Authors Note: Well guys, it's only been two years in the making! I first of all have to apologize to anyone who was waiting for a follow up. School, work, faulty computers and life in general all seemed to conspire to get in the way of my writing! But, without further ado, here's chapter 2 of Hurricane! Saturated with my blood sweat and tears! Enjoy it and tell me honestly what you think! Comment! Vote! Subscribe! all that good stuff!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Look what this girl done did to me, she done cut me off from her good good love.
she told me that those days were gone.
Now I'm sitting here going half crazy, cuz I know she still thinks about me too.
And it ain't no way in hell, that I can be just friends with you." - Trey Songz
So much had changed in the almost three years since Alejandro Delgadillo moved to Los Angeles. Thinking back, he could actually pinpoint the exact time his life had been altered. It was the moment he stepped off the plane. The airport was way too crowded for his mood at the time, and he found himself glaring angrily at everyone. They were all too happy or else faking it well, with their spray tans, bleached teeth and bleached hair. He longed for things to go back to the way they were before when he and Sean were nothing but happy. Back when all they had was each other and that was more than enough.
He wanted to sleep. He wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball in his hotel room and never leave. Just sleep until he became a new person. He hadn't slept in days and out of sheer exhaustion he almost did on the plane, but that too was thwarted by the loudmouthed couple sitting behind him. They proceeded arguing about any and everything they could think to argue about. At one point they argued about the air-conditioning and who it was blowing on, then they argued about the leg room and whose legs were longer.
The only thing that had him even slightly intrigued was the fact they were speaking in Spanish. And not the American or even south American Spanish, proper Spanish like back home. He found himself becoming nostalgic, and missing his family even though they were partly the reason he was on this plane. So when everyone de-boarded the plane in Los Angeles and he found them at the ticket agent arguing yet again, this time over their connecting flight, he decided to help.
"Alguien que hable Ingles!" the man yelled, clearly frustrated that no one was understanding him.
"Si!" he called to them as he made his way over. Repeatedly he asked himself why he was doing this. He took a good look at the tall and skinny man with thin hair, graying at the temples. His thin tan colored v -neck sweater was carefully rolled up to his elbows, showcasing forearms that looked strong yet he could tell from his cream linen slacks and matching loafers that this was a man who was meticulous about his appearance. Typical of most spanish men he knew. He didn't even bother looking at the woman; after his ordeal in New Orleans he couldn't bring himself to look any woman in the eyes. The only thing he did see was long flowing hair and a backless sundress and turned away.
"Thank you! They're saying we aren't even on the flight list, stupid fuckers! We paid for first class seats! And this is what our money gets us!" the man yelled in Spanish.
Alejandro turned to the ticket agent who was turning redder and redder by the moment.
"I speak perfect Spanish!" she fumed. "I know exactly what they said about me, and I'm about to refuse them both!"
Alejandro took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. He was too tired for this.
"Are either of them on your list?" he asked as patiently as he could muster.
"Yes, they both are! I never once said they weren't but they are not in first class! There is no first class with this airline! Everyone flies coach, they're not going to Honduras for vacation or something. They're flying right into La Macabre!"
Alejandro turned his tired, heavy, sleep deprived head and looked at the two spoiled brats and suddenly remembered why he left Barcelona. Because of pompous buffoons like these.
"There is no such thing as a first class, so there's no way you paid for it. Just shut up and take the damn seats they've provided before they too are no longer available to you!"
He turned and walked briskly away. As much as he'd missed speaking in his native tongue, he regretted that conversation immediately. Rich assholes like them had no idea what the world was really like. Looking back, he realized the reason they angered him so much was because they were a mirror image of himself ten years ago. He didn't know why they were flying into Ma Macabre and he didn't care, he just hoped they got the reality check they deserved when they landed.
*******
"Hey!"
Gregory Daniels waved Alejandro over and rose from his seat in the directors chair with a smile.
"Come on over and take a look. What do you think?"
Alejandro took a seat and watched the playback for his last last take. He had to admit; it looked fantastic. He couldn't believe his own eyes; that was him running through all those explosions, narrowly escaping death,and in Ferragamo shoes no less. He didn't know he had the cojones, he never ever dreamed he'd be here. Okay that's a lie, he'd always dreamed he'd be here but never thought that dream would come to fruition.
Now here he was, on the verge of superstardom.
"Its amazing!" Alejandro cried, eyes glued to the tiny screen in front of him.
"Absolutely fantastic!" he said turning to his director who was smiling just as hard as he.
Alejandro slowly eased himself out of the director's chair and walked to his marker. He knew without asking that they were going to try for one more shot. Even though the last one was as near perfection as it probably could get, he knew Greg would want absolute perfection. So he steadied himself, evened out his breathing in an attempt to calm his racing heart. He waited quietly, eyes closed and patiently tried not to think about how he was risking his life for a stunt. He tried not to think about the pre-laid explosions awaiting his heavy footsteps to go off once again and attempted to empty his mind.
It was always then though, in the quietest and calmest moments that she would come to his mind. It was more like she dominated his thoughts at those times. It would start with a single image of her opening her eyes in the morning and smiling at him, or her stretching as she got out of bed and looking over her shoulder at him. He'd see her laughing, dancing, zipping up her black dress, putting on her earrings in the mirror as she looked up at him, slowly sliding off her pumps letting it glide along the arch of her foot until it finally slips from her hands onto the floor, her slowly unzipping her black dress as she walked to him and finally letting it fall to a heap at her feet. All of it was too much. He tried his absolute best to keep her out of his head. He'd usually thwart any and all thoughts of her before they even became one because they'd only lead to self destruction. His life was way too good now, on the verge of becoming something exceptional if he let it. He had no intentions of going back down that well worn path, so he'd close her off and reserve thoughts of her to times of self reflection. Now it was like she consumed him like a flash fire and he was powerless to stop it. He was being ridiculous; it had been nearly three years since that night; nearly three years since he watched her leave. Her suitcases dragging behind her. Nearly three long years since he closed off his heart and vowed to never, ever let another woman have so much of him because there was nothing left over in the end.
He'd begun constructing himself slowly but surely again to try and find the man that flew into New Orleans and try and remember his dreams but that man was gone. A completely different person was what remained and he just had to learn to deal with who he was now. He could still feel her burning in his veins, and he waited for his need for her to subside, for her to fade. She didn't. It was almost like he could smell her now in the desert air, the spicy sweet scent of her.