5
1608 Words
Ariel Beckham.
It’s like I can never escape him. Left and right. He’s filthy tall, with windblown black hair and dark brows. The line of his jaw is strong and covered by a dark stubble. His eyes are the shade of silvery-flecked onyx, the contrast is unsettling. This man’s features are so harsh, it seems to have been carved by a banter of proud Greek gods. If an artist were to draw him, they would spend at least a year on his mouth. I don’t know what is scarier; how he stares at me or how his eyes are shaped. They are beautiful. God, they are gorgeous.
And yet, he casts his gaze away from me.
“Excuse me?” Ramirez asks, referring to his uncles.
I am behind him.
And maybe it’s because of all the ruckus… I failed to realize just how many tattoos this man has on the scope of his body. He is wearing a shirt that stops above his muscular elbows. On his neck is a coiling serpent baring its fangs. And on his arms, are tattoos of a clenched fist, holding a bloody knife, amongst all others.
“That car? Where did you get such a car from? These tattoos…” Patrick ensues, obviously filled by rage.
“Just what sort of a bloody gangster are you! Do you think we don’t recognize that tattoo on your neck? You are a South snake!” Carlos picks it up, laying the accusation.
Ramirez lets out a rich, deep laugh, his shoulders shake slightly as the sound rolls through the air. The laughter is like a knife that sharpens the atmosphere.
Carlos crosses his arms. “It’s funny to you?” he asks, tight with irritation.
Ramirez doesn’t even glance at him. Instead, his eyes slide over to Matthew, Noah’s stepdad who is standing stiffly beside Carlos.
“Aren’t you going to say something, Matthew?” Ramirez prompts.
It’s obvious. Even without words, you can tell that he hates the man Aunt Teresa married.
Matthew exhales. I know him to be a very patient and kind hearted person but obviously Ramirez cannot see that.
“Answer the question.” Matthew replies.
Ramirez leans back slightly, holding the faint trace of that laughter.
“I don’t have to answer anything. This is my father’s house. Not yours.”
“And not yours either.” His gaze shifts to his uncles but listen, the threat in his body language is impossible to miss.
I stand there, watching them with a heart that is thudding harder than I’d like to admit. It’s not just the words Ramirez is saying—it’s the way he carries himself. I know what he’s capable of. They are all underestimating him but I’ve seen what he can do. I still have nightmares about that night at the apartment complex.
I can’t believe I am caught up in their midst. I was done with my shift five minutes ago and I left the store to take a nap since its the weekend.
Ramirez takes one step toward the house, and Carlos blocks his way, his voice rises like a challenge. “You’re just a bloody gangster like your father! The one who left your mother to raise two boys on her own! South Snake, how about bloody snake!?”
Before Carlos can even finish, Ramirez’s hand is around his throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighs nothing. I gasp and instinctively press my back against the gate, my heart hammers in my chest. Carlos’s face starts turning red as he claws at Ramirez’s arm, trying to pry his fingers loose.
Patrick rushes in, trying to break Ramirez’s grip, and even Matthew joins in, but it’s useless. Ramirez isn’t budging. His face is calm, nonchalant, as if he’s holding a grocery bag instead of a man.
"Ramirez!" Aunt Teresa’s voice cuts through the chaos as she steps out of the house with Noah.
Ramirez lets go instantly, and Carlos stumbles back, gasping for air, clutching his throat as everyone just stands frozen. Ramirez doesn’t even acknowledge the panic he has caused. He walks past all like it never happened, disappearing inside the house.
I don’t move, but my eyes dart toward the door. He’s only gone for a minute before he reappears, a file in his hands. I make sure to step aside. There’s no way I’m getting in his way after that.
But before he can fully step out, Noah—who I’ve never seen this angry—steps forward and shoves Ramirez square in the chest, hard enough that it halts his movement.
“Are you crazy!?” Noah yells, his voice shakes with fury.
Ramirez doesn’t react but he stops. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen Noah angry, but this—this is something else entirely.
“What? Are you going to suffocate me too?” Noah pushes him again, this time more forcefully, and I wince at the sight.
“Noah, that’s enough!” Aunt Teresa steps forward but Noah doesn’t back down.
Ramirez tilts his head, offering himself up. “Kid, punch me if you want to.”
“Shut it! He’s not like you.” Aunt Teresa hisses.
Ramirez’s gaze flickers toward his mother.
“And is that bastard like my father?” He jerks his chin toward Matthew. “Because he looks nothing like him—at least you could’ve married someone with some spine, not a spineless coward—"
Aunt Teresa’s hand flies across his face. I flinch, watching as her handshakes with the aftermath. Is Ramirez’s face made of steel or something?
No, her hand is shaking because she is hurt.
But Ramirez? He just wipes the corner of his mouth; it looks like the slap barely affects him. “I’m not leaving my father’s house. In case you all forget, he left it to me in his f*****g will.”
He strides past and our eyes meet—his dark, emotionless ones catch mine for a moment. I quickly glance away. There’s nothing but cold fury in his stare and I can’t handle the weight of it.
*****
I was supposed to take a nap but it’s what? Midnight.
I yawn, stretching my arms over my head as I shuffle out of bed. I have to pee. Nature calls, and I remember, with a bit of annoyance, that there’s no bathroom in the bedroom. Great. Rubbing my eyes, I grab the doorknob and head out into the hall, still half asleep in an oversized white t-shirt and shorts.
Without thinking much, I push the bathroom door open and step inside. It’s only when the cool air hits my face and my vision clears that I realize I’m not alone. Ramirez is shirtless, staring into the bathroom mirror. At one glance, his forearms are thick, bulging…with a solid shoulder and muscular back.
His body is sculpted like something out of a dream, his abs are defined, each line carves a perfect path down his stomach.
I don’t know how but my gaze drifts lower—enough to know that he is wearing a light pants. My gaze is low enough to reckon the obvious bulge in the middle. Heat rises in my cheeks.
“Eyes here,” The cadence of his voice is a call to obedience.
His adam’s apple rises and it is a distinct shift beneath the skin of his strong, corded neck.
My head snaps up instantly.
“Y—yes.” I stutter. A mafia is standing in front of me. He is the one who threw Johnathan down the stairs and he is the one who squeezed Carlos’ neck until he turned to a tomato. If I thought his tattoos were many before, I was wrong. They are gazillions.
“You can’t knock?” he asks, rinsing his face.
“I didn’t think you would be here.” I find my voice, tucking a pound of hair next to my ear.
Ramirez casually reaches out, turning off the tap. He grabs a towel, slowly drying his hands while he turns his attention to me.
“I think you heard me clearly this afternoon. This is my house, Ariel…”
“Yeah…I took note.”
“I’ll leave—” I say, turning back.
“I’m done.” He says and I stop.
There is a passing second of silence between us.
“You were a good girl the last time I saw you.” Ramirez critics.
“What?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Your…boyfriend?” He says, as if reminding me.
“Johnathan is—”
“An abuser?” Ramirez interrupts me and my fists curl.
I wanted to correct him about Johnathan.
Johnathan is my ex-boyfriend, not my boyfriend. Regardless, why do I even owe him an explanation?
“Well, he wasn’t like that at first. And what do you mean I was a good girl? You are a pot calling a kettle black.” I say, putting space between us in case he tries to snatch my throat too.
“Poquito.” He chuckles, his accent is a vibrato of roughness, effortlessly sensual. It rolls off his tongue with a subtle rasp. The way he stretches the syllables, especially the slight pause before the "t," is electric.
Ramirez licks his lip. “I have always been a pot.”
“And what was I?” I ask, slightly curious.
“A little lamb,” he answers, threading past me and I scoff.
On top of being a Southsnake, he is also one arrogant jerk!
- Writer
