I rounded the large tree that shaded about half the courtyard, and the first person I spotted was Miguel. He was fifty-eight years old, although he appeared much younger. He had minimal flecks of gray in his pitch-black hair, and only a few age lines graced his face. His figure was trim. He really was in his prime. In fact, at this moment, wearing a pressed pair of khakis and baby blue polo, with a genuine smile on his face, I’d guess women would consider him good looking.
Across from him was Alejandro. The elder Álvarez was polished and almost debonair. The younger was a punk. He wore tattered jeans several sizes too big, cinched tightly at the waist with a giant belt. His oversized basketball jersey was tucked in at the front but then hung sloppily down to mid-thigh, and the gold chains around his neck were quintessential douchebag. Add in the aviator glasses and his whole persona screamed he was trying too hard.
“Tomás, welcome back. I assume there were no complications today.” Miguel asked, his hand outstretched to shake mine.
“Yes, sir. Everything went as planned.”
“Wonderful. You know Alejandro, of course. And this beautiful woman is Gabriela.”
My vision was consumed with the woman who stepped forward, her arm looped through the man-child’s next to her. Hair of varying shades of brown, from light to dark, was curled and fell down around her slender shoulders, a few tendrils cupping her perfectly sized breasts. She was absolutely stunning, and everything in me screamed danger.