Attraction, desire, and sinfully beautiful, Mika Santana is a devil with the face of an angel. Despite her tragic past, she's never given up her ruthless pursuits for success and vengeance which leaves little to no room for matters of the heart. But...
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Every shade of pink is spattered on the canvas. Salmon. Rose. Bubblegum. It merges into a figure, an image of the person consuming my brain like Pacman. My paintbrush strokes the baby hairs on her forehead, the ones I could recall at least. Sighing, I scrub my forearm across my forehead as I take in the final product.
It's my fifth painting of her from this week alone.
I toss my paintbrush into the breaker, sagging down onto my stool. My thoughts are tainted. Her name echoes through my mind like an addictive spell. I frustratedly rake my fingers through my damp hair, trying to swallow this craving before it becomes an obsession.
Mika.
Mika.
Mika.
The Devil on my shoulders whispers her name in my ear, continuously, waiting for the moment I slip up.
It's been a week.
It's crystal clear how badly I wanted to see her, but I couldn't. I shouldn't. From the second she stepped on stage, she had sinfully written all over her. If the Devil came in a shape of an angel, I bet every dollar it was Mika.
It isn't her profession that frightens me. Most guys would be turned off to the idea of a woman who's been selling herself for money, but I see the contrary. In my eyes, Mika was a woman that took incentive of her life. A career doesn't define a human being, it's just a means to an end.
Going after a woman like Mika terrifies me because it's what she wants. She gives me snippets of attention, so I can keep coming back for more. It wouldn't surprise me if Diablo planned for her to perform on my first night. Falling into temptation, falling for Mika is a dangerous, risky, threatening game.
Earning my family's reputation back should be my first priority. Instead, I'm spending my nights drunk in Mika.
My thoughts wash away to the sound of the door opening.
My papa's nurse wheels him in. "Hijó te he estado buscando." He waves his nurse off, and she bows before exiting the room.
(Son, I've been looking for you.)
"Estoy justo aqui donde siempre estoy," I reply.
(I'm right here where I always am.)
His mouth curls down to a scowl. "No deberias estar aqui abajo. Enviaste a tus primos al trabajo en lugar de hacerlo tu mismo?"
(You shouldn't be down here. You sent your cousins to work instead of doing it yourself?)
I swallow, closing my eyes for a fraction of a second. Here it comes. "The objective is to torture Bolivar into accepting our deal. If I went, I would back out before they could chop his fingers off."
Papa's face hardens, his eyes narrow into slits. "Es patético. Cómo pueden respetarte cuando estás aquí pintando como una niño?"
(It's pathetic. How can they respect you when you're here painting like a child?)
