by Tara West
I shake my head. “I wasn’t happy with Jackson.”
Her face is as red as an over-ripe apple. “But a mechanic?” she shrieks. “A Mexican mechanic?” she adds in a voice so shrill, I fight the urge to cover my ears with my hands.
I gape at her.
And then in the blink of an eye, her demeanor changes. She turns up her nose and smooths her coiffure, pretending to be pressing loose strands back into place on her hair helmet. “It’s not that I mind you dating minorities,” she says in a haughty tone, “as long as they’re…” She pauses, acting like she’s looking for the right word, when I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“Rich, Mom,” I answer with a groan. “You don’t care as long as he’s rich.”
“Exactly. I mean, I’m hip to the new trend of dating dark-skinned men. Look how well it turned out for Tiger Woods’s wife.”
I swear to God, I must have been descended from aliens. I rub the sudden pain above my left temple. As if my aching body isn’t enough, now I have a Mother-induced migraine. “Mom, he cheated on her, and they divorced.”
She nods a little too eagerly. “Yes, and she got a ton of money out of it.”
I clutch my purse and turn away. Forget the damn bath. I just have to get out of this house and far away from this woman. “I’ve got to go.”
“Where are you going now?” she snaps.
I don’t answer her as I jerk open the door and stomp toward my car.
“We are not through discussing this, young lady,” Mother calls at my back in that nails-on-chalkboard voice. “If you want to live under my roof, you must bring home respectable young men.”
Respectable? What makes her think Andrés isn’t respectable?
I almost turn back to unleash a torrent of angry words, but it would do no good. She’s set in her ways, a selfish, prejudiced bitch. That this woman is my mother makes my heart ache, and I wonder, not for the first time, if she even loves me, if she has ever loved anyone but herself.
As I get into my car and start the ignition, I know where I need to go. I need to go see a mother who loves her children, the woman who has been the only real mother figure in my life. She’s always been there for me, and I need to be reassured now more than ever that loving parents exist.
* * *
“Christina, sweetheart. How nice to see you.”
I’m staring at Karri’s mom, and I’m suddenly at a loss for words. The woman looks so worn. Her once bright hazel eyes are now dull and lifeless. Brittle strands of long, grey hair cascade loosely down her back. Her sallow skin hangs off her bones. She’s lost a lot of weight these past few years, because she’s so busy taking care of everyone else, she has no time to eat.
Two years ago, Karri’s father suffered a major stroke, and now he just sits in his wheel chair, motionless. Karri’s family doesn’t have good insurance, so Mrs. Peterson had to quit her teaching job and become his full-time nursemaid. They live off a modest retirement income. I honestly don’t know how Mrs. Peterson manages to keep afloat and still remain so nice to everyone.
I don’t ever remember Karri’s parents raising their voices at her, and believe me, there were plenty of times when she’s deserved it. They are the most devoted, loving parents I’ve ever known, and I can’t deny I resent Karri taking them for granted. She should be over here helping her mother, not getting high, not fucking random guys.
And to think, I came here to unload on this woman. What the hell is wrong with me? She has enough troubles.
Mrs. Peterson gently pats my hand. “Sweetheart, is something troubling you?”
I swallow a lump in my throat and will my watery eyes not to leak. I will not burden her. “I left my sunglasses here yesterday.”
“Yes, I know.” She smiles and holds open the door. “I set them aside for you. Come in.”
I follow her in, noting how she walks with an exaggerated limp. She’s had three knee surgeries in the past ten years. None of them have done any good. Still, she refuses to complain about her health.
We pass Karri’s father in the darkened living room. He’s sitting in his wheelchair, staring vacantly at a game show on television. A pang slices through me when we walk down a narrow hallway. Pictures of Tyler crowd every possible spot on the walls. There’s even more baby pictures in the kitchen. The refrigerator is a monument to the little guy. I worry about Ty. Karri was in no condition to be a parent when she took him home yesterday. I fear Karri’s too stoned to take care of him. He could be hungry or wet. He could be crawling out the door of her upstairs apartment.
I helped Karri get through her drug addiction once before. I brought her to my house while my parents were vacationing in Sri Lanka. We holed up in my room for several days and nights, subsisting on pizza and sodas while Karri alternated between screaming, shaking, and threatening to kill me. But I refused to let her out of that bedroom. When we finally emerged, I’d thought for sure she’d kicked the habit.
Now she’s back on drugs, but this time more than her life is at stake, and I can no longer keep her addiction secret.
Mrs. Peterson reaches into a drawer and pulls out my sunglasses. I take them from her before letting out a slow breath. “You’re such a wonderful person. You don’t deserve this.”
She shrugs and smiles. “We’ve got to deal with what life gives us.”
Poor woman. She has no idea what’s coming. “I know,” I say, my voice shaking, “and you’ve already got so much to deal with, and I feel terrible for telling you, but there’s something you should know about Karri.”
Mrs. Peterson’s mouth drops open and her shoulders fall. “She’s back on drugs?”
“You knew?”
She leans over and squeezes my arm. “Dear, how could I not know? There’s a reason I don’t wear my wedding ring anymore, and it’s not because I lost it. My daughter pawned it, along with other family heirlooms.” Her voice cracks, and she turns away.
I’m so choked up right now, I’m on the verge of bawling. “I’m so sorry.” And then a thought strikes me. If she knew about her daughter’s addiction, why was I the one who had to spend a week in hell detoxing Karri? “Why didn’t you do anything?”
Mrs. Peterson sinks onto a barstool beside the kitchen counter. Her hands are visibly shaking as she smooths them down the sides of her face. “Who said I didn’t? Her father and I put her through counseling. We tried interventions. You don’t remember all those restrictions?”
“I thought that was for mouthing off.” Yeah, sure I remember. When we were in high school, Karri was grounded just about every other weekend.
“That might be what she told you.” Mrs. Peterson shakes her head, heaving a sigh.
“We tried so hard to get her off, but she kept sliding. She’s a grown woman, Christina. We can’t keep catching her every time she falls. We don’t have the time or the money, or frankly, the strength left to help her. She’s got to learn how to pick up the pieces of her own life.”
No, this can’t be Mrs. Peterson’s answer. Something has to be done. Someone has to save Karri from herself. At the very least, someone has to save Karri’s baby. “But what about Ty?”
She slumps in her seat and frowns, which emphasizes the heavy lines around her mouth. “I’ve already offered to take him off her hands, though God knows how I’d be able to take care of him. I wish I knew who the father was.”
“He’s probably a druggie, too,” I say as I pull up a stool and sit beside her.
“I’m afraid you may be right,” Mrs. Peterson says before turning baleful eyes on me. “Karri is lucky to have a friend like you after she’s burned her bridges with everyone else.” She clasps my hands in hers and I read the message behind her watery gaze. She’s hoping I won’t abandon Karri, too.
And though I’ve been tempted to more than once in these past few months, I can’t turn my back on Tyler. I know what it’s like to grow up in an unloving home. I can’t sit by and let the same thing happen to him.
Chapter Seven
teen
Andrés smiles down at the beauty who stands in his doorway with a bag slung over her shoulder. It’s already past ten. He couldn’t believe his good fortune when Christina had messaged him a half hour ago, asking if she could stay the night.
“Let me get that,” he says, taking the bag from her. He mentally weighs the bag’s contents. Easily enough for a few days worth of clothes.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” she says as she steps inside the doorway. “My mother was being a pain.” She tilts a smile while rolling her eyes.
Andrés wonders if he’s been the cause of Christina’s trouble with her mom. A familiar sense of self-doubt and loathing that fits him like a second skin, resurfaces, making him doubt, not for the first time, if he is worthy of Christina.
After he sets her bag on the dresser in his bedroom, Christina is on him, loosening his belt, licking her lips and looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. All of his worries are forgotten as Andrés watches his jeans fall to his ankles. When she begins stroking his erection with her smooth, nimble fingers, the only thing on Andrés’s mind is getting her into his bed.
* * *
It’s no shock that the guys don’t know what to make of the little white chick who shows up to work. They have a hard time believing I’m the one who airbrushed the designs on the boat. Andrés stands by me the whole time while Tio introduces me. Of course, Tio goes over a list of rules, such as no sex or gringo jokes and keep their hands to themselves.
Now I’m scared. What exactly does Andrés’s uncle expect these guys to do to me? Tio assigns a wrinkled old man named Ricky to watch after me, which is weird, because I’m pretty sure I outweigh Ricky by at least ten pounds.
When it’s time to get to work, Andrés doesn’t want to leave me, but I finally convince him I’ll be fine. He promises to come during lunch, and then, without warning, he pulls me against him and gives me a big smack on the lips. I nearly fall over when he releases me.
He’s smiling down at me with a devious grin, and I know exactly what that kiss means. He’s marking his territory. Ugh. What a total guy thing to do. To make matters worse, I can hear the rest of the crew’s muffled laughter behind us. This is not how I want to start my morning with those guys, so when Andrés turns to go, I smack him hard on the ass.
The crew breaks into a chorus of laughter.
“She showed you, homie!” one of the guys says.
To my delight, Andrés turns a bright shade of red.
After that we all get to work. I soon learn the other guys do paint touchups or simple one coat paint jobs, but Ricky and I are the only artists.
Tio assigns a big motorhome to me. The owner wants me to paint jungle cats on the back, and I just about die laughing. He specifically asked for a lion, a cheetah and a tiger, as if all these cats are supposed to be hanging out like one big happy family.
And here comes the sucky part of my job—painting something I know will look like crap. The the owner of the boat I painted yesterday shows up, and he’s so impressed with my design, he tips me an extra two hundred dollars. Tio tells me it’s the best artistry he’s ever seen. Now that everyone is under the delusion I’m a real artist, I’ve got no choice but to try and make these cats not look like shit.
I start with the lion, deciding that, since he’s in the center of the painting, and the King of the Jungle, he should look regal and proud. I’ve already finished him by the time Andrés shows up with sandwiches. This time he brings me roast beef on sourdough. I devour it, and then we go sit in his truck. He massages my shoulders, and we kiss a few times before it’s time to get back to work. I keep thinking about how we had sex two times on the breakroom table yesterday, and I really wish the rest of the crew would call it an early day.
But no such luck. So I’m forced to paint jungle cats while horny. My mood is conveyed in my work. The cheetah’s got bedroom eyes, and I can practically feel the pheromones radiating off her. I laugh when I think of the poor sucker who will get stuck driving behind this motorhome, staring at a horny cheetah.
I’m so immersed in my work, I’m shocked to realize it’s time to go home. None of the crew bothered me today, and Ricky was especially nice. He got to paint ice cream cones, nachos and hot dogs on a bus, and though it’s a simple design, I like what he’s done with the tones and shading.
I’ve still got one more cat to go, but Tio says I’m making twelve hundred off this project, so I don’t complain. Six hundred a day is a damned fine income. I’ll be able to move out within a few weeks, and then I’ll be free to do whatever I want. Funny, because when I think of freedom, Andrés’s sensual smile comes to mind. I realize one reason I want so desperately to be out of my mom’s house, is so I can date Andrés without interference. That’s not a good reason, I tell myself. That means I care for him too much, and much too soon.
Andrés is waiting for me after I change out of my suit, and I’m very anxious to get back to his apartment. I added extra clothes to my overnight bag last night, so I don’t need to face The Cobra tonight. I sink into the padded seat of his truck and exhale deeply.
I survived my first day, and now I get to spend an enjoyable evening with my sexy Latin stud. Well, almost enjoyable, except I can’t help but worry about Tyler. I thought about him a lot today. I’m tempted to ask Andrés to drive me to Karri’s, but I’m afraid if greasy guy is with her, things could get ugly, and I don’t want to drag Andrés into this mess.
I absently glance down at my phone. A few text messages from my mom and another from Jackson. I ignore them both. Karri hasn’t answered any of my texts. I’ve messaged her three times asking about Ty.
I look out the window while rubbing my sore knuckles. I hope he’s okay.
* * *
Karri still hasn’t returned any of my texts, so I sit on the toilet in Andrés’s bathroom and dial Mrs. Peterson. She tells me Karri dropped Tyler off last night, and she hasn’t seen or heard from her since. I’m worried about Karri, but I’m also relieved Tyler is with his grandma. I feel bad I can’t go by and help Mrs. Peterson, but I promise her I’ll stop by after work.
Andrés takes me to this little Mexican hole-in-the-wall on the way to work. He orders two breakfast burritos and coffees, and we eat on a bench in the corner. The place looks like a total shit hole, not the sort of five-star fine dining I’m used to. I’m pretty sure the health inspector must not know this place exists. The paint is peeling off the walls and the tables need to be cleaned, or better yet, used for kindling in a fire, as they are on the verge of falling apart. The place reeks of grease, sour milk, and fried pork.
But when I take a chance and bite into the soft flour tortilla, I just about topple over and have a food-gasm right on the cracked tile floor. I devour my egg and bacon taco in record time, and then Andrés orders me one with chorizo. I have no idea what’s in chorizo, but one thing I do know, I don’t care how damn disgusting this place is, this breakfast sure beats the hell out of any French bistro.
Ricky is sketching in the break room when we get there. I peer over his shoulder at the art he’s creating, a nude sketch of a woman who has to be at least four hundred pounds and covered head-to-toe in tattoos.
Ewwww, I think, but I don’t dare insult Ricky and voice my opinion aloud.I sure hope nobody ordered nude art, because I’m not about to paint it. I’m not even sure if painting nudity on cars is legal.
“Who is that?” I ask, unable to keep the shock from my voice.
“Mi esposa,” Ricky says. “My wife.”
My jaw practically hits the floor as I stare at Ricky in disbelief. This guy is probably ninety pounds wet. His woman has to be three or four times his size.
Andrés pulls me aside and whispers in my ear. “Try not to think about them having sex,” he says, laughter ringing in each word.
I flush and turn away, trying to hide my embarrassment. Ricky doesn’t look like he hears us as he continues to sketch his wife.
Andrés is laughing when he kisses me goodb
ye. He adds with a smile, “It takes all kinds, mija.” Though he’s flashing a teasing grin, I see a knowing look in his eyes, and I understand the full weight of his meaning.
You can’t find two more different people than a pampered white girl and a poor Mexican mechanic, yet somehow we are finding a way to make it work. But for how long? I wonder. Will this thing we have together work out in the long run, or will we go our separate ways after I finish college? The thought of losing Andrés saddens me, and my depression shows in my work. I paint a sad tiger next to the fierce lion and the horny cheetah. When I’m finally finished, I can’t help but laugh at my crazy felines. They remind me so much of my own dysfunctional family.
* * *
The rest of the week passes by in a blur. After five days, I’ve already earned over three-thousand dollars, which is nothing short of amazing. At first, I was thinking of this as a summer job, but after I get my degree, I don’t know if I can make this much money as a curator or from my own studio.
The best thing about my job is, this money is all mine. I earned it, and I can spend it how I want. I’ve already got my eye on the apartment below Grace. I have enough money for the deposit, and first and last month’s rent. I just need to fill the place with furniture. That won’t take long, considering all the work Tio has for me.
Something else about this new job of mine: I am realizing I don’t need a man to provide for me. Jackson will probably earn in one day what I earn in a week once he starts working for his father’s company, but that doesn’t bother me. Marrying rich has always been my mother’s idea, not mine. I just want to be with a man who makes me happy. Is that so much to ask?
Speaking of my mom, I’m so busy, I only see her once, and that’s just to stop by for a change of clothes. She doesn’t say a word to me as I rush inside and shove panties and jeans into my bag. I’m driving myself to work now that the crew finally convinced Andrés they’ll be on their best behavior. I follow him to the little taco place for breakfast every morning, and then he brings me lunch every day. I spend my days working at Tio’s shop, and my nights making love to Andrés, but in between, I’m over at Mrs. Peterson’s house.