Samson and Delilah

Chapter three--Delilah

  “Cabron,” I growl, throwing my stuffed animal across my room. It’s a gift from Daddy, something I’m not parting with soon. He gave it to me on my fifth birthday and I named it Killah, after the name of his first dog.

  My thoughts run around on an crooked train track, all headings towards the same direction: Samson. His long, thick brown hair looking soft, covering those bright green eyes. How tall he is, compared to me, my eyes staring straight at his six-pack. Those lanky limbs of his, all gangly and ready to wrap themselves around me. His soft green eyes, teasing, that face of his, giving me a seductive smile that I can’t shake off.

    I let out a series of incoherent snarls that even I can’t understand. “Mierda,” I curse, retrieving Killah from the corner of my room. I press him to my chest, trying to push all thoughts of Samson out of my head. My stomach growls. I want something.

   A picture of candy sitting in a white hand flashes through my head.

   What’s wrong with me?

   It’s a stupid BOY, Delilah. He doesn’t want anything but a good fuck, okay? Get over it, get over him. You don’t want him. You don’t want his candy. You don’t want anything of this. My mind screams at me, but my heart wants to keep him close to me.

   Delilah, his dad’s a killer.

  His dad killed YOUR dad.

  That snaps me into attention. All images of Samson and candy disappear, leaving me with only one image: Daddy, his arms outstretched to me, ready to wrap me in a hug, the day before he was killed.

  I fling myself on my bed, face-down, and press my face into my pillow until I can’t breathe.

**

“Delilah, get out of the car.”

    I glare defiantly at my  mother, aware that sooner or later I’m going to have to get out of this car. But, I can make it last as long as I want to. “No,” I respond, giving her the darkest glare I can manage. Behind her, I see the scenery of the yard, the house. The grass is perfect. Lush, green, looks like you can just lay down in it and take a nap. Not a bug dares get close to it. It’s nada like our chicken-shit yard with scraggly grass, dying flowers, and more rocks than house. The house is a regular plantation home. Two stories, made of wood, painted white. Two huge oak trees line either side of it, its branches sinking down to the ground. I feel the childish urge to lay down on it, but, fuck, I’m not a child, and I’m not here to enjoy myself.

   “Get out the car,” she says, her voice lacking that sternness I’m used to. When Daddy died, I was wild. It was ‘fuck the world’ for me, still is actually. She couldn’t handle me. The only reason she dealt with me when Daddy was alive was because I did whatever he told me. Whatever she said to do, Daddy backed it up and I did it.

   I roll my eyes. “No,” I repeat, as a truck pulls on side of us. Samson. Without my consent, my heart starts beating funny, and a light red blush crosses my face. I look away from him, thinking about Daddy. I only wished Samson looked and acted like his dad—then I would have a valid reason to hate him. But, no, he has to be fucking gorgeous.

   She grabs my hand like she’s going to do something, but I stop her with a look that could freeze hell over. Her eyes pop open in surprise and, albeit, fear. Her eyes are brown, not my eyes, and they’re red-streaked from all that damn drinking. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” I tell her in Spanish. She might not speak it, but she knows enough to slam her door.

   She barks out, “Fine,” and then walks away.

   Samson knocks on my window. “Hello, beautiful,” he teases, grinning. I search his face for any hint of his daddy, and I find none. Mr. Wyler is an evil man, through and through, ruled by pride and jealousy. “You gettin’ out? Or is my room gonna remain dirty again tonight?”