“They’re not big lies, just little white ones that further the cause.”
Zane eyes me with suspicion. “What cause?”
Stupid slip of the tongue! I give myself a mental smack upside the head.
“The cause of me having a relationship that will go the distance for the first time in my life.” Good save, Izzy!
He frowns. “A relationship based on you misrepresenting several important aspects of your life.”
“I don’t get hung up on details like you. I’m a big picture girl, and I think Izzy and Eduardo has the makings of a masterpiece.”
“Or a shoddy forgery,” he mutters.
“Don’t make me dump this bucket of popcorn on your head because then you’ll have to go back out to the concession stand and get me another one and you’ll miss the previews.”
Zane’s phone buzzes with an incoming text, which saves me from further scolding. He pulls out the device and checks the message. “Lola’s planning to upload her summer lookbook to her site and YouTube in the morning. She sent me an early copy. Do you wanna see?”
“Do I want to see pictures of myself taken by my favorite photographer? That’s a big ‘YES!’” I take the cell phone out of his hand and pass the bucket of popcorn over to him, then push play on the video clip.
Lola is a friend of Zane’s and a recent graduate of MIU, which is a fine arts college where she got a degree in fashion design. As she’s just starting out, funds are tight and she has to do everything on a budget. Being the nice guy that he is, Zane offered to take professional pics of her first collection so that she could post them online and stir up some interest, maybe even get some investors. He asked if I’d be willing to model the clothes, and I figured why not. The pay wasn’t great (a hundred bucks for a full day’s work), but it was better than nothing and it was real modeling unlike all the other BS jobs I’ve been doing lately to pay the bills. And the three of us had fun bopping around town shooting photos in some of Miami’s most scenic locations (Wynwood Walls where there are huge, colorful street murals created by artists from all over the world; South Pointe Pier with its spectacular water views; the sleek, modern Pérez Art Museum). I got a couple of free outfits out of the deal, which was a bonus. Lola’s clothes are street fashion with a Miami twist, which isn’t necessarily my style, but I look good in everything so . . .
“These are really terrific,” I remark as the various shots taken by Z fade in and out while generic hip hop music plays in the background.
“Well, it’s hard to get a bad shot of you,” he says, ducking his head down to try and hide that my praise made him blush. “You’re ridiculously photogenic.”
“True, but of all the photographers I’ve worked with, I think you do the best job of capturing the real me.”
“That’s because I know you better than any of them do, and I don’t try to turn you into something you’re not. I just let you be yourself, and that’s when you shine your brightest.”
“Sweet,” I say, patting him on the cheek just as the lights in the theater are dimmed and the movie screen springs to life. I emit a little squeal of excitement and wrap myself around Z’s bicep, which he has propped up on the arm rest in between us.
“Just don’t scream in my ear,” he requests with an amused twitch of his lips before handing me the popcorn.
* * *
“There’s no way they can leave it like that. They have to make a sequel,” I insist as Zane and I leave the theater and head for the parking garage a block up on Lincoln.
“What’s that?” Zane yells. “I can’t hear you.” He points to his left ear. “My eardrum was shattered by a high-pitched shriek.”
“Oh, shut up!” I give him a good-natured shove. “I didn’t scream that loudly. Okay, maybe once, but it scared the crap out of me when that lifeguard chick was trying to resuscitate the guy she pulled out of the ocean, then his eyes suddenly popped open and he pulled a damn Bowie knife out of his wetsuit and stuck it right in her heart. I’ve never seen so much blood squirt out of somebody!”
“I was more freaked out about the couple who were getting busy on the beach late at night when the killer came out of nowhere, slit the girl’s throat, then gutted the guy like a fish so that his intestines were spilling out onto the sand.”
“Those two deserved to die; they were dumb asses. Everyone knows you can’t have sex when there’s a serial killer on the loose, especially not out in the open like that. Psychopaths never get any, so it makes them mad when they see other people having a good time.”
“Huh,” Z runs a hand through his forever-flopping-in-his-face hair, “I never thought about there being a psychological motivation for serial killers going after couples. I figured it was just a good way for them to rack up the body count more quickly.”
“Like a two-for-one deal?”
“Exactly,” he says with a grin, his perfect teeth looking extra-white and sparkly in the poorly lit parking structure we just walked into. “Stairs or elevator?” He glances over at the far corner of the garage where both are located.
I don’t even bother to answer; I just point down at my black leather espadrille wedges, which have an almost six-inch heel. No way am I hiking up two sets of steep stairs in these puppies. They’re for looks, not for prolonged usage.
“Too bad the heroine in the movie didn’t have shoes like yours. She might not have ended up dead if she had.”
“Right? I could easily deflect a knife with these thick soles.” I demonstrate how I would ward off an attack with my wedges. “Then I’d disarm the creep.” I pretend to kick a weapon out of Z’s hand. “And show him who’s boss by introducing my foot to his cojones. When he doubles over in pain and falls to the ground, I’d step on his throat and hold him there until the cops show up.”
Zane chortles. “For their own sake, I hope no serial killers ever mess with you. Having reached the elevator, he punches the UP arrow button and its doors slide right open.
We enter the tuna can-sized transport, which is suffocatingly hot, and I start to regret not taking the stairs when the doors close and we’re trapped inside. I’m not normally claustrophobic, but these are some seriously close quarters and I can’t help but think how easy it would be for a homicidal maniac to drop down through the little door in the ceiling of the elevator and start slicing and dicing us. I wouldn’t even be able to fight back because there’s no room for kicking in this thing!
To distract myself, I pull out my phone and turn it on so that I can check and see if Eduardo has texted to let me know he’s done with his business dinner.
“Oh, man,” I whine when I read the message Eduardo sent a half-hour ago.
“Problem?” Z’s left eyebrow shoots up right as the elevator dings, letting us know we’ve arrived at our destination.
“Yeah,” I say, exiting our stuffy prison, “Eduardo and his dad are taking their business associates to El Humo, which is some exclusive cigar bar where Sandoval rum is sold. So, it looks like we won’t be seeing each other tonight. Not unless I want to go to his hotel and wait for him.”
Zane snorts with amusement. “He must have you confused with some other girl. Guys wait on you, not vice versa.”
“You got that right.” The last thing I want Eduardo to think is that I’m at his beck and call. That gives him way too much power.
I text back, ‘No worries. I’m going to grab some drinks with Topaz. She needs me to be her wingwoman! Talk to you mañana.’ Now he can spend the rest of the night worrying about me being at some happening club where hotties are buying me drinks and trying to grind up on me—ha!
“You look pleased with yourself,” Zane observes.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say that I’m back behind the wheel in my relationship with Eduardo.
I need to text Topaz.” Might as well make my lie about going out with her a reality. I’m not keen on returning home to my dark house alone where I’d be prime pickings for a serial killer anyway.
‘Hey,
girl. I’m coming over. Need to borrow something cute to wear, then we can hit da clubz.’
Z and I almost make it to the other end of the garage before I get a reply.
‘Not in the mood to go out tonight. Sorry.’
Oh, God, I bet she’s in a funk about Kai again. They broke up months ago! She needs to forget that stoner and get back on the horse already. This angst of hers would fade away like a bad dream if she could just get a shot of endorphins from some really good, headboard-banging sex. I read in a legit source (I think it was Cosmo) that people who have sex on a regular basis are less likely to be depressed and I can totally vouch for that.
‘I’m not taking no for an answer! We’re going out, and I’m finding you a man, preferably one with a big _____.’
‘Personality? Car? Bank account?’
‘Whatever turns you on, T!’
I look up and realize we’re standing by my car, a bright yellow Beetle with a convertible top that I treated myself to when I got my paycheck for that cell phone commercial a few years back. This car is an extension of me (fun, colorful, and eye-catching, with a lot of get-up-and-go), and I feel a swell of pride every time I see it because it’s proof that I did accomplish something in my career. I pull the key fob out of my purse and press the unlock button.
‘All right, you win. I’m not putting a lot of effort into this, though.’
“Great attitude!’
I reach out my hand blindly to grab the door handle on the driver’s side of my car, but I only get air. I raise my eyes to see that Zane’s already opened the car door for me and is resting his head on his arm, which is perched on top of it.
I give him a quick smile, then drop my eyes to the display screen again when I hear a buzz.
‘I suppose I could take a shower.’
I toss my purse over to the passenger side, then lower myself into the driver’s seat.
‘Attagirl! Don’t forget to put on some makeup. That monster zit on your chin needs to be camouflaged, or no guy’s gonna want to do you.’
‘And I’m going back to bed.’
Oh, crap, I’ve scared the mouse back into her hole. I had to be honest about that eruption on her face, though, didn’t I? I wouldn’t be a good friend if I let her leave the house without covering that thing up. I mean, seriously, it’s the size of one of her eyeballs!
‘No, you’re not. Cowgirl up! Hey, there’s an idea. Let’s go to that new country western bar in Hollywood. I’ve always wanted to ride a mechanical bull and I’m sure the place will be lousy with two-stepping hunks YOU can ride. Yee-haw!’
“Hey, if you’re not doing anything Wednesday night . . .”
“What?” I glance up at Zane.
“I said, if you aren’t busy on Wednesday, I’ll be, ummmm . . .,” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
“You’ll be what? Spit it out, Z. I’ve got a friend in crisis here. If I don’t get over to Topaz’s ASAP and drag her out to some place populated with smokin’ guys who want to sex her up, she’s going to be permanently fixated on that jerk Kai.”
“I’ll be showing some of my work at the Lyndon Gallery in Wynwood.”
I drop my phone in my lap because he’s got my full attention now. “Some fancy gallery wants to display your photographs? That’s a huge deal! Way to go, Z!” I raise my hand to give him a high-five, and he smacks his palm against mine.
With an embarrassed blush, he says, “I’m just one of several artists who’ll be displaying their work at this show. It’s a real honor to be among them, though. I submitted my portfolio online, thinking I didn’t stand a chance in hell of being selected, but I was.”
“Of course, you were! Haven’t I always said that you were talented? It’s about time the rest of the world woke up and noticed. This is so exciting! Getting your name out there and building some buzz about your work could lead to getting commissions, then you could quit being Esteban’s lackey and strike out on your own.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if I’m ready for that, but it is fun to dream about. So . . . you’ll come to the first night of the show?” he queries with a hopeful lilt in his voice. “The owner of the gallery is having a party with wine and hors d’oeuvres. It’s invite-only, but I can put your name on the list along with Topaz and Nacho’s and whoever else you want to bring.”
“I’m there! Just text me the deets.”
“Will do. Good luck with Topaz.”
He shuts the car door for me, and I put my foot on the brake, then hit the start button and shift the car into reverse. I look back over my right shoulder and ease my foot off the brake, pulling out of the space while Zane lopes down to his car parked farther down the row.
I cruise up next to him, roll down my passenger side window, and call, “Hey!” to get his attention.
He pivots, his hands shoved into the pockets of his skinny black chinos, then bends down to look in the open window.
“Just wanted to say ‘thanks’ for the movie and the popcorn.’
“Sure thing,” he says, with a cute smile that lights up the gold flecks in his eyes. “It was fun.”
“Hanging out with me always is!” I volley back, then almost jump out of my skin when someone behind me lays on their horn.
“Púdrete!” I exclaim, looking in my rearview to see the glowering face of a man driving a black SUV. When he realizes I have no intention of getting out of his way, he backs up, screeches on his brakes, then pulls his gas guzzler around me. I give him the finger as he passes by, which makes Zane guffaw.
CHAPTER 18
“¡Ay, Dios mío!” I exclaim with exasperation when I have to turn back for the fifth time in as many minutes to tear Nacho away from a reflective surface. “Would you come on already? Your hair looks fine!” I tell him as I tug on his arm, trying to pull him away, but I can’t because he’s rooted to the spot, gazing at himself in the glass storefront of a pizza joint.
“I don’t know.” He pats the pompadour portion of his new ‘do. “I think this fade haircut might have been a mistake. Am I crazy, or does it make my nose look hideously big?”
“Your nose has always been large! What do you want—a dainty nose? That wouldn’t be very manly.”
“She’s right,” Topaz chimes in. “A man needs a strong nose, a nose that has some character. Like Cole, he’s got a great nose.” She sighs, thinking about her new boyfriend, the one she met thanks to me taking her to Badlands last week.
“Yeah, it’s Cole’s nose that attracted you to him, not his tight buns in a pair of Levi’s,” I retort, with a smirk. “Now, can we please get a move on? We’re almost there.” I place a hand on each of their backs and give them a not-so-gentle push forward.
“What’s the rush?” Nacho wonders. “This little soirée just started an hour ago, and I’m all about being fashionably late.”
“I don’t want Zane to think we flaked on him. This is a defining moment in his career; we should be there to show our support.”
A dubious expression takes over Nacho’s suntanned face. “Since when do you care about Zane’s career, or anybody’s besides your own for that matter?”
We’re outside the Lyndon Gallery now, which has a very unimpressive concrete exterior that’s been painted a dour gray, so we all stop. I place my hands on my hips in a combative pose and glare at Nacho. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not self-absorbed a hundred percent of the time.”
“Only about ninety-five percent,” Topaz teases, her green eyes glinting with merriment.
“Hardee har har. You’re a regular Amy Schumer. Too bad this isn’t a comedy club, or we could put you on stage.” I yank open the door and usher my friends in with a wave of my hand.
The space inside is surprisingly huge; it’s basically a warehouse that’s been converted into a gallery. It’s got an industrial vibe, with high-polish concrete flooring, stark, white walls, and exposed b
eams that have water pipes running alongside them. The reception room, which is straight ahead of us, is illuminated in a utilitarian way by a square fixture with fluorescent lights that’s suspended from the ceiling.
“Names?” A skinny man with a soul patch (ugh!) queries as he moves to block our path into the gallery.
“Isidora Alvarez, Ignacio Quinteros, and Topaz Franklin,” I reel off the monikers on our birth certificates. “We’re guests of Zane Harper’s.”
Soul Patch consults his clipboard, where he thumbs through a print-out.
“You’re good,” he decrees when he finally locates our names on the third page. “Enjoy the beauty.” He steps aside, making a sweeping gesture toward the gallery’s main room, while Topaz and I exchange a confused look. All is made clear when we see a large poster sitting on an easel that proclaims, “Lyndon Gallery presents ‘Beauty’ in various mediums by a select group of emerging Miami artists.”
“Oooo la la, Zane’s part of a ‘select group.’” Nacho fans himself with his hand like the thought of our friend being somebody important is giving him the vapors.
“I don’t see him,” I say after doing a quick scan of the reception area, which is filled with an assortment of pretentious, arty types, who are probably here to find a painting or photograph just the right size to fill a blank space on a wall in one of their beach houses, and hipsters—easily identified as such by their man buns (guys)/overly thick Zooey Deschanel-style bangs (girls), propensity for thrift store fashion, and constipated this-is-beneath-us-but-we’ve-got-nothing-better-to-do expressions.
“He’s probably off with his display, wherever that is,” Topaz concludes. “Let’s grab a glass of wine and some of these good eats, then we can search the place.”
“Works for me.” I take a glass of red offered by a passing server and help myself to some crispy polenta topped with a fancy mushroom mixture. After I’ve devoured that, I snag a spinach puff.
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