Names I Call My Sister

by Mary Castillo

  “Jesus, Mar!” Cristy raked her sister with a scathing up and down glance. “For once in your life figure it out for yourself. I’m not picking up the pieces this time, and I will have my life back. Fix it.”

  “Okay. I will. I promise.”

  Cristy barked out a laugh. “As if your promises mean anything to me. Just…go. Get out. And don’t come back until you have a solution.”

  Marisol cast a pleading glance at Lola, who patted her hand sympathetically.

  “Go!”

  Marisol jolted to attention, then nodded and turned toward the back door. She swiped at her tears with the backs of her hands as she scurried off.

  “Take the damned scone!” Cristy yelled.

  Her sister lunged for the table and snatched up the scone, then made a beeline for the exit.

  Cristy listened until she heard the old door creak open, then slam shut. And then she exhaled. Closed her eyes.

  After a moment she opened them and calmly smoothed down her sleeves—one, and then the other. “Well,” she said to Lola, “That went well, I think.”

  Lola’s brows shot up. “Girl, Lord almighty.” She made the sign of the cross over her body with one hand, finishing with a kiss on her knuckles. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  Chapter 4

  Marisol leaned against her BMW and waited for her blood pressure to drop into the “safe to drive” zone. With shaky hands she wrestled the emergency pack of cigarettes from the zipper pouch inside her purse, then fumbled for her lighter. It took her three flicks to get a flame, and then she hacked out the first lungful of smoke like some amateur. She’d lost her touch. But that was okay since she didn’t smoke anymore. Not really. People were right—it was a nasty habit. These were exigent circumstances, however, and exigent circumstances called for rules to be bent, nasty habit or not.

  By the time she’d sucked the second cigarette down to the filter, the nicotine had sufficiently chilled her out. She dropped the butt onto the asphalt next to the first one, then smashed them both with the sole of her black Blahniks. After waving away the lingering smoke, she climbed into her car, eased into gear with deliberately calm motions, then crept slowly down the alley in the opposite direction from the news vans.

  Damn. She needed a martini.

  She’d irritated her shy hermanita before, but she’d never, ever seen her so ice-cold furious. It scared the crap out of her. What scared her more, though, was the thought of a bunch of creepy guys lurking around Simplicity. God! She raked one hand through the side of her hair, the other gripped tightly on the wheel. She’d have to concoct an ingenious way of atoning for this accidental sin on the show. That could wait, though. First priority was keeping her sister safe until things died down.

  But how? Cristy was the planner in the family, not her.

  Marisol weighed her options as she headed for the highway, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth. She would have suggested that Cristy close the shop for a week or two and move in with her, but could just imagine the response to that idea. She wouldn’t even broach the subject of Cristy bunking at the parents’ place, especially now that they knew the Big Secret. Oops. She’d forgotten that they hadn’t known.

  So Cristy had to be safe at her own place somehow.

  Hmmm…Wait! What about a dog?

  Relieved to have come up with a reasonable idea, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and speed-dialed Cristy. It rang once, twice, then—

  “What?”

  “How do you feel about Dobermans?”

  Click.

  Marisol lifted the phone from her ear and stared at it a moment, then flipped it closed and tossed it on the passenger seat. Okay, so Fido was out. Argh!

  If she could kick her own ass, she would. Never, for a single second, had she imagined that her fun, lighthearted radio show would place her baby sister in danger. But it had, and now she had to figure a way out of its path. She didn’t doubt her sister would disown her if she failed.

  But what to do?

  Maybe Wyatt would know. She retrieved her cell and speed-dialed his house. His wife Suzie answered, complimented her on that morning’s show, then passed the phone to her husband.

  “What’s up, kid?”

  In a rushed waterfall of words she clued him in.

  He gave a long, low whistle. “What are you going to do?”

  “No clue. That’s why I called you.”

  She heard his familiar sigh and could just picture him rubbing his palm in a circular motion over his bald head while he pondered. “Look, you can’t recant what you said. It either wouldn’t make a difference or it would make things worse. Not to mention, you wouldn’t really want to because our ratings are amazing. Can you believe, several of the other stations were actually discussing our show?”

  “Shit. That’s just what I need.” The ratings and buzz weren’t worth it this time. Not at this cost. “Seriously, I need to come up with some sort of plan, Wyatt.”

  “I don’t think you have to do anything. You know how fickle listeners are. The whole thing will blow over in a few days.”

  “Maybe for the listeners, but not for Cristy. Trust me. Besides, I’m more worried about all the perverts.”

  “That part’s a little trickier.” He paused, obviously thinking. “You could…I don’t know. I guess hire some goon to hang around Cristy’s place for a week or so, maybe.”

  “You think I should go that far?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “True. Okay.” A goon. But where did someone find a goon? Goons ’R’ Us? It’s not like she networked with goons on a day-to-day basis. Wait just a second. Marisol smiled as the fog cleared in her brain and a perfect solution presented itself. She actually did know a goon—a professional goon—and she also happened to know he was a great guy. Hell, she’d even met his mother way back when.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “What?”

  “A plan. That’s why I keep you around, Wy. Brainstorms.”

  “I had a brainstorm? Really? What was it?”

  “I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” Marisol pushed the End button, then steered the Beemer onto the shoulder and engaged her emergency flashers. Vehicles whipped along the highway, rocking her car as they passed. She dug through her purse until she found the pressed paper bar coaster onto which her old buddy from high school, Diego Mora, had scribbled his phone number.

  Running into him last weekend had been a pleasant surprise. He’d just moved back to Denver after a decade living in L.A. They’d spent a few moments catching each other up on their lives, then exchanged numbers so they could keep in touch. But honestly? She hadn’t intended to call. Why would she? Their lives had gone off in vastly different directions. Pleasant or not, he was really just a blast from her past. Right now, though, the blast felt more like divine intervention.

  Edging her curtain aside, Cristy peered down on the big black Hummer hogging up curb space on her street. It had been there since a little before dawn. Worry had left her restless and unable to sleep, and she’d just happened to glance out her bedroom window at the precise moment when the ostentatious gas guzzler had turned onto her street then immediately doused its headlights. If that weren’t suspicious enough, the driver pulled the car to the curb one house down from hers then cut the engine, but no one had ever stepped out of the car.

  Yeah, like she was really going to fall asleep after witnessing that. What was she, stupid? She watched the forensic dramas at night like the rest of the freakin’ country. She’d quickly brewed some coffee and then returned to her window seat to stand guard, and as she watched, she couldn’t help but wonder if the driver of the Hummer would call her Crystal. The thought made her skin crawl.

  Several cups of coffee later the sun blazed rose-orange in the eastern sky. Lola was still asleep in the guest room, and Cristy didn’t want to wake her. But the more time she spent watching the Hummer, the more pissed off she’d become. She was no expert, but common sense said mixin
g pissed with exhaustion was probably a bad idea.

  And yet, anger had long since ousted fear in her sleep-deprived brain, so right about now the idea of confronting this jackass sounded great. Did he think she’d play the prisoner role in her own home? Her sanctuary? That she’d run scared from him? Not damn likely, boy. Besides, if he wanted to break in, he would’ve done it under the cover of darkness. Right?

  Stiff-backed with righteous indignation, she stomped down the stairs from her living quarters into the shop. At the door, she suffered one small twinge of don’t-be-a-dumbass doubt. If her life were a horror flick, she knew this would be the ubiquitous scene where people yell “Don’t do it!” at the screen as the too-stupid-to-live heroine runs into the dark forest wearing high heels. After all, once she unlocked the dead bolt and approached the Hummer, she was fair game.

  Sure, she could do the allegedly smart thing and call the cops, but what could she say? “Send the police! There’s a Hummer parked on my street doing nothing”?

  Riiiiight, psycho. She’d been embarrassed enough for one week, thank you very much. Her only choices were (1) to go out there and confront the idiot herself, or (2) sit in her house waiting for something to happen, like some hapless, helpless victim. Yeah, she wasn’t up for the victim role.

  Bring on the confrontation.

  But…maybe a weapon would be helpful.

  She glanced around her pretty little shop, as always loving the way the soft morning light angled in through the east facing windows and cast a glow on the furnishings and yarn. Glow aside, however, the place was seriously lacking in the whole weapons department. She didn’t dare take one of Lola’s precious, not to mention expensive, knives. After all, knives were to a chef what needles were to a knitter. Wait—needles. That was an idea.

  She settled on a long, stainless steel pair, testing their weight—or lack thereof—in her hands. Not the most threatening choice, but it was the best she could do in a pinch. Surely they could at least jab an eyeball out or skewer a testicle if need be, right? Ick.

  Needles in hand, Cristy peeked out the front window to make sure the guy still sat in the Hummer. Satisfied, she crept to the back door and eased herself out. The crisp morning air energized her as she stepped onto the grass, still moist with dew. She shivered. Careful to scurry from shrub to tree, she picked her way through her backyard, then her neighbors’. She skulked up the side of her neighbors’ house to the front corner, then leaned her back against the cool brick wall. After a few deep breaths she shot a quick glance around the corner.

  Still there, except now the Hummer was in front of her rather than behind her. Just where she wanted it.

  She shivered again, this time from an unexpected rush of excitement. There was something very empowering about getting the drop on someone who was trying to get the drop on you. She’d have to remember the feeling and use it to outdiss her sister next time. If there was a next time, which there damn well better not be. But she couldn’t think about that right now, because it was “go time” in Operation Hummer.

  She felt a shot of gratitude that her Victorian was in a neighborhood that boasted huge cottonwood trees arching over the street in a rich canopy of green. She’d loved the location from the moment she saw it, but right then she loved it even more. All those trees—not to mention her neighbors’ elaborate topiaries—would afford her plenty of cover as she approached the perv in the vehicle.

  Crouched as low as she could manage while still being able to run, she dashed from boxwood bunny to topiary tiger, and finally to the oversized rear bumper of the obnoxious vehicle.

  She stopped. Listened.

  No change to indicate he suspected anything.

  But if he had heard a noise, she thought, employing her best Nancy Drew deductive powers, he’d be most likely to check his driver’s side mirror or rearview mirror. Her best approach, then, would be on the passenger side.

  Hunched so low she was practically crawling, she stealthed her way up the side, around the front grill, and stopped just in front of his rearview mirror. She’d gotten a quick glimpse of his profile as she rounded the vehicle, and just as she suspected, his gaze rested firmly on her house.

  Her anger flared. How dare he?

  Again she stopped. Listened.

  Still no change.

  She could hardly believe she’d slipped in without him noticing. Sheesh! Not only did she have a stalker, but he sucked at his chosen crime. Exactly the kind of guy who’d drive a small-penis-equalizer vehicle and go in for the whole phone sex thing. He probably lived in his mother’s basement.

  His driver’s side window stood open and the scent of coffee wafted out. He also had the radio on—low. She strained forward to hear it. One moment…two…and—Bastard!

  The creep was listening to KHOT—Marisol’s station. Of course it was Marisol’s station, and gee, her stupid show was about to start. That did it.

  Cristy counted out a one…two…three in her head, then lunged forward and up like an Olympic jouster, jabbing the tips of her knitting needles against the front of the stalker’s muscular neck.

  He froze, lifting his hands ever so slowly from the steering wheel. Above the needles, his Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Easy now,” he said.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” she growled.

  His eyes darted toward her, then registered surprise. “Cristy?” His gaze swept over her. “Little Cristy Avila?”

  Shock drained all the adrenaline out of her. She blinked a couple of times, trying to place him. He looked familiar, but—

  “Damn, girl.” He grinned, visibly calmer. “Last time I saw you, you were all bony knees and braces.”

  “Wha..?” Holy crap, it couldn’t be! “D-Diego?” She would hardly have recognized her sister’s high school friend without the knees and braces crack. She squeezed her eyes closed briefly, then looked again. Yup, it really was him. Her heart clenched. “Diego Mora?”

  “In the flesh.”

  He would have to put it that way. Diego Mora had been the object of all her earliest sexual fantasies. He’d been the hottest senior during her freshman year, but nowhere near as hot as his incarnation at age—she did the math—thirty.

  But wait. Buzz kill image: Diego Mora as one of Crystal’s customers. Ew. She swallowed tightly, praying it wasn’t true. But she had to know. “Wh-What are you doing here?”

  His right hand wrapped around the needles at his throat. “Do you mind?” He slowly moved the “weapons” away from him, then glanced down. He chuckled. And when his eyes met hers, her traitorous tummy did that telltale lust flop.

  “No way did you just attack me with knitting needles.”

  She hiked her chin, grasping for bravado. “It was all I had. Answer my question, what are you doing here?”

  “Sorry.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “The needles threw me. Your sister hired me to keep an eye on you.”

  She blinked, taking in his words.

  Marisol. Hired Diego Mora.

  Which meant he knew about the creeps calling her.

  Which logically meant he knew about her phone sex past.

  Which meant she wanted to vaporize right this minute and disappear beneath the earth’s crust. Damn! What were the odds? Her freakin’ obtuse sister had hired the sole object of her earliest teenage fantasies as her bodyguard? If that didn’t just take the cake.

  Cake. Ugh. The word immediately threw her back to the abhorrent Welcome to Womanhood party, which led her to thoughts of the boys who’d shown up just to stuff their faces with Midol cake and snicker at her plight.

  Diego had been one of those boys—the only sophomore. He hadn’t eaten any cake, and he hadn’t snickered like the snot-nosed seventh graders, but so what? If she remembered correctly, he’d looked at her with something crawly that felt a whole lot like pity. Kind of like the way he was looking at her now. And somehow, as she stood next to Diego Mora’s big, hideous testosterone-mobile brandishing her size ten and a half, stai
nless steel knitting needles, pity felt a million times worse than ridicule.

  “Jesus, it never ends.” Cristy spun away from the Hummer and stomped back toward the safety—such as it was—of Simplicity.

  Chapter 5

  So, she wasn’t thrilled to see him, Diego mused as he headed around the side of the house, returning to the Hummer. Not such a huge surprise. Clearly Cristy was embarrassed by the situation, and he couldn’t blame her. He had no interest in exacerbating that fact with his unwanted presence reminding her of what the entire metro area now knew, thanks to her sister. No sweat. He still had a job to do, but he could easily watch the place from outside. He’d set up the surveillance camera behind the house, which afforded him visuals of the alley, backyard, and back door on his laptop monitor. Gotta love technology.

  Poor Cristy. He shook his head. Marisol had been a blast to hang out with back in the day, and he still thought she was one cool chick. But he could see how being her sister might suck. Especially since Cristy didn’t have the same bold, gregarious nature as Marisol. The woman said and did whatever came to her mind. Nothing embarrassed her.

  Not so for little sis. He still remembered Cristy walking into the house all those years ago and coming face-to-face with that whacked party Marisol had put together. Surprise! they’d all yelled, and shy little Cristy had turned from mottled red to ashy gray as the realization seeped through her shock. Damn.

  He’d only gone over to help Marisol decorate the basement, but he still felt awful for even being there. In fact, he felt a little guilty for recalling it now. After that, he’d spent the rest of that year feeling secretly protective of Cristy. Those pissant seventh grade boys Marisol had invited tormented Cristy mercilessly. He’d even had to whoop ass on the worst of the little cockroaches—Kevin O’Kane—after the kid refused to let up. That pencil-necked prick had been a bully since elementary school, and although Diego preferred to use force only as a last resort these days, hearing O’Kane cry like a buckle-shoed baby girl as he took the smackdown had been one of Diego’s more satisfying revenge moments.