A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(3)
Author: Suzanne Young

“I think so . . .”

“Damn. I just lost twenty bucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

Abe runs his hand over his face and then grins sheepishly. “For the record,” he says, “the love-interest line usually works.”

“I’m sure.”

Abe takes his notepad from his apron and taps it on the table as if thinking. I watch him, flattered that he approached me at all. I can’t remember the last time someone did.

A sunburn crosses the bridge of his nose, both charming and boyish. His dark brown eyes seem to go on forever. “I’m an idiot,” Abe says.

“No. It was a perfect line. Promise.”

“Thanks. And just to make this even more awkward, I’m the one who’s supposed to train you.”

“We can start over. Would that help?”

“No, no, I think that would just make it worse, but I appreciate the suggestion.” Abe studies me. “Do you go to Mission High, Elise?” he asks.

“Yep. I’ll be a junior.”

“Ah, then we’re rivals,” he says. “I just graduated from Yuma.”

“That’s probably why your lines usually work so well—fresh audience. I bet you’re a legend around here.”

“You have no idea.” He winks and then pulls out his phone, peeking at the time. “Don’t want to cut this short, but I have some actual training to do,” he says. “Are you a fast learner?”

“Sort of.”

“Your confidence is encouraging.” Abe takes a menu from behind the hot sauce and hands it to me. “Let’s start with our specialties.”

He takes a menu of his own, flipping it open. “There is the pollo especial, but don’t ever order it. It’s gross,” Abe says, running his finger down the page. “Or the asada.”

I try to follow along, but he’s going so fast I can’t keep up. And I’m sure I’ll never remember the names of the food—or be able to repeat them.

“The albondigas soup is delicious. And the number eight es muy bueno,” Abe sings in a perfect accent. “It’s my favorite. Now, the espinaca is one of . . .”

Listening to Abe, I don’t notice when the tingling first starts in my fingers. But as it climbs over my hand I begin to tremble. The vibration spreads up my arm, and I set my menu flat on the table to reach for the glass of water. Maybe if I have something to drink I’ll feel better.

The bell above the door jingles as a guy walks in, his overalls clotted with plaster and paint. He nods to the man behind the counter and then absently looks over the restaurant. His eyes widen when he sees me.

I go still as I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of compassion, love. Suddenly the man’s life unfolds within my head, my reality filled with his journey. I begin to panic, but then I’m blanketed in a sense of calm. A sense of purpose.

The guy walks slowly, almost trancelike, toward me. “Mi angel,” he whispers when he gets to the table. He reaches to take my hand, startling me. But I don’t pull away. Instead I sway with the emotions coursing through me. Emotions that aren’t mine.

“Hey,” Abe says, glaring at him. “Back off, Diego.”

But Diego Encina doesn’t respond. Instead his eyes are glassy with tears. A sudden brightness explodes around us, blotting out the rest of the world, silencing everything beyond.

“I’m so lost,” Diego murmurs to me. “Please, angel.”

I can’t stop myself from leaning closer, squeezing his hand to comfort him. “I’m still with you,” I whisper softly. But I’m not speaking for myself—I’m repeating the words running through my head. An all-knowing consciousness. Something Diego has seen before and still craves.

Six months ago Diego had been in a terrible accident with his truck, the very accident that killed his brother. Diego’s internal injuries were so severe that he went into cardiac arrest three times. They’d just called the time of death when he suddenly started breathing again, his pulse strong.

Before his accident, Diego had been spending his nights drinking, driving around, and being reckless. His brother had been trying to help him when he got into the truck, attempting to wrestle away the keys. In the end he let Diego drive. It cost him his life.

After surviving, Diego vowed to change. And he has. He’s working, taking care of his family—of his brother’s children, too. He’s become everything his older brother wanted him to be. He should be proud.

But he’s not. Diego doesn’t feel like he deserves this second chance. He closes his eyes and brings my hand to his mouth to kiss it, holding back a cry.

I refuse to leave him so desperate. And even though I don’t understand what’s happening, I find myself unable to send him away without granting him some sort of peace. I brush his damp hair from his forehead.

“Second chances aren’t given lightly, Diego,” I whisper in a voice only he can hear. “The children need you, especially Tomás. Don’t abandon him—you have to be strong now.”

Diego blinks heavily as if absorbing my words, and then he slowly regains his focus. The light around us fades away. Diego drops my hand and staggers back a step, as if just realizing where he is.

“I’m sorry, señorita,” he says quickly, glancing once at Abe. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I’m speechless, staring back at him, unable to process what just happened. Diego excuses himself, walking to the counter without ever looking back.

The warm, calming sensation begins to fade from my skin. Instead, energy surges through my body and I tremble with it. When I turn to my right, the room around me is frozen. No movement. No sound. And then all at once, a new scene slips into focus—a memory.

I’m on the front steps of a church, waiting for someone. My blond hair blows in the wind, light droplets of rain starting above me. I glance impatiently at my phone before turning to go inside. Classes are starting, and I’m late. I knew I shouldn’t have expected Sarah to be on time.

I gasp, pulled back into now. The restaurant around me suddenly comes alive again, filling my ears with the echoes of scraping forks and clinking plates. I’m disoriented—as if waking up from a really intense dream. One you think could be real.

“Why did deadbeat Diego just call you his angel?” Abe asks from across the table, sounding bewildered. “Do you know each other?”

I’m not sure how to answer, what to think. Did I know him? For a second I knew his innermost thoughts, his past. But then that memory, it wasn’t mine. I’ve never been to Catholic school. I’ve never had blond hair. And who’s Sarah?