Sensuality - Page 78

So when Tom notices for the first time that his young wife is not responding to his prompts, that she is exhibiting signs of weakness, he takes action. He immediately removes her from photography duty and assigns her busywork. On this day, while Tom is out chasing down illegals, he sends her on an elaborate errand, which takes her to the outskirts of town, where a white woman driving solo in a luxury car is as conspicuous as a carcass to a vulture.

And there he is. Lorna sees his back first. Wide and sculpted. Then his ass. Rounded with muscles and draped in faded tan. He stands among a small group of white men this time. Employers, Lorna reasons. She sits in her car across the street, watching him, the task that sent her there suddenly a distant memory. Fear of her surroundings, gone. She has no way of knowing that Tom is her ubiquitous benefactor, even now. Her two fingers sinking deep inside her, bathed in her own sweet water before taking wide, lingering laps around her pulsing pleasure point, is her only urgent concern.

He is soon her full-time endeavor.

They fuck in her car, in dark theaters and well-lit parking lots, in Balboa Park, on the same countertop where Tom neatly cuts his morning bananas, in her two-car garage, in the shower of her guest bathroom, on the toilet seat of the master bath. But her favorite place is, by far, the bed she shares unceremoniously with her husband. That makes her feel like a woman, bound by strong hands and begging for mercy, her face buried in her own pillows. At night, when it’s just her and Tom, she lies on her stomach and defiantly circles her own throbbing clit with her power hand draped in a tiny Mexican flag.

At first, Lorna’s instinct is to inspect his brown back intently for bruises and bug bites. Migratory scars, outward signs of a hard, indigent life. But beyond the work gear, he is groomed meticulously. A cultural anomaly, she thinks. He is more frat boy than farm boy. And what is that fragrance? Her nose had been trained to expect a nauseous mingling of sweat, soil, and sofrito. But he smells oddly cosmopolitan. Manly.

She forbids him from speaking Spanish in her presence. It is like fingernails on a chalkboard to her ears. So she does all of the postcoital talking while he listens intently. She sits for hours, telling him secrets of an unfulfilling marriage, of waning interest in her academic career, of longing to retire early to the expanse of the Rocky Mountains, of the complex and corrupt underbelly of American immigration politics. He sits perched, staring a hole through her, and she can’t help singing like a mariachi. It’s all a joke to Lorna, and she laughs long and hard after every long and hard prompt from the mighty illegal pipe.

Lorna is content with these untranslated confessions. The release is what she has been craving. Before now she was sure that presenting research to a group of receptive scholars was her calling. Now she’s certain she is at her absolute best perched on all fours with a tongue wagging, lathering her from top to bottom. She now straddles a big dick with pride and confidence, having never even seen one up close before then. She devours it at random intervals while riding, videotapes it from every sordid angle.

Instead of restoring focus and order to

Tom’s self-interests, the sex sends Lorna spiraling with disinterest. Again at his wit’s end, Tom takes action.

“Good afternoon. United States Customs and Border Protection. Pedro Hernández González speaking. How may I help you?”

“Pete, how the heck are you? It’s Tom Landry calling.”

“Tom Landry, as in the legendary football coach? Or Tom Landry, as in my old buddy, the prick who still owes me a beer?”

“Well, Petey, my friend, I do believe that several beers may be in order after you pull a few strings for me,” Tom responds with a chuckle.

“And I was hoping to get my kid a signed Cowboys jersey or something.” Pedro laughs. “Long time, Tom, my friend. Good to hear from you. How are things on your end? I hear you and the troops have been busy.”

“You know better than anyone that keeping our borders safe is a twenty-four-hour job, and one that all Americans ought to take seriously. That’s actually why I’m calling. I have a tip for you. Can I stop by?”

Tom noticed the Bronze Bomber around the same time Lorna did. He stood out, so tall and handsome. He had the physical qualities of a leader, despite his observant, passive presence. Tom sensed he might be a distraction. The mild, distant stirring in his own loins were all the proof he needed.

Tom slips a glossy 8-inch by 10-inch photo of him into a large manila envelope and makes the half-hour drive over to Pedro’s office in fifteen minutes.

“What, were you calling me from downstairs, Tom?” Pedro says, welcoming his old buddy into his wood-paneled workspace. “That was quick, brother.”

“Well, it’s kind of important, Pete. And I have to be over at the university within the hour.”

“Busy, busy, busy. Well, you have good timing, and I have good news. You just missed a guy from the Times.”

“New York Times? Who? Why was he here?” Tom asks incredulously, standing up from his chair almost as soon as he sits.

“Doing a story or something. Heard all about you. I told him you’d be here, but he said he’d give you a call and set something up.” Pedro slides a business card across the table to Tom. The raised black script is like a hypnotic swinging pendulum before him. This is it. The moment Tom Landry has been waiting for. The national spotlight. Attention that will catapult him to the steps of Capitol Hill along with the nation’s elite advisors and scholars.

“David Rodríguez,” Tom reads out loud. “General Assignment Reporter.”

“I mean, he just left. I’m surprised you didn’t run into him on your way up here.”

“Jesus. No, I didn’t see anyone,” Tom says, folding down the window blind to look out into the parking lot.

“Well, he said he was gonna get in touch with you. I’d guess either today or tomorrow. He seemed urgent to wrap up his work here. Speaking of which, there’s some work you need me to handle for you, Tommy?”

Still slightly preoccupied, Tom hands Pedro the photo. “Illegal. Pretty dangerous guy from what I can gather. An organizer. Possibly violent. Drugs, I’m guessing.”

Pedro pauses to raise an eyebrow. Opens the envelope. “This isn’t your guy.”

“That’s him, Pete. Looks like a goddamn movie star, doesn’t he? Good news is, he hasn’t been here long. A month maybe.”

“Where did you get your info, Tom?”

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