Pudica Darling. #SOScuba

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Chapter 5

A headache was a normal monthly recurrence as Pudica's biological clock announced her period. Except, this time it came too early. The stress of being in danger could have also caused the throbbing pain.
She wanted to run and tell her aunt and uncle as they were older thus wiser.
But if she died, the inheritance would automatically go to Ninel, which translated to a grand plan to scare Pudica into surrendering the Fanjul endowment.
Oh, her sister had to hear from her.
With a pulsating brain, she grabbed Oliver's laptop and looked for the highest-rated hotels near his gym. The lavish Ninel had to be in one of them. She called three numbers before she got a hold of a Mrs. Fanjul-Zayas. The second last name was irrelevant. She hung up and requested a taxi through a phone application that Oliver downloaded for her.




When Ninel opened the door to her hotel room, she whined with drooping eyes and toilet paper stuck up her nose.
"How did you find me?" She fastened her silk robes around her waist and dropped face first on the king-size bed.
The Presidential suite was unrecognizable: dirty napkins by the bathroom, television set, and on the furniture. The contents of her purse scattered on the floor. A brassier hung from the night lamp.
"I won't stay here long, so I'll cut to the chase." Pudica held her forehead, feeling another headache coming. "Your intimidation tactics didn't work with me. There is no Cuban mafia after me or they would've killed me already. Our father left me most of his money because if he gave it to you, you'd probably use it on Norwegian cruisers, extravagant hotel rooms, and lobster."
"Pea-brain, your yapping is so annoying," Ninel mumbled.
Pudica rolled her eyes and walked toward the exit.
"Where are you going?" her sister called in a weak voice.
"I said what I needed to say. Adios." She held the doorknob.
"Hol' up, help me up." Ninel hefted her arm.
Pudica made sounds of disapproval. She eyed the lever, then her sister. Whether sick or hungover, the woman shared some of her genes, so she stood by the bed, and pulled her torso upright.
"Pudica, I don't want your inheritance," Ninel wobbled and gasped for air. "I started working at Papi's company when I was fourteen, and he made sure I knew my way around the industry before he died."
The sick woman closed her eyes. After a short silence, she spoke again. "Mosta-dat-nonney—Most of that money comes from his side business. He served the mafia with yachts and cabin cruisers for their human trafficking operations in Cuba. Now that he's dead, they don't have access to his accounts."
The nineteen-year-old teen sat on the bed slowly, digesting it all. Her father made a life doing illegal things, hurting people. Even if he provided transportation, he was guilty by association.
She grew up wondering what was so wrong with having another daughter to love. It wasn't her fault she came from her father's mistress. At least that criminal hadn't raised her.
"But if they kill me, they still can't get into the accounts. All of it goes to you," she said.
"To the last penny. Reason enough to avoid at all costs." Her sister dropped back on the bed. "Let me rest for a bit. Stay, I'll explain more."
“Later."
She understood. They were coming for both of them. By saving her, Ninel also protected herself. Pudica's headache pounced on her skull. The bedroom was the safest option until she could tell her aunt and call the police.




Oliver laid his back on a work-out bench and wrapped his fingers around a barbell hovering above him. Sutton and Quentin grabbed two grip plates each and loaded both sides of the metallic bar.
"My verdict is, she's not a whore." Sutton pressed his glasses between his eyes.
"How can you tell from one conversation with her?" Oliver strained as he lowered the barbell to his chest.
"I'm going by what you've told us," he replied. "You say she doesn't go out much, enjoys cooking; no boyfriends either."
"That I know of."
Quentin loaded two smaller plates and shook his head. "What is the factual question here? Is your cousin a loose girl or does she have a boyfriend?"
Oliver sat up, picked a towel from his backpack, and wiped his sweaty face with it. "First, she is not my cousin. Aunt Betsy's my god-mother. Why are we speaking about this?"
"You started it." Sutton and Quentin followed him into the locker room.
"No, I didn't." That prompted a laugh from both friends. Oliver turned to them. "What?"
"You haven't stopped talking about that girl, and how her cooking's gon'a make you fat, and how she wears short shorts around the house." Sutton laughed.
“What do you want with her?" said Quentin.




That afternoon, Oliver grabbed everything he needed from his locker, and left it to his associates to close the gym. Sutton's annoying mockery surpassed tolerance levels. It angered him his friends were right.
She had him stuck to her leg like a dog. If she did so much as to look at him, he found meaning behind it. He wanted her; sexually, that is. Girlfriend: not what he needed. The last one broke up with him because he worked too much, and he didn't plan on slowing down until he franchised his gym and made it the best in America.
Everything about his god-parents' niece screamed trouble. Living with her and not touching her was torture. If only she wanted the same thing. He imagined that in the shower, but his palm was not as warm as the area between a woman's legs. Water poured down his skin, while he strangled his sex.
"Pudica."
Oliver was such a loser.
He could have paid a prostitute to finish the job. Paying for pleasure felt so abnormal and dirty. He'd pay a female—whom probably had a venereal disease and was a drug addict—to fuck him unwillingly. Just because she would service him, didn't mean she liked it. And most of her payment would go to her boss, a woman-beater and low level gangster.
Maybe if he showed Pudica he cared, she would have sex with him. Women loved sex, too. He could reason with her and explain concisely why a purely sexual relationship was beneficial to her. No lady should take offense in that. His attention was flattering. He would tell her how strikingly gorgeous she was.
The horny man made sure he brushed his mane and jumped into his best pair of jeans. He would not show empty-handed, so he drove to the nearest gas station, and bought condoms and a chocolate bar.
As he stepped inside the kitchen, he expected to find Pudica, but his god-mother was preparing dinner instead.
Odd.
The girl cooked something almost every day.
"Ah, you're making supper tonight." Oliver hid the candy bar in his pocket.
"I'm thinking light and quick," said Betsy. "Pudica has been in her bedroom all afternoon, so I don't think she has plans to cook anything."
"Whatever you make, I'll eat it." Oliver kissed Betsy on the cheek, and headed toward the hallway. "I'll go pay some bills. Be right back."
When his god-mother wasn't looking, he switched directions to Pudica's bedroom.
"Pudica? It's Oliver. May I come in?" He knocked softly, so that Betsy didn’t hear him from the kitchen.
"Piu?" he responded to a soft moan. "May I come in?" he repeated. The next sound sounded like a "yah," so he invited himself inside.
The girl was sitting on the bed with an expanding chest. Her bare nipples poking through thin satin fabric. She didn't bother covering for him. That was a friendly sign. Her cheeks glowing and her eyes gleaming as if he had taken her breath away. That was the look of I-need-to-have-you-right-now.
"Hi, pudding. I brought you this," he took out the chocolate bar and placed it on her bed. "Okay, here it goes. I think we should have sex."
"Oh, God!" she replied.
That either meant, "Oh, God, yes, let's do it," or, "Oh, God, you're disgusting." She had what looked like an excited expression, so he chose the most convenient translation.
"Girl, you're gorgeous. Your body's so so so—"
"I can't breathe." She pulled on the collar of her shirt, showing more cleavage.
"Me neither," he floated toward her.
But Pudica balanced herself off the bed and held onto the mattress. “I can’t breathe.” She heaved and fell by his feet.
It wasn't a figure of speech. She was missing air. He kneeled beside her, slid his arm under her shoulders, and called her name. She was hot—not sexually, but in a more concerning form. The poor girl was sick, and he was a jackass.
As she went unconscious, he yelled for Aunt Betsy, and marked an emergency number on his phone.


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