort it brings me. The darkness is like my security blanket and, after nineteen years of clinging to
it, it’s very difficult to let it go.

  I step outside, not bothering to lock the door. This is not Los Angles. No one here locks their front door.

  Turning around to face Nick, I’m not surprised to see him eyeballing my dress. I got the dress last night at a tiny boutique near the housewares store. It’s not a high-end boutique. The dresses were displayed just a few feet away from a rack of football (soccer) jerseys. But it’s white and gauzy with skinny spaghetti straps, which will allow me to tan.

  A tan will make my white skin discolorations more pronounced, but that’s okay. I’m not just going to accept my condition. I’m going to flaunt it.

  Fake it till you make it, right?

  “You look like a Greek goddess,” Nick remarks, extending his arm for me to latch on.

  I smile, but I don’t lock my arm in his. “Thank you. I’m feeling a little bloated today, so I guess it’s a good thing the dress covers that up.”

  He looks a little confused, but I can’t decide if it’s surprise over me feeling bloated or because I didn’t accept his arm. I want to say, Hello! I have a skin condition. I’m not blind. I don’t need a guide.

  But that would be supremely rude. Though, I’m sure Daimon would get a good chuckle out of it.

  We climb the incline toward the village and away from the harbor below. The streets are quiet and the sun is just barely beginning to set on our right, lighting up the periwinkle sky with an amber glow. I sneak glances to my left every once in a while.

  Nick is wearing a light-blue Real Madrid T-shirt that hugs his bulging pecs. He’s quiet as we cross the street and continue up the road that leads up the hillside. I don’t know if he was turned off by my comment about feeling bloated or he’s just thinking, but it’s making me a bit nervous.

  A black man in a black hoodie passes by on the opposite side of the narrow road. It’s the same man who passed by the first night Nick came to my door. My stomach flutters with anxiety. Immediately, I begin to have paranoid thoughts that Nick and this guy are working together for some type of law enforcement agency.