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“Not tonight, Senor. The whole town is shut down for the festival. The Embalse de Toros.”
“A festival? Seriously?” Bull could picture carnival rides and cotton candy booths. Not exactly his style.
The desk clerk winked at him. “Dancing. Drinking. Good food. Many beautiful senoritas.”
“Now we’re talking.” Bull grinned. “Which way to this festival?”
The clerk gave him directions and Bull took off, deciding to walk instead of calling a cab. He’d heard about the craziness of Mexican cab drivers. His pathway took him down narrow cobblestone streets, flanked by tiny shops on either side, all filled with homemade wares. He imagined on a normal day, the area would be teaming with locals, vendors hawking their goods, the smell of exotic food filling the air. In the distance, he could hear music – a driving Latin beat. The farther he walked, the louder the music became.
Bull’s eyes widened, taking in the sights. Even though night was falling, everything seemed brighter here, the colors more intense. The trees and every conceivable surface were highlighted with tiny white lights. People were milling about and their voices mingled. Knowing very little Spanish, he could only make out a familiar word or two. A small cantina beckoned him and Bull sidled up to the bar, asking for a shot of tequila.
After being served, he moved closer to the counter, taking a sip of the drink. “Smooth, gracias.” He toasted the bartender, before turning his attention to a mirror hanging on the back wall, which gave him a good view of the crowded lane behind him. There was no vehicle traffic, the whole area was blocked off for pedestrians. A steady stream of people wearing costumes flowed behind him. Most everything reminded him of Mardi Gras, except with a distinctly Spanish flair.
“Otro?” the bartender said in a questioning tone.
“I’m sorry,” Bull enunciated extra slowly. “I only speak English.”
“Ah. Another?” The bartender held up a plastic shot glass.
“Yea, hit me again.” Bull pounded the table with a smile. “What else is going on? Any strippers?”
The man smiled, showing off a gold front tooth, filling his drink order. “Not at the festival, senor, but there are flamenco dancers. Later, there will be the running of the bulls.” He gestured to the side, where an older woman wearing a peasant blouse and a colorful skirt was flipping tortillas over a small grill. “Could I interest you in some enchiladas or tamales?”
“Maybe, later.” Bull glanced down the street. “Where did you say those dancers were?”
Following the bartender’s directions, he ventured down the street with his drink in hand. Spying the described patio lit by lanterns and decorated with lacy wrought iron, he headed for it. The music was good, he supposed, but Mexican music just wasn’t his favorite. It didn’t speak to him like country and western music did. Truthfully, his mind really didn’t get lost in the complexities of any kind of music, it was just something to listen to while he drank and compared the normally sad lyrics to his own messed-up life. As he drew closer, he could see three caballeros strumming flamenco guitars, all seated in a roped off area. Surrounding the men were impossibly beautiful women; all of them with great bodies, glowing olive skin, wavy ebony hair and eye-popping, bright dresses that hugged them in all the right places.
Bull found a seat at a small café table and took another sip of tequila. The familiar warmth of the alcohol trickled down his throat, into his belly, and radiated out into the rest of his body. Bending his head, he bowed his back, stretching his muscles. He could tangibly feel his stiff shoulders and neck begin to relax. When he looked up, he almost dropped the glass.
“Ole! Ole!” The musicians shouted as another woman came on the scene and nothing – nothing could have prepared him for what he beheld.
A vision of feminine perfection stood before him, her sensual curvy body molded lovingly in the same bright red as a matador’s cape and all Bull wanted to do was charge and claim. “Holy fuck,” he whispered, mesmerized. What he could see of her face was beautiful, the rest was hidden by a delicate lace mask. But her long flowing hair and the way she moved – God, the way she moved was sin itself – wonderful, captivating sin.
She put her hands in the air, drawn in little flowers of pursed fingers. As she threw her head back in a haughty little gesture, her expression changed completely. Bull could imagine a fire had ignited in her core and the flames licked upward into her arms and eyes. Her skin seemed to glow with sensual heat.
Bull put his drink down on the table, he couldn’t be trusted to hold it aright.
“Ole!” The men exclaimed again as their guitars burst into life. The girl snapped her fingers with the rhythm and started to dance. Her feet tapped with a staccato beat, even as her body flowed into a graceful S. The dress began to sway around her feet and the weight of its shifting pulled back and forth sensuously in a seductive whisper across her hips. With arms lifted high, she thrust her breasts out just for him, her body swaying, those small feet stomping in the same rhythm as his pulse. This woman was a fuckin’ wet dream, his every fantasy come to life. To Bull’s ever-loving surprise, he felt his cock grow large, becoming harder by the second. Throbbing. Pulsing. “Oh, thank God,” he groaned.
He wasn’t dead, he was still a man.
Staring at the woman before him, Bull couldn’t have looked away if his life depended on it. As he leaned forward, she leaned back. The erotic vision looked up, he could tell her mind was in the music, not on what she was seeing. Her eyes were free to burn with the flames that crackled into life when the dance began. From where he sat, he could gaze right into those compelling orbs. He didn’t have a choice. She captivated him. Hypnotized him.
The fire in his soul grew hotter as the rhythm of her feet dropped from quarter beats to eighth beats and beyond. She curled her lips slightly upward in a sexy snarl, unable to hide her passion for the dancing and the music. Her arms swirled around her, directing his eyes here and there, to her face, to her feet, to her hips. Occasionally she would straighten and her fingers would point to the heavens, other times she would fall, her spine almost parallel to the ground, before rising, her eyes still staring into infinity.
“Look at me, baby,” he whispered, because he certainly couldn’t stop eating her up with his eyes.
Suddenly the guitar stopped, but the rhythm continued with the clapping and snapping of the guitarists and the surrounding spectators. The attention that fell on her rose like a tide, and nobody in the crowd moved, except for his dancer and the hearts beating thunderously for her.
Bull bit his lip, almost bringing blood.
On stage, Isabella was totally immersed in the passion of the dance. The flamenco was an integral part of her. She could lose herself in the energy, become one with the arousing notes and the powerful chords. As she turned, she took one last glance at the crowd. Usually, she took very little notice of those who watched, some throwing money at her feet. But tonight, as her gaze skated over the audience, her eyes got hung up on one very large, very handsome cowboy.
“Ah, mi dios!” Unusual for her, Isabella missed a step. If she hadn’t been sure-footed, she would’ve fallen on her face. Thankfully, she caught herself, hopefully making the misstep appear to be intentional. “Ay-yi-yi,” Isabella whispered, reacting to the sight of her fantasy man come to life. This big cowboy could’ve stepped right out of her dreams. “Ummmm,” she purred, dancing closer to the edge, hungry for a closer look. “Ay, Chihuahua.”
All her life, she’d been entranced by the American cowboy. She’d inhaled every television show and movie, crushing on the stars and memorizing the lines. The man-candy in the audience was a cross between movie stars Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, and Chris Hemsworth – in other words, he was perfect. No linen suit for this man; he wore tight blue jeans, a long sleeve western shirt with snaps, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. Broad in the shoulder and narrow in the hip, Isabella wanted to curl her arms around his neck and see if his kiss tasted as good as he looked.
The guitars started again and the musicians sang with gusto, all of them together a perfectly tuned machine. Now that she had someone in the audience she wanted to impress, Isabella stepped back and spun her heart out, the flame red dress swirling around her. When their eyes locked, she felt her spirit soar. He was watching her with the same intensity.
