Remission by Ofelia Martinez

Contusion Excerpt

Chapter Three

It’s early, and the bar isn’t even at quarter capacity. It’s easy to find a space at the bar, and I pull out my credit card to open up my tab.

A bartender so beautiful I find it hard to formulate words comes over to take my order. She has the body of a model, and I can’t tell what race she is. She has an other-worldly face, fair skin, and a perfect black bob hairstyle. Her beautiful full lips move again, and I replay what she just said in my head. What can I get you?

“Um—sorry. Whiskey sour, please.”

She takes my credit card and comes back with my drink a few minutes later.

“Here,” she says. “I like your accent.”

“Thanks.” My face grows hot, and it’s not the whiskey.

“¿Hablas español?”

My head snaps up to her in surprise. Her Spanish is impeccable. “Sí,” I say. We switch back to English after that. “Where are you from?” I ask.

“I’m Chicana. Mom’s Mexican, and dad’s Chinese. It throws people off. I know.” She laughs easily as she says this. “I haven’t seen you around here. You work at the hospital?”

“No. New in town,” I say.

“I’m Sofia,” the bartender says and stretches her hand out to me. “I own the place.”

I shake her hand and smile. “Valentina. Nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to KC. Let me know when you want another one, okay?”

“Thanks.”

Sofia walks away to flirt with two customers a few seats down the bar. Poor suckers don’t know she is playing them so that they buy more drinks. I smile. I like this woman.

Sipping on my cocktail, I scan the room for a potential one-night-stand. Someone muscular and handsome who won’t need to ask for my phone number after. Someone alone, and more importantly, someone single. Nothing on the menu is appetizing yet, so I order a second drink and nurse it as I wait for the place to fill up.

A few guys come up to hit on me, but they aren’t my type. I don’t feel any attraction physically, and if Mandy is right and this is my last hurrah for a while, then I want something yummy. I mean, someone yummy. Fuck it. Men objectify women all the time, so I have exactly zero qualms about objectifying them just this once. They would be doing a humanitarian service, I decide. Would they go for it if I sold it as some sort of make-a-wish-for-adults service? No. That would probably kill the mood.

A third man walks over to hit on me, clearly inebriated. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Could he even get it up, as drunk as he seems to be? Probably not. I smile and do my best to be nice to him—though I hate that’s my impulse.

He sways a bit, but it’s enough for me to notice. His black hair is slicked back with gel, like this is the nineties or something. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

I point to my glass, showing it’s half full. “Got one. Thanks, though.” I smile curtly and divert my eyes from him, hoping he takes the hint.

“Oh, I like your accent. Where are you from, señorita?” he asks.

I do roll my eyes this time and take a sip of my drink. “I’m from Mexico. Where are you from?” I ask pointedly, though I probably shouldn’t engage him any further.

Sofia looks at me with a question in her eyes. I roll my eyes and shake my head as if to say I got it, thanks. She tips her chin, and I know she’ll throw his ass out if he gets rowdy. Hopefully, I can get him to back away without having to make a scene. I am here to catch a big fish, after all. I won’t have a bite if I come across as drama before the night even starts.

“I’m from this here, the U.S. of A.” He grins, and it feels eerily like he is about to pound his chest with his fists like a Neanderthal. He is somewhat handsome, tall, black hair, blue eyes. If he wasn’t that far drunk, and he hadn’t opened his mouth, I may have considered him as my boy-toy for the night. “I’m Doctor Keach,” he adds. When he says doctor, I take it I’m supposed to be impressed.

“I’m actually waiting for someone, so if you don’t mind . . .” I trail off, hoping he gets the hint this time.

“Oh, come on. You look so exotic, like a spicy Latina.” He says Latina with a mocking accent that I can only assume is meant to mimic my own. My nostrils flare, and I count to ten.

This idiot doesn’t realize I could have him on the ground and begging for his mommy in less than ten seconds flat. Don’t use your power on civilians, Valentina. I remind myself of Chema’s anger management lessons. Leave it for the cage. Never out in everyday life.

“We can have a good time, honey,” he slurs.

“Sorry, buddy, she’s with me.” A voice much too deep for the body it came out of turns both our attention. I do a double-take when I see Rory, who is in the process of placing his hand on the small of my back. He doesn’t make contact with me, though, and instead lets his hand hover over my backside. He wants drunky here to believe it, and he is selling it good.

“Like I said,” I tell Dr. Keach, “I was waiting for someone.”

“All right, all right. No harm done.” He raises his hands in surrender as he walks backward, stumbling on a few people before he turns to face the opposite direction.

“Thanks,” I say to Rory.

“No problem. It didn’t look like you were having fun.”

“I wasn’t, but I had it under control.”

“I don’t doubt it,” says Rory. “But I thought maybe I could save you some time.”

My gaze sweeps his body from face to shoes. He is wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, but the outfit is polished. His short, reddish beard is expertly kept, and he looks fresh like he just got out of a shower. This will do nicely. Very nicely indeed.

“That’s the second time you saved me this week,” I say.

“I thought you looked familiar.”

“The vending machine?” I remind him. “You bought me a Pop-Tart.”

“That’s right. That was you.” His eyes squint like he is trying to place my face in that scenario.

“In your defense,” I offer, “I look much better tonight.”

He smirks, accepting my awkward flirting. God, I’m so bad at this. My booty-call bench is so much easier. All I have to do is text one of them, at random, so no one’s feelings get hurt, and ask: Free to fuck tonight? Somehow I don’t think that methodology will go over well with Rory. “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

“Um—” he looks toward a group of men sitting at a table in the corner of the bar.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” My heart sinks a little, but I keep smiling. “I just wanted to thank you for the Pop-Tart and for coming to my rescue tonight. Let me buy you the drink—no strings. You can take it over and enjoy it with your friends.”

“No, that’s not what I—um, just, let me go say bye to them, and I’ll be right back.”

My heart flutters, and I don’t understand this new sensation. It must be the whiskey. “Sure. I can order in the meantime. What’s your poison?”

“A beer?”

“You got it.”

I order his beer, and Sofia has it ready for him before he gets back. I swivel in my barstool to look at him standing near the table with his buddies. They roar with laughter, and one of them pats him in the back. His fair complexion makes the reddening of his neck glaringly obvious, and I smile. He palms the back of his neck as if he can feel the heat there. It’s cute, really.

Rory is nerdy and slim and oh so very handsome. I hope he’ll let me take him home tonight. If this fails, I have to make a mental note to hit the nearest adult toy store first thing in the morning.

He grins as he takes the barstool next to mine. “Thanks,” he says as he grabs his beer and takes a long pull. He is nervous and buying time. It’s adorable.

“It’s the least I could do,” I say, opening up the conversation for him. He seems lost for what to say next, so I speak again. “Are you from Kansas City?” I ask, starting with a safe topic I hope will engage him.

“No,” he says. “I’m from Minnesota.” His entire face brightens when he thinks of home, and I know I’ve chosen the right topic. “Here for work. I’ve been here a few years now.”

“I’d love some advice on what to check out. It’s only my second night in Kansas City. Sofia?” I call her attention, and she looks over right away. She smiles knowingly as she looks between Rory and me, and I point to my empty drink.

“Oh, KC is great. You’ll really love it,” says Rory.

I start on my third drink, and Rory falls silent. His brows crease like he is thinking of something and he is unsure if he should say it. “Well?” he asks finally. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I ask.

“I’m going to show you Kansas City.”

“Tonight?” I set my drink down and wipe my mouth with a napkin.

“No time like the present.”

I cock my head to the side. Is this man serious? No time like the present?

“Come on. You are wearing walking shoes. Let’s do this.”

“Can I at least finish my drink?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sure. The night is young.”

I almost spit my drink. Does he only speak in clichés? “Did you just say that?”

“What?”

“The night is young? That’s such a cliché,” I inform him.

“It’s going to take a lot to impress you, isn’t it, Miss Valentina, um—what’s your last name?”

“Almonte. And are you trying to impress me, Rory . . . ?”

“Dennis,” he says. “And, yes. Maybe I am trying to impress you.”

I bite my lip as I lock eyes with him, and his jade-green eyes darken. The third drink is plunging me into tipsy territory, and I push it away. As I stare deep into his eyes, I realize even his eyes have freckles.

“What are you looking at?” he asks.

“Your eyes have freckles. These little flecks of brown swimming in the green.”

“Ah, that.” He takes another swig of his beer. “Yeah, my mom used to tell me it was poop.”

“What?” I almost yell as I ask, my eyes wide with surprise.

“Yeah, when I was a kid, she had me convinced the little pieces of brown were tiny flecks of poop floating around my irises. Said it was because I was so full of shit.” He smirks and drinks from his beer bottle again.

I throw my head back with laughter. This man is funny. “Your mom sounds like a badass,” I say.

“She really is.”

We are both laughing and relaxed. I don’t remember feeling this way with anyone on a first date. “I don’t think I’ll be finishing my drink after all,” I say. We both stand, and I press my hand to his chest. It’s firm, and my body heats at the feel of it. “Rory,” I say with a breathy voice.

“Yeah?”

“If we go out tonight, I hope you understand I intend to take you to bed before the date is over. Don’t leave with me if you are not interested in that.”

His eyebrow arches, and he pushes his glasses further up his nose so he can better look at me. His jaw slackens, and I know his brain is misfiring. I walk out of the bar without looking back but hope he is right behind me.

I step into the warm night and take a deep breath of air. Not even three seconds pass before Rory is at my side.

“Sorry,” he says. “You kind of caught me off guard there.”

“You’re here, so I take it you are interested?”

He nods. “You’re very forward, aren’t you?”

“Not really, but I don’t have any time to waste,” I say plainly because it is the absolute truth.

Valentina’s story is releasing September 17, 2021.

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