Artifice (Alfonzo Book 20) by S.W. Frank

Author:S.W. Frank [Frank, S.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SWFrank Publishing
Published: 2016-07-02T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Excessive travel takes a physical and mental toll on an overworked man. The altitudinal and time changes left Alfonzo fatigued. His system went into a resting phase and upon awakening he felt sluggish. He forced away some of the yuck by taking deep breaths.

He stretched his eyes, exercised his jaw and then began to feel alive.

He strained his head to peer at his woman, spread atop him with her arms flung wide.

She had removed his clothes, leaving only his boxers and he surmised he’d been dogged tired –plain and simple. He turned his head to see the clock. Damn son, it was three a.m. He arrived home yesterday a little after one in the afternoon, which meant he slept right through to the next day.

He slid Selange to the sheet and then slowly inched out of the bed. He had to use the bathroom.

After answering nature’s call he showered, cleaned the gook from his mouth, and tossed on shorts. When he returned to the bedroom, Selange clutched his pillow, ass poked in the air and a lace string cutting a line between her cheeks. His mouth twisted in indecision.

Eat or feed?

His stomach growled.

Dammit, he chose food.

Alfonzo walked briskly to the kitchen. If anybody played back the home surveillance tape they’d see him at the fridge half-naked, eating out of a white storage container like a savage.

“Ummm, this is fucking good,” he mumbled, forking more cold rice, seasoned meat and colorful vegetables into his mouth. “Did you cook this Babe? Nah!” He laughed with gums and pearly teeth. The spices took him to those Caribbean roots. Alfonzo stepped side to side as he ate. He hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal in days. He cursed his terrible brother for that. “To hell with you Geo. Puerto Rican food tastes better. We have tropical landscapes and you have stone ghettos.” His eyes flashed from the sting of his brother’s comment that he was not Sicilian. They shared Sicilian blood. But Alfonzo’s ties were attached to his mother’s Puerto Rican culture. His every breath derived from those roots. “I should’ve popped your ass!” Alfonzo seethed and then looked down when his fork hit the bottom. “Nah, no mas?” He put the empty container back on the shelf. Fork clutched between his teeth, he bent, pushing items aside to find more food treasures.

His ears twitched at the sound of sliding feet. Someone in slippers approached.

Busted!

He peered over his shoulder. Anita stood there holding an empty glass. “Talking to yourself?”

Alfonzo straightened, closed the fridge and then removed the fork from his mouth. “Hi Anita, how are you?”

She chuckled and headed to the sink. “Muy bien. Sientarse. I’ll heat up your food. Selange hid it from the children. They sneak downstairs just like you.”

He rubbed his nose, irritated by the remark. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

She looked him up and down with a grin. “Yeah right.” She placed the glass in the sink. “Sit!”

He took a seat at the nook, and placed his foot up and slightly reclined. A customer in a crappy diner had better manners.

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