Playing the Player

by Lea Santos

  “Jesus, man. I didn’t know. That’s rough.”

  “Yup. Bad deal,” Madeira said lightly. Understatement of the century.

  “So…what was this woman’s name?”

  What the hell was with the interrogation? “Grace,” Madeira said, her voice emotionless. Inside, she churned. Gracie had been so full of life. Injured, yes. But alive. Madeira didn’t want to talk about her.

  “Graciela, maybe?”

  Madeira snapped the drug box closed and frowned, her patience on its knife edge over the barrage of intrusive questions. “Don’t think so. Grace Mannerly, the police department told me. All I knew was her first name. Grace.”

  “Mannerly,” Fletch mused. More silence ensued, after which Madeira heard Simon mutter, “It has to be a different person.”

  Madeira eased out a slow breath. She truly didn’t want to think about this. Not anymore. She wanted the past to remain exactly where it belonged. Unfortunately, curiosity got the better of her. She leaned out of the ambulance, arms braced on the edge of the roof. “When are you going to tell me what these annoying cryptic questions are all about?”

  “I’m going to assume you haven’t read the paper today,” Simon said.

  Madeira snorted. “I’m going to assume you don’t remember being a brand new EMT on your first rig? All I’ve been reading is the policy and procedures manual, EKG strips, and obituaries.”

  “In that case”—Simon folded the newspaper with measured movements, turning it until the article he’d been reading faced Madeira. His expression was half smirk, half bald interest—“You might want to take a little look-see at this.”

  Madeira jumped off the back of the rig and walked closer, wary. Hands on her hips, she leaned forward and read the headline.

  And then again.

  She blinked. Twice.

  What the hell?

  She quickly scanned the first paragraph of the story, then, nauseated, she glanced at the picture. Her breath whooshed out as though Simon’s boot had connected with her solar plexus.

  Holy Mother of God.

  It‘s Gracie.

  Alive.

  Part of Madeira bubbled with profound relief, inexplicable, leg-weakening excitement. Another part reread the opening paragraph of the article and balked. Granted, thank God Gracie had survived the accident after all. However, through some convoluted sense of the U-Haul brand of female reasoning Madeira couldn’t even fathom, the very much alive Graciela Obregon seemed to believe she—Madeira Pacias—was her soul mate. “Dios mío.”

  “That her?”

  Madeira nodded.

  “Looks like she’s alive and well after all. Not to mention…she wants you, partner.”

  “Uh…so it seems,” Madeira said, a strong sense of fight or flight kicking adrenaline through her system. Heavily weighted toward the flight option, of course.

  A forever sort of woman. Wanting Madeira.

  Definitely a fate worse than death.

  *

  That sexy little soul mate seeker was seriously cramping Madeira’s style. She swiped at her beer bottle and, peering over the bottom of it as she drank, made a conscious effort to search the noisy, smoke-filled club crowd for a no-strings woman to ease her mind. There were blondes, brunettes, and redheads galore. Tall, willowy sirens and petite cuddle bunnies. Slim wisps and several sexy, curvy, substantial types that would make Madeira feel as if she were getting her woman’s worth. Many of them offered sly smiles and the unspoken promise of a good time as they walked past…or over the shoulders of other women as they danced.

  But none of them were Gracie Obregon.

  Madeira snorted. Had she completely lost her mind?

  She didn’t even know this Grace woman. Not really. Just this morning, she believed in her heart that Gracie was dead, and she’d made peace with it. Madeira was paying restitution for Gracie’s supposed death the only way she knew how—with her life’s work. But as fate would have it, there had actually been two Graces in the pile-up: Grace Mannerly, a seventeen-year-old from Littleton, and Madeira’s Grace. Graciela Obregon, all-woman and very much alive. Now that Madeira knew Gracie was alive and looking for her, she couldn’t seem to evict the no-longer-dead Gracie from her weak-ass mind. To make things worse, Fletch had been adamant that Madeira should make herself known.

  But out of fairness to herself and Gracie, Madeira couldn’t do that. She’d read those articles. Clearly, Gracie wanted something Madeira could not give. Ever. Not in her nature. So, meeting Grace for the second time, for real this time, was completely out of the question. Why put either of them through the ugliness of it?

  The pounding bass ceased briefly while the DJ addressed the energetic crowd. Taking advantage of the relative quiet, Madeira’s sister-in-law, Iris Lujan, leaned forward. “If you want my opinion, I think you should contact the paper and identify yourself.” Iris and Madeira’s big sister, Torien, had been reading the articles for the past several minutes. “Just to meet her, see how she is. What could it hurt?”

  “Are you kidding?” Madeira gestured toward the squares of newsprint spread out on the table before her sister. Toro continued to study them, her stoic face arranged in a thoughtful expression. “I’ll come out looking like a jackass if I tell her ‘thanks, but no thanks,’ especially with the whole world watching.”

  Iris rolled one shoulder. “Why make that determination already? You might like this girl. She might be the one.”

  Madeira should’ve known better than to ask romantic Iris how to handle this problem. “I have no interest in finding the one. Remember?” Madeira swept an arm in front of her, indicating the crowd. “When the garden is so full of different blossoms, who but a fool would restrict herself to daisies?”

  Iris’s eyebrow arched, and her lips twitched with barely stifled amusement. “Ah, but maybe this Graciela’s a rare orchid.”

  “Maybe.” Madeira shrugged. “But even so, variety makes a better bouquet.”

  Iris stuck a finger into her mouth and feigned gagging.

  Madeira grinned around her tension, glad she could joke her way out of this pressure-cooker conversation. “I’m serious. I couldn’t deprive all these lovely ladies of the prospect of my company.” She winked, trying to relieve the tightness in her chest. “It would be cruel.”

  “Oh, please! You have to grow out of this crap sometime.” Iris sputtered with laughter, and soon Madeira found herself chuckling, too.

  Madeira reached across the four-top and patted Iris’s hand. “I appreciate your input, sis, but your solution doesn’t work for me. I’ll leave the monogamy to you old folks who are no longer interested in having any fun.”

  Iris and Torien shared an amused, smoldering look that made Madeira feel uncomfortable and vaguely defensive, then Iris tossed her lovely long hair over one shoulder. “I just think you should meet her, Mad. No one’s going to force you at gunpoint to move in with the woman just because she’s entertaining romantic fantasies you don’t share.”

  Madeira expelled a rough sigh. Fuck. Maybe she was overreacting. She glanced at her big sister. “What do you think, Toro?” Madeira had razzed Torien regularly for years about being too serious and pragmatic, as the little sister/big sister credo dictated, but the truth was she valued Toro’s opinion more than anyone’s.

  Toro stroked her chin thoughtfully. “You sure you want to hear my perspective? Old, boring, monogamous woman that I am?”

  Madeira twirled her hand impatiently. She needed some insight. If there was one thing Madeira could say about her hermana, it was that Toro was no romantic. She wouldn’t be swayed by the sap factor of the situation like her partner had been. “Tell me,” Madeira said tightly.

  “Iris’s right. Make yourself known now, before the media attention grows.”

  Dread sank like a corpse with cement boots to the bottom of Madeira’s gut. “Grows? You think it’s going to get worse?”

  “Absolutely. The more elusive you are, the better the story, the more papers
it sells, and the harder they’ll try to find you. Save them the trouble.” A beat passed while the sisters stared at each other. “Meet the lady.”

  Madeira froze, unable to grasp the advice. Was Toro actually telling Madeira to hurl herself—an unwilling sacrifice—upon the altar of romanticism? What the hell had happened to the older sister Madeira knew and loved? “What makes you think they’ll ever find me either way? If I never come forward…”

  Torien signaled the waitress and twirled her hand in a circle over the nearly empty bottles on their table, then met Madeira’s eyes. “They will. Someone will remember you and then you’ll look bad for not having stood up. Mamá would be disappointed if you showed such a lack of honor.”

  Madeira groaned, rubbing her palms over her face.

  Toro’s expression turned playfully smug, her tone a knowing rumble. “What are you afraid of, Mosquito? A woman?”

  Madeira’s jaw clenched. She recalled asking the same pointed question when Toro had met Iris and struggled to resist her charms. Turnabout might be fair play, but it stung like a snake bite.

  Besides, Madeira couldn’t answer. Not honestly.

  Frankly, she did fear reuniting with Gracie, because Madeira wanted to see her far too much. Talk about setting herself up for trouble. The thought of doing something so clearly against her nature filled Madeira with roiling anxiety.

  “What are you afraid of, Madeira?” Iris asked softly.

  “I don’t know. Nothing,” she lied, averting her gaze to the crowd as Lady Gaga began singing about bad romance. The dance floor flooded with people anxious to get their grooves on. “I have no interest in finding a soul mate. Now or ever. This Grace woman wants a soul mate and has her crosshairs trained on me. That’s a pretty damn big problem.”

  Iris and Torien exchanged another one of those annoying cryptic glances.

  Madeira spread her arms. “What?”

  Toro quirked her mouth and tipped her head to the side. “I’ve just never seen my little sister trying quite so vehemently to avoid a woman, that’s all. I find it interesting.”

  “Ver-r-ry interesting,” Iris added, tapping a slender finger against her chin, her green eyes sparkling.

  Enough. Madeira drained her beer with more bravado than she felt, then clonked the bottle on the table. She reached down to adjust the already perfectly adjusted waistband of her low-slung jeans. “Well, you two just sit here and wallow in your mutual interest, then. I’m going to find myself a hot little distraction while I’m still young and free.” Madeira tipped off the bar stool and started to swagger into the sea of possibilities.

  “Go for it, Mosquito,” Toro drawled. “But trust me when I tell you, you aren’t going to dance, drink, or date this one out of your system. I can see it on your face.”

  Madeira faltered, but managed to avoid turning around by stiffening her spine and curling her fists. She set her sights on a petite, curvy brunette she’d taken home before and stalked in her direction. Familiar territory. Not usually Madeira’s style, but right then, touching base with something comfortable seemed like the smartest thing to do.

  Go away, Gracie. I’m not your Ms. Right.

  *

  But Madeira realized a few days later, after working the problem to utter distraction, she had Gracie’s Ms. Right. Soul mate considerations aside, that was the core issue. That damn bear, Madeira told herself, was the sole reason she now hovered in a deserted corridor inside Front Range Trauma Med Center, cell phone clutched to her ear.

  Three days had passed since Iris and Torien had foisted their bad advice upon Madeira. She’d brooded, stewed, and waffled, but the only conclusion she’d reached was that she had to return the bear. No two ways about it.

  Only then could she wash her hands of the whole thing.

  Madeira fished the crinkled article out of her pocket, taking a moment to whip a glance around the hallway. She and Simon had just scooped two patients from a minor MVA and delivered them to the ER. While Simon had ambled off to graze through some of the lemon cream cookies that were always available in the police/EMS lounge, Madeira had sneaked off to find a private place to make the dreaded call.

  Fingers shaking, she dialed the Post reporter’s number listed below the most current article. To her surprise the public had caught on to this romantic drivel. From the reader letters the paper had published for the past three days, people seemed just as invested in Grace finding her “Samaritan Soul Mate” as the woman was herself.

  So the articles kept coming.

  Toro had been right, as usual.

  The hunt had become relentless.

  Madeira should be running for the hills, but…Gracie loved that raggedy bear. Now that Madeira knew Gracie was alive, she couldn’t, in good conscience, keep the thing. Sure, Madeira could mail it to her via the newspaper anonymously, but the very thought made her feel weak. Cowardly. So she’d decided to call the paper, but only to find out how to contact Gracie and return her rightful property.

  Damn that bear.

  If it weren’t for Ms. Right, Madeira wouldn’t be calling.

  Who are you trying to convince?

  “Shut up,” she muttered to herself, counting the telephone rings. One. Two. Three.

  New bargain—if no one answered by the fifth ring, Madeira would hang up, conscience clear, her mind absolved of fulfilling this duty.

  Four. Fi—

  “LePoulet.”

  Madeira’s brain ceased to function at the sound of the gravelly voice on the other end. She cleared her throat, wishing to God she hadn’t called, fighting the impulse to disconnect the call and go stuff herself full of lemon cream cookies with Fletch. “Yes. Ah. I’ve been reading the Samaritan articles and…I have something to return to Gracie—to Graciela Obregon, I mean.”

  “Is that so?” the voice sneered.

  Madeira was making a mess of this. “It’s hard to explain. Can you just tell me how to find her?”

  A long, impatient sigh carried across the line. “Listen hard, honey. Like I’ve told two-hundred-some-odd desperate crackpots before you, no way in hell am I telling you where our pretty little Grace lives, okay? Hit the club scene if you want—”

  “Wait.” Two hundred women had called? That same protective emotion flared inside Madeira. “I’m not…I’m—”

  “Spit it out. I’ve got work to do.”

  Man she’d backed herself into a corner. She didn’t want the reporter to think she was just another pervert who found Gracie’s picture appealing, but the alternative was…

  “I’m the woman who stopped to help Gracie,” Madeira blurted, immediately regretting it. Her free hand curled into a fist, which she bonked against her forehead rhythmically.

  “You’re the so-called Samaritan Soul Mate?” Still skeptical.

  Madeira cringed. “I’m not so thrilled with the title.”

  “Yeah well, alliteration makes for good headlines. If you’re the broad, prove it to me,” LePoulet challenged. “Grace says the woman who helped her would know the ‘magic detail,’ if you will. If you know it, whip it on me.”

  Madeira’s mind scattered like windblown leaves for a moment. She didn’t know any magic phrase. A reprieve? Maybe Gracie sought some other woman. A firefighter or—

  Suddenly, the detail came to Madeira, bright and clear and certain. It was the only aspect of that evening that only she and Gracie would know. Tension buzzed in her ears. “Ms. Right.”

  Frozen silence.

  “What’d you say?”

  The man’s tone had changed, and Madeira knew she’d hit the phrase squarely. Her stomach contracted with an unmistakable surge of terror, but her mouth kept on talking. “Let me put it this way. I’m not Gracie’s Ms. Right, but I have her Ms. Right. Is that what you needed to hear?”

  LePoulet remained silent for a moment, then he guffawed. “Hot damn, sweetheart. What rock you been living under? I was starting to give up hope you’d ever come forward.”

  Madeira felt light w
ith elation and heavy with dread all at once. “I got it right?”

  Hang up!

  “Sure enough. Grace said only the woman who’d been underneath that car with her would know about Ms. Right. She’ll be surprised you still have that bear, though.” The sound of papers shuffling punctuated the statement. “What’s your name?”

  Don’t tell him!

  “Madeira Pacias,” said her mouth, of its own volition. Madeira caught sight of Fletch searching the hallways for her and shrank deeper into the wall. The last thing she needed was her partner listening in. She’d get this over with, quietly return the bear, make it clear she wasn’t any woman’s soul mate, and no one would be the wiser. Madeira could get on with her life knowing she’d done the right thing, all the while maintaining her precious independence.

  It would work. It had to.

  “Well, Madeira. You willing to reunite with Grace?”

  “Privately?”

  LePoulet barked a laugh. “You got it, dollface. Real private. Just you, Grace, and an intimate little gathering of reporters, photogs, and videographers.”

  Photographers? Videographers? Reporters? This situation had just plummeted out of Madeira’s control. She cast about the hospital corridor for some kind of assistance. Too bad there wasn’t a crash cart to treat a critical error in judgment. The blood rushed from Madeira’s head, leaving her dizzy and squirming in the trap of her own making.

  “Kiddo? What do you say? A reunion?”

  Say no!

  Run away!

  Hang up!

  “Sure.” Madeira swallowed back an instant wave of nausea. “How about this weekend?”

  Chapter Three

  Buena es la libertad pero no el libertinaje.

  Liberty is good, but not the libertine.

  Grace sat behind her desk in the empty classroom finishing up paperwork and basking in the deceptively peaceful silence of the late afternoon. Here in her very own classroom, she could actually forget now and then that her life was in tsunami-sized turmoil. Deep, gold sunlight slanted through the windows along the west side of the room, flashing off the metallic star awards on the bright children’s artwork adorning the walls. Dust motes waltzed in the angled beams, and other than the rhythmic hum from the janitor’s floor polisher out in the hallway, silence reigned.