Latina Writer Gabrina Garza

WARNING!  The following preview contains sexual material that should not be viewed by people under 18, those offended by sexual situations, or those who live in areas where reading/listening to erotica romance is illegal.  Please exit now!

If hot love scenes with sexy men are your thing, welcome!  You can read an exclusive preview right here of my May 2007 release HOT PHOENIX NIGHTS.  It's available only at Amber Heat! http://www.amberheat.com

 

 

Hot Phoenix Nights

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

           

She fucked him like she knew him.

            Hands threaded in his hair, her back arched as she rode him, faster and faster.  Her tits jiggled in his face, hardened nipples caught between his teeth as he sucked one, then the other.

            "Oh, yeah, Nick," she groaned, her voice growing louder and louder as he teased her.  She moved his hand from the small of her back to her butt.  "Come on, slap it, baby."

            His hand cracked her ass and she screamed, letting the whole apartment building know she was riding Nick Copeland's dick and loving every moment of it.    

            She did know him as only a new lover could know him—which wasn't how I knew him.   I knew the specific amount of toothpaste he had to use in order to brush his teeth, the exact number of minutes he had to steep his tea before he considered it drinkable, the way he liked to fill me with ice and come inside of me.  Yeah, I knew him.  I'd known him since college, since debt and Spaghetti-Os were the two words we knew best.  Blondie didn't know shit. 

Tapping on the open door, I became the ultimate coitus interruptus in a pair of Jimmy Choos and a sleek ponytail.  Too bad I tripped on the plush carpet and stumbled during my grand entrance.

But there's nothing quite like a girlfriend of five years walking in on an afternoon fuck session, especially when "The Boyfriend" was supposed to be at the office.  Tax week for an accountant is supposed to be busy, don’tcha know?  I wondered if Blondie punched numbers in his office or flirted from the bar into his pants.  It was hard to tell when all I saw was a side profile, no business suit or fuck me heels to give away her profession.     

            "My plane leaves in two hours," I said, emotionless.  "When I get home Monday, you better have all your shit outta here."

            His eyes bulged, both hands leaving her perfect little ass, complete with hand mark on the left cheek. 

            Blondie twisted around, still slowly riding him, unwilling to give up her climax on my account.  She looked me over, scrutinized everything about me.  Didn't like my hips, thought my legs were better than hers—but she quickly found me too short.  Like I was the one coming up short.  I guess we were both guilty of snap judgment.

"Who the fuck are you?"

            I snatched my bag off the floor and arched a brow.  "I was his girlfriend."

            The door slammed shut, my hands trembled with sudden, wicked realization.  I blinked at the door across the hall, the familiar, cozy frontier of home sweet home.  My eyelashes hit the lenses of my horn-rimmed glasses.  Damn glasses.  He always said he liked them, said the dark rims complemented my complexion.  Sexy.  Sophisticated.  That lying, cheating bastard. 

For one split second I considered spinning around and kicking the door but couldn't risk the shoes, couldn't risk my flawless exit.  He'd remember that one for quite some time.

The grip on my bag tightened.  In two hours I'd be on my way to the Sonoran Desert, hoping three days could erase five years.   

 

 

******

 

 

 

            "Flight attendants, secure the aircraft for takeoff."

            I closed my eyes as the petite redhead walked the passengers through evacuation procedures should a plane heading from Chicago to Phoenix catapult into a large body of water.  While the engines revved, I pushed up my cuticles and thought about the likelihood of that scenario.  Probably nil. 

            The guy next to me smelled like too much upscale cologne and looked like a cowboy.  He continued to shift and sigh, which made the window seat hell.  But I wanted a window seat, wanted to watch Chicago disappear and the land spread out, vast and unfamiliar.  I was a modern-day pioneer, my Conestoga replaced by a jetliner with extra leg room.

            "Sorry, darlin'," my rowmate said as he tapped his newspaper against his closed fist.  "Dang airplanes make me more nervous than heck."

            I smiled politely.  My mom had that problem a long time ago.  Usually a few Long Island ice teas settled her enough to fly from Chicago to Denver, where my grandparents lived on the edge of a tiny resort town called Nobility.   

            "Business or fun in Phoenix?"  He stretched his legs as far as the cramped space allowed.

            "Half and half."

            He nodded and tugged at his seatbelt.  "Funeral."

            I frowned, brushed my dark hair back from my face.

            "Well, it wasn't my original reason for travel, but you know how plans are.  Make 'em and break 'em."

            Tell me about it, Tex.  My plan breaker's name is Phoebe, or Bubbles, or Trixie.

            "So what's the business part of travel?"

            "I'm a music reviewer for Dark Horse."

            He seemed too old to drool over my job—or maybe I was just showing off to a guy who owned a record label or promoted Dave Matthews Band.  I worked (or whored myself out) for the second largest press catering to twenty-somethings who thought they were cool and thirty-somethings who probably looked at the twenty-somethings and rolled their eyes.  Whatever the case, he nodded as though he picked up a copy each time he went into some anti-Starbucks establishment.

            "Sounds like fun."

            "It is."  Normally. Sans the deadlines, an often bitchy editor, and constantly rearranged paragraphs which the bitchy editor thinks reads better.  Who, me? Bitter?  Not until my boyfriend of forever became a pogo stick for some bleach blonde with perky tits.  I sipped my Amaretto sour.  "May I ask what you do?"

            "Whatever I dang well please."  He winked.  "I'm retired, sweetheart.  Bet you couldn't tell from the blonde hair."  He lifted his hat and showed me his nearly bald pate. 

            With a chuckle I swirled the ice in my drink.  No, I wasn't hitting on him.  This was a guy who very well could have golfed with my dad.  But Tex was definitely my kind of guy.  Too bad he didn't come in a model twenty years younger, sans the cologne and not necessarily with the ranch. 

            We chatted a while longer, though I never found out who the funeral was for or whether Phoenix or Chicago—or neither—was home to him.  I never even knew his name.  Like strangers we stepped from the plane, and while he went to baggage claim, I pulled out my cell phone and waited to see if Nick had called to grovel.  I wanted to hear his message, mostly because I wanted to delete it and forget him. 

            But there were no calls.   There was just me in the airport with my lonely, call-free cell phone.  I dug out my notebook and reviewed the game plan, which I'd gotten from Maloney's band manager a week ago: 

            Meet me outside baggage claim.         

            Simple enough. 

My only contact with Gary had been a million emails and a few phone calls, most of which took place with him at a bar or at a club.

            "Baby, when you comin' out?" were his famous words.  Baby this, baby that.  I had to review his band just to shut him up.

            Oh, and because I had a thing for bald guys.

            Check that:  I had a thing for bald guys who were on time picking me up from the airport.  Strike one against Maloney. 

            After several moments of pacing I called Gary's cell.  It sounded like a frat house answered.

            "Josie, baby, what's up, chica?"

            "Nothin'.  What are you up to, Gar?" 

            "Out with my girls."

            "Ah.  Did you forget something?"  I wondered if the sound of a jet taking off overhead would clue him in or if the Tanqueray and tonic made him deaf. 

            "Oh, shit.  Are you still in Chicago?"

            "Been in Phoenix International for about a half hour."  That's counting the plane landing and taxiing to the gate, which he didn't have to know.  I was banking on groveling now and free drinks later. 

            "I'm about an hour away from you.  Here, this is what I'm going to do for you, babe."

            I rolled my eyes and released a sigh I hoped to God he heard.  

            "Crow was at home the last I heard."

            The drummer.  He was pawning me off on the fucking drummer. 

            "Okay…"

            "He's in Tempe.  Give him a ring and he'll pick you up." 

            "Gary, I have a happy hour show I need to see tonight, which starts at nine."

            "No sweat.  He's a fast driver.  You got his number?"

            Simone, Gary's ex-girlfriend and the Web Chick for everything internet-related, had faxed me a map and phone numbers for everyone I might need to contact.  Somewhere on that list was a number for Crow Harper, truck driver by day, drummer by night.

            "Yeah, I got it."

            "Then you better call him, baby, before you're late."

            He hung up before I could think of a smartass comment.  Ten seconds later I was on the phone with the drummer.

            "Hey, Crow?"

            "Hey, what?"

            "Hey."  I paused, still registering his deep growl of a voice soaked in a little Houston accent.  Damn, why was he behind a drum set?  "This is Josie Salazar... from Dark Horse Reviews...in Chicago.  Illinois."  (Just in case he flunked Geography 101.)

            I heard him chuckle, which made my hand clench tightly around the phone.  "Yeah, I know who you are.  You have a picture of a wizard in your email signatures."  His brakes let out a terrible screech.  At least I knew he was in his car. 

            "Yeah, that's me."  The wizard girl.  "Your manager was supposed to pick me up at the airport."

            "Yeah."  He didn't sound like he was paying attention to me.  "Next week, right?"

            "No, tonight."

            He slammed on the brakes.  "Are you at the airport?"

            "Yeah.  Gary said you'd pick me up."

            "Fucker."

            Gee, thanks.

He sighed heavily.  "I've gotta take the truck back."

"You're still at work?"

"Yeah.  Can you sit tight for another twenty minutes?"

            I glanced at my watch, the one Nick had given me on our fifth anniversary.  If there had been time to buy a new one somewhere in between finding him with his personal porn star and going through airport security I would have preferred one without ex-boyfriend karma attached to it. 

            "I need to be at Robin's performance at the Yucca Taproom."

            "When's that start?"

            "Nine."

            "You gotta see it from the beginning?"  He revved the engine.

            "Not quite."

            "Good, 'cause it ain't happenin'.  Make friends with the locals.  I'll be there soon."

            'Soon' could have meant anything, so I parked my bag and my butt on a stone bench and watched cars pass.  I had no idea what kind of car Crow drove, though I did have a few photos of him and the other four guys who called themselves Maloney.

            It's impossible to get a good image of someone photographed on stage.  The lights don't do them justice, and most of the time their expressions are twisted and faces sweaty.   

            I doodled in my notebook and eavesdropped on conversations around me for the first ten minutes.  One woman wasn't happy with her significant other, another little kid had to pee, and an old lady couldn't believe how warm it was outside. 

            "Perdon."  A woman in a dark blue suit smiled.  "Ando perdido.  ¿Dónde está el autobus o los taxis?"

            My pen slipped out of my hand and I nervously pushed my glasses up my nose.  As a rebellious teenager I'd taken French instead of Spanish, and now it had come back to bite me in the ass. 

            "Oh. Um."  ¿Como se dice I only know the dirty words?

            "¿Hablas español?"

            "No estoy de aquí."

            She frowned, apparently surprised I wasn't a local, and tapped her shoe against the cement.  I looked past her and saw a taxi sign with an arrow pointing to the left.

            "Pero hay seño para los taxis."

She gave a sigh.  "Eso.  Gracias."

            With a triumphant smile I picked up my pen.  One by one people and pieces of luggage disappeared into cars and buses while I sat and darkened the lines of colorful words which surrounded a stick figure of Nick.  I glanced up and found myself staring at a fuzzy reflection in a stainless steel panel.  No lipstick, hair out of place, and a pair of jeans I never should have bought.  This was the face of a woman who'd been scorned.

Shit.

Backpack slung over my shoulder, I weaved through the crowd and entered the airport.  The bathroom, luckily, was vacant as I plopped my jacket and backpack down and sifted through the contents.

Ten minutes later I was sitting with notebook in hand, eyes adjusting to the contacts I never wore.  It wasn't like turning Cinderella into a princess, but I felt the difference each time I rubbed my lips together, each time I ran my hand down from my thigh to my knee and felt the fabric hug my curves.  I was dressed for work in a My Chemical Romance t-shirt and black skirt.  I was a veritable Clark Kent, prepared to report everything about the best bands.    

            "Excuse me, miss?"

            I covered my notebook and stared at an old man wearing a tweed jacket.

            "There's a gentleman in a red car.  I believe he's trying to get your attention."

            And there was Crow, sans the flashing stage lights, the beads of sweat, and a pair of drumsticks.  He leaned against the passenger door, his head cocked to the side and muscular arms crossed.  Other than a John Deere hat I'd seen in photographs, he could have walked past me and I probably wouldn't have noticed anything except his substantial height.

            I slung my bag over my shoulder and dragged my carry-on bag behind me.  The wheels caught on the curb and I wrestled it toward his red Grand Am.  So much for my superpowers.

            "Were you hiding?"  He took my bag from me and tossed it into the trunk as though forty pounds of shoes and weekend clothes were feather light. 

He turned and faced me, dark eyes narrowed.  From his last name I'd assumed he was British, but when I looked up—way up—he was olive-skinned. Indian, possibly Navajo, with high cheekbones, thick lips, and enigmatic eyes.  It was his eyes that trapped the breath in my throat.  He looked at me like he'd known me from the day I was born, but he continued to stare at me like he wanted to know me until the day I died.   

"Hiding?  Why would I be hiding?"  I mumbled.   He towered over me, angular face unreadable.  Usually in a pair of chunky heels I felt tall, but beneath his gaze I was awkward, clumsy.    

            He took off his hat and ran his fingers through a mess of thick, dark hair.  A smile played at the corners of his mouth and belied his deep, serious tone.  "On the bench.  In the shadows.  You sure you weren't hiding?"

            "No, I was waiting."

            "Pretty damn far away from the street," he grumbled.

            "There was no place else to sit."  I glanced back at all the empty benches and cringed.  Twenty minutes ago the whole place had been packed.

            "I drove around three times before I saw you."

"Why didn't you call me?  I would have stayed by the curb if I'd known you were here already."

He didn't reply, and before I'd buckled my seatbelt we were zigzagging through traffic. 

            "Practicing for NASCAR?" I asked, attempting to lighten the conversation.

            "It's my roommate's car.  I wouldn't drive my own like this."

I sank lower in the seat and chuckled.  "Nice."

He glanced over and grinned at me, a sly, devilish expression that creased his dark eyes and released the most pinchable dimples I'd ever seen.  He looked at me, through me. My heart stuttered, hands clenched, but nothing happened.  He pulled on the bill of his hat and watched the road, leaving me to stare at his jaw and wide nose.

Damn.  How'd I missed this in the press photos?

"You said you had to get to the Yucca Taproom."  Long fingers grasped the steering wheel.  I could easily picture them tangled in my hair, pulling me closer.  

"Yes, preferably in one piece."

"I'm gettin' you there.  Hold on, sweetheart."

Somehow, I bet he could get me there.  With his long fingers.  With his hot tongue.  With his thick penis.  Again, and again, and again. 

Immediately I knew what my girlfriends meant when they said they'd met an HFM:  Highly Fuckable Man.  This guy was trouble. 

            I chewed on my lower lip, my nipples aching against a snug-fitting t-shirt.  I forced myself to sit back and I crossed my legs to quell the throb.  This was as bad as lusting after a coworker or client.  Maloney was all business for me, but I was freshly single and he was the first guy I'd seen.  There had to be more tall, good-looking guys like him running around the Phoenix area.  Inwardly I smiled.  Nick was gone.  What I needed was a HFM of my own, at least for the weekend.