Made For You

Ch. 2: Senorita

Gabriel

My new to-be wife's room must be the result of a princess vomiting all her thoughts. The walls are pink, not something I would expect from a twenty-two-year-old; there is a bed with a fucking canopy and sheets that are a lighter shade of the same pink (cue the gag control); her desk is a mess of journals (all pink); her walls have posters of film stars, The Rock, a guy I recently saw grinning like an idiot on a Times Square, some celebrity popstars and others. There is a white armoire tucked inside a pink wall, and an attached bathroom door where she has put on a 'Privacy Please' sign.

The most catching thing of all?

There are rows and rows of books. The room is a little less grand than mine at the mansion but still holds a lot of space for all the books. There are literary fiction books, science fiction, fantasy, a little pink stack with fairy lights that holds some books with really fancy titles, books on personality development, books on self-improvement, etc. Lining each shelf, are rows of photo frames with pictures of her with a boy I don't know.

Those are the only things in the room that don't complement the report I was given years ago about what she was like. She used to hate reading books. What got her to suddenly change her tastes?

I sift through the thoughts while perched on her windowsill, fixing my gaze on her set of double doors, waiting for her to enter.

A peppering of light footsteps across the marbled flooring catches my attention and soon enough, my little graduate wife waltzes into her room...crying?

Her father had whisked her off in a hurry after her undaunted pronouncement for me. Must have been a long and harsh chat. He had met up with me after that, offering me a fumbling explanation, ready to beg for mercy when I told him it didn't matter as I would like his other daughter first to understand the situation.

She doesn't notice me invading her personal space, her hands busy rubbing her tears. She enters and slams the doors shut, moving to sit on the edge of her bed with her back to me. I stay silent, feeling a little guilty for having caught her in such a vulnerable moment. I wouldn't want anyone to ever see me cry.

Not that I ever cry.

She is no longer in the wet dress she was wearing before. Instead, she has on a pale blue dress with a high waistline. Her flowy mane of long, brunette hair reaches her waist in waves. Her figure is small with curves and a round pair of thighs. I found her gorgeous an hour ago when she was drenched in the rain, her clothes sticking to her body, causing her greying father to be embarrassed when she ambushed us this way.

I take a handkerchief from my dress pants pocket, holding it out for her.

"Need a shoulder?" I ask.

Her sobbing stops, shoulders halting in an upright position when my voice greets her. I stare at her back for a long time, the seconds ticking between us. She doesn't move, except for her hand which I spot sliding down under the mattress.

I am too used to those tactics so even before she can turn, I am moving away from my position just as she jumps up, spins, and cocks the gun, shooting straight where she speculated I was.

Where I indeed was.

The bullet pierces the glass, making it shatter into a thousand pieces. She gasps, emerald eyes wide when she sees what she has done. She sees me standing to the side, about five feet away from her window now and a flash of rage takes ownership of her round face, curling her thin lips into a snarl. She moves her gun to point it right at me.

She opens her mouth to say something when a loud knock on her door causes her to seal her mouth back.

"Gabriel! What the fuck is happening?" I hear Fabio's shout, and the door rocks harder. "Gabriel! Open the bloody damn door."