Say When

by Tara West

  “I’ll ask her and get back to you.” Andrés says, and then he mentally smacks himself upside the head for even suggesting it. Christina won’t want to waste her talents painting cars.

  “She in the shower, mijo?” Tio chuckles. “Should you bring her by the house instead?”

  Andrés freezes. Maybe calling his uncle wasn’t such a good idea. The old man is too smart for his own good.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,” he says through a nervous laugh. Actually, he doesn’t know if she is ready for that yet. He knows how his family can be, and he isn’t about to throw Christina into a pack of wild coyotes. She’ll run away for sure. “I’ll see if she needs a job and get back to you.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Tio answers with a note of impatience in his voice.

  He’s plagued by doubt after he hangs up the phone. Christina’s work should be hanging in expensive art galleries. She’s a college student, and judging by the way she speaks and dresses, a wealthy one. Why would she want to go to work for his uncle in the slums?

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m sipping sweet coffee and munching on crunchy bacon, giving Andrés coy smiles while he’s looking at my website on his laptop.

  “I gotta look at your paintings again,” he said to me this morning, before he kissed me on the cheek, rolled out of bed, and went into the kitchen with his computer tucked under his arm.

  By the time I’d gotten out of the shower, the heavenly scents of bacon and coffee assailed my senses, so I’d brushed my teeth, slipped on my clean undies, jeans, and ripped shirt, and gone into the kitchen to find breakfast ready, and Andrés drooling over my portfolio.

  Amazingly, I don’t feel awkward this time around. Not one bit. I’m sitting at his kitchen table, slathering butter and jelly on toast while he shakes his head from behind his screen. I want to know what image he’s looking at but I don’t say a thing. Instead, I admire the angular contours of his face, his high cheekbones and lush, full lips. I’m not exactly the religious type, but I think that this boy had to have been personally designed by a higher power. I’m not very good with clay, which saddens me, because with his finely sculpted body, he’d make a beautiful statue. I do want to draw him, though, and again my hands itch for a pad and pencil.

  He looks up from the screen and eyes me pointedly. “So you looking for a job?”

  “I haven’t been.” Thanks to all those college credits I took my senior year of high school plus my full schedule for the past three years, I only have one semester left. I’d planned on taking this summer off. Jackson and I were going to travel to his family’s summer home, and I thought I could paint while I was there. Last summer, I earned five grand from just a few murals.

  “Are you almost finished with school?” Andrés asks.

  I’m shocked he knows so little about me, and yet we’ve already shared two incredible nights of passion.

  “Yeah,” I say. “This fall is my last semester.”

  “You must have a ton of jobs lined up,” Andrés says.

  I laugh and shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Nope?” He eyes me skeptically. “There’s so much you can do with your talents.”

  I don’t know how to respond to his praise, so I sip my coffee, pretending I’m really thirsty. I haven’t thought enough about a job after college. I’ve been so consumed by my mother’s schemes to get Jackson to set a date. My dream has always been to open my own art studio, either that or work as a freelance graphic designer. Occasionally, I do sell a few of my paintings or digital designs off my website, but with my studies, I haven’t had time to really get my name out there. I’ve always thought after college I could use Jackson’s family’s connections to help me get established.

  Now that I don’t have those connections, I need to work on promoting myself, which will be difficult since I’m probably the worst critic of my work. No matter how hard I try to perfect a creation, I always find myself wanting to fix minor details later.

  “How about you?” I ask, needing to change the subject. I’ve always felt more comfortable talking about other people’s skills, not my own. “What are your plans?”

  I eye him with baited breath. This is when I cross my fingers, and hope and pray he’s got some serious aspirations, because even though I tell myself I don’t give a damn what my mother thinks anymore, I know deep down I do. I hate myself for craving her validation. I’ve got some serious mommy issues.

  He heaves a sigh before looking at me. I can see his thoughts trouble him, so I don’t say anything as I wait for him to speak.

  “I just got home five weeks ago,” he says. “I’m still adjusting.”

  “Five weeks?” I ask. “Where were you?”

  “Afghanistan, mostly.”

  A darkness settles over him. It’s in the subtle changes of his face, and when he looks into my eyes, it’s like a weight is pressing on my chest. Karri’s brother once said a lot of soldiers come back from the war depressed, so I’m afraid I’ll upset Andrés if I ask him any more questions.

  Luckily, I don’t need to wait long before Andrés changes the subject. “My uncle’s got a paint and body shop. Do you know anything about air brushing?”

  “Yeah. I’ve airbrushed before.” I perk up, thinking back to my first artistic job. The logos I air-brushed on every boat were my own design, a beautiful Dorado with brilliant blue and gold hues, jumping out of the water. The name of my dad’s dealership was just below the splash. I got lots of compliments on that design, and I never got sick of painting it because I made each one slightly different. My dad only paid me twenty bucks a logo, but it got me out of the house and away from my controlling mother.

  Andrés slants a sideways smile, and he looks like he’s brewing up trouble. “So do you want to go meet him? Maybe show him your work?”

  “Right now?” I look down at my clothes. Not only did Andrés rip my shirt, he popped off two buttons.

  “Yeah.” Andrés shrugs, trying to look noncommittal, but he’s still got that devious gleam in his eyes. “I know he’d want to meet you. He needs an artist.”

  “Like air brushing on cars?” I toy with a piece of bacon, looking skeptically at Andrés. I don’t know why, but the thought of auditioning for an art job twists my stomach in knots.

  “Whatever they bring into the shop. I’ve seen buses, boats, motorcycles.” Andrés downs the last of his coffee. I notice how his hand slightly shakes when he sets his mug on the table. “Is that something you can do?” There’s a nervous edge to his voice as he breaks eye-contact and focuses on a crumb on the table.

  “Yeah,” I answer hesitantly before popping the bacon in my mouth.

  Andrés rises and stretches. I notice his hands still shake, and then I get an eyeful of rippling muscles from beneath his tank top.

  “His artists usually make five hundred to a thousand a design.” There’s a hopeful gleam in his eyes as the rest of his body stills. It’s almost like he’s forgotten to breathe as he waits for me to respond.

  But I can’t respond right away, because my brain is screaming five hundred to a thousand dollars!

  I gag as a wedge of bacon gets lodged in my throat. I have to swallow several gulps of coffee just to get it to go down.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before looking up at him with wide eyes. “Seriously? I could afford my own apartment with that kind of money.”

  He smiles as his body starts to visibly relax. He walks over to the counter and pours himself another cup of coffee. “Does that mean you want to apply for the job?”

  “I need to go home first. I don’t have anything to wear.” I wave at my torn shirt.

  Andrés arches a brow as he leans back against the counter. “Did I do that?”

  I bite my lip while averting my gaze. Images of last night swirl through my brain and I flush as I think about going back into the bedroom with Andrés again. “I’m pretty sure you did.”

  “I owe you a shirt.”

&nb
sp; “Don’t worry about it.” I hesitantly smile. I swear my internal temperature is hotter than my steaming coffee. “It was worth it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Whatever this is that Andrés and I have together, whether it be casual sex or “something more,” I’m pretty sure I am royally screwing up our relationship by starting it off with a total lie. Rather than having him take me to my house so I can get a change of clothes, he’s taking me to my apartment.

  Yes, that’s right. My apartment, which is actually Grace’s apartment. She gave me a spare key last month when she asked me to look after her little dog while she flew to Vegas for the weekend. I would have taken her Chihuahua home with me, except the evil shit tried to chew off my toes whenever I came near. So twice a day, I fed him, strapped him to a leash while only managing to lose the skin off a few fingers, and took him for a walk.

  Then I tied him up by his neck and hung him from the rafters.

  No, I kid, but the fantasy did cross my mind. I’d left him alone in Grace’s apartment, not feeling the slightest bit guilty, because I knew if I brought him home with me, he would have slit my throat with his little claws while I slept.

  My hand shakes as I try to fit the key into Grace’s apartment door. This is supposed to be easy. Andrés is not supposed to be hovering behind me, but I couldn’t convince him to wait in the car. He said he needed to use the restroom, but I’m not so sure. Somehow I get the feeling Andrés just wants to see inside my apartment. I didn’t see Grace’s car in the parking lot, and I’m hoping she isn’t home because I don’t want her to freak when we walk inside her front door.

  When I finally pry open the lock and spill inside Grace’s doorway, four pounds of tan and black, fluffy ferociousness is waiting for me, growling so hard, I swear his entire head looks like a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. I wonder if this thing is part piranha.

  “Are you sure you’re at the right house?” Andrés says at my back.

  My neck and spine stiffen, and I’m too embarrassed to turn around and look at him. Why didn’t I tell Andrés the truth? That I live in a museum with a psychopath. But I already know why. My mom would have scared him away.

  I foolishly decide my best option is to play if off. I realize I’m digging an even deeper hole of bullshit, but I can’t stop myself. “He’s just being protective of his house. He doesn’t know you,” I say to Andrés. Then I smile sweetly at the mutt, aptly named Diablo, and try shooing him away.

  The dog doesn’t budge. His claws are planting roots in the carpet as he holds his ground. Amazing how so much evil can be compacted into a little ball of fluff.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Grace comes out of her bedroom wrapped in a cotton robe. She’s toweling her wet hair and, much to my relief, she’s not looking startled we’re here.

  “Andrés, this is my roommate, Grace.” I make a big show of sweeping my arm toward both of them, widening my eyes at Grace and praying she plays along. “Grace, this is Andrés. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

  “Nah.” She shrugs, flashing a knowing smile. “I needed to take Diablo for a walk, anyway.”

  She whistles to Diablo, but he doesn’t budge, so I grab Andrés’s hand and carefully make a wide circle around Diablo. Andrés chuckles behind me while I pull him toward the bedroom.

  “Wait!” Grace calls at my back. “Violet is taking a shower.”

  My jaw falls open. “Violet?” I murmur, and then I silently curse myself for acting surprised. I remember what Rodeo Chick looks like—spiked black hair, lots of denim, leather and tats—and I’m kind of shocked her name is Violet.

  Andrés arches a brow. “Your other roommate?”

  I swallow, casting a nervous glance at Grace. She shrugs back at me, so I nod.

  I leave Andrés with Grace and rush inside her bedroom. I can hear the shower water running as I cross the floor toward Grace’s sliding closet door. I recognize a T-shirt I’d lent Grace last week and yank it off the hanger. I throw my ripped shirt into her wastebasket and slip on the other one. I’m back out of her bedroom and pulling Andrés by the hand.

  Grace is in the kitchen brewing coffee.

  “Thanks!” I call toward her as we hurry past the demon dog and out the door.

  And then I cringe. Why did I just thank her for allowing me into my apartment? Andrés has to know what’s up, but he doesn’t say anything as we walk down the stairs and hop inside his truck.

  * * *

  Andrés clenches the steering wheel so tight, he feels the leather crack beneath his grip. Why had she taken him to someone else’s apartment? The same reason she walked out on him yesterday? Is Andrés nothing more than a casual fuck for a pretty college girl? Just a way to pass the summer until she finds a rich college boy to marry? Is that why she won’t take him to her home? She doesn’t want him to know where she lives, so she can easily walk away when she grows tired of fucking him?

  Andrés keeps his gaze centered on the road while a million possible reasons for Christina’s deception run through his head. Of one thing he is certain. That dog was barking at her because she was a stranger. Then the realization hits him. He’s spent two amazing, passionate nights with this woman, yet she is every bit a stranger to him, too.

  * * *

  “So where do you really live?”

  I exhale the pent up breath I’ve been holding. Andrés has been suspiciously silent for the past ten minutes as we drive down the highway toward his uncle’s shop. And though I have been dreading this conversation, I am just so relieved to get it off my chest.

  “With my psychotic mother,” I say, not wanting to look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to meet her.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  I hear the hurt in his voice and I feel terrible. Why didn’t I just tell him the truth? Now he’ll probably never trust me. But then I think what would have happened if I’d have brought Andrés home to my mother. A shiver steals up my spine.

  “That my mom’s a psycho?” I look out the window as I clench my fists so tight, my nails break the skin. “Why would I want to tell you that?”

  “So she doesn’t like Mexicans. Is that it?”

  I turn to him, and a laugh dies in my throat. “I don’t think she cares as long as you’re rich.” My limbs freeze as the color drains from his face. Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. “But it doesn’t matter to me, Andrés,” I hastily add. “I don’t care how much you make. I like you. I really like you.”

  I’m pretty sure I stop breathing, and time seems to move in slow motion as a tic works in his jaw. Otherwise, he’s about as motionless as me. We stop at a red light, and he stares out the window. I wish I could take back the last half hour of my life.

  The light turns green and, as he taps the accelerator, he heaves a sigh. Or maybe it’s a groan. I’m not quite sure, but it doesn’t matter, as either one is bad. I cover my face with my hands and suppress the urge to scream. What the heck is wrong with me? Maybe this is why my mom and Jackson have always kept me on a tight leash. Maybe they know I can’t control myself.

  I jerk back and get pissed at myself for thinking I need someone to control me. That’s the old Christina talking. “Look, I’m sorry I lied to you.” I’m suddenly choked up as the realization hits me I might have already blown it big time with Andrés. “Are you mad?”

  “No, I’m not mad.”

  He reaches over and squeezes my hand, and the tension in my neck unwinds. I smile at him while willing the churning in my stomach to subside.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Andrés’s uncle’s shop isn’t on the best side of town, but the entire area is surrounded by a high fence with surveillance cameras at just about every post. Every door and window on the building is protected by iron bars. I don’t know if I feel comforted or worried by the extra security. The building is big and bright blue, painted with graffiti art. As I look around at some of the finished cars and trucks in the parking lot, tripped out with huge flashy rims and
gaudy scenes of slavering pit bulls, Virgin Marys, and half-naked girls, I get this sinking feeling in my gut that I am the wrong artist for this job.

  “This is your uncle’s shop?” I say as I look up at the huge Cruz Paint and Body billboard overhead. It sports an illustration of a shiny new truck with flames on the sides. “I thought I saw another Cruz shop across town.”

  “He owns shops all over Texas,” Andrés answers as he punches a code into a box next to the entrance. “Mostly repair and tire centers.”

  “Uh huh,” I say absently as we walk inside. The waiting room is divided by a huge Plexiglas wall with a cashier’s desk behind it. Again, this should make me feel safe, but it doesn’t. Then again, maybe this is standard protocol for all of the shops.

  “My uncle was real upset when his best artist quit. He’s going to love you.” Andrés smiles as he leads me through a side door.

  I try my best to smile back as I follow him down the hallway and out into the garage. I don’t think Andrés’s uncle will love me. I can’t do a lot of the artwork I’m sure his clients expect. Actually, I probably could, but I won’t airbrush heaving tits spilling out of bikini tops. I just won’t.

  The garage is huge, large enough to accept tall boats and semi-trucks. Several bay doors line the side wall. I figure most of the painting takes place behind the doors. We ascend a staircase that runs up the back wall. At the top, I notice another Plexiglas window. This office is huge, covering the entire width of the garage.

  “Tio, this is Christina,” Andrés says as he pulls me beside him.

  I swear, I’m so nervous, the coffee and bacon rebel in my stomach.

  A man wearing a large white Stetson, boots and jeans with a Cruz Automotive T-shirt stands up from behind a desk to greet me. Like Andrés, he’s tall. Beneath the hat, his hair is greying at the roots. He smiles as he holds out his hand, and I think of Andrés’s smile.

  We shake and say something like “hi” or “hello.” I have no idea what I’m saying to this smiling man with the very strong grip. My stomach makes this weird grumbling noise, and I hope I can keep it together. I’m fairly certain crapping all over the floor wouldn’t make a good impression on Andrés’s Uncle, and it would pretty much be a turn-off for Andrés.