Names I Call My Sister

by Mary Castillo

  Cristy didn’t know about any of it—him watching her back, thrashing the little eunuch on her behalf, nada. In fact, after her party, Diego couldn’t remember a single time when Cristy had actually made eye contact with him at school or anywhere else. She’d stayed safely inside her protective shell ever since.

  Of course, a couple of years later, he and Marisol had graduated, leaving Cristy to brave the mean halls alone for three long years. How had the rest of high school turned out for her? Pretty rough, probably. Teenagers—especially good-for-nothing shitheels like Kevin O’Kane—could be cruel as hell.

  Diego had lost contact with the Avila sisters after that, but the whole incident had steered him toward his eventual career path as a private investigator and personal bodyguard. He’d liked owning his own business. Problem was, guarding celebrities, although lucrative, hadn’t provided the same satisfaction as watching little Cristy Avila’s back had. Which was why he’d left L.A. Not specifically because of the Avila girls, but because he’d grown tired of the artificial and competitive atmosphere in the City of Angels. He yearned for more satisfying work, not that he knew what that entailed yet. How ironic, though, that his first freelance assignment in Denver was guarding little Cristy Avila. Again.

  Talk about coming full circle.

  He eased sideways in the Hummer’s roomy leather seat and propped his knee against the steering wheel. The familiar tormented emotions on Cristy’s expression earlier had kicked him square in the gut. Her feelings had always shown plainly on her face—since she was a kid, pobrecita, like a neon marquee.

  But, man. She definitely wasn’t a kid anymore.

  An image of her undulated through his mind, and he whistled low through his teeth. In the years he’d been away, Cristy Avila had transformed from Marisol’s quiet kid sister into an absolute, off-the-chain knockout. She was the kind of hot where she probably didn’t realize she was hot. Sexy, real, and unassuming. More gorgeous by far than any of the celebrities he’d worked for, as a matter of fact. They always turned out to be far too high maintenance and brittle, going heavy on the makeup and designer clothes just to cover up their insecurity. Not that it worked.

  Cristy? Opposite end of the spectrum, big-time. She’d confronted him outside wearing old sweatpants and a holey Herman’s Hideaway T-shirt, wide brown eyes flashing fire. Her long dark hair stuck out all over the place, like she’d just tumbled out of bed, and yet, she hadn’t given it a thought. Man, that hair had done dangerous things to his blood pressure.

  Three words to describe the grown up Cristy Avila? Hot, hot, and hot. Scorching hot. And yet she’d maintained that endearing sense of sincerity and vulnerability that had tripped his protective instincts when they were high school kids.

  His mouth spread into a grin and he chuckled softly.

  He couldn’t believe she’d been brandishing, of all things, knitting needles. Proudly, as though she were Xena, freakin’ Warrior Princess. That sense of the unexpected added to her appeal. He liked a woman who kept him guessing.

  Yup—Cristy Avila had grown up, and damned if he didn’t love what he saw. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t explain why or how, but even after all this time, he knew her. If he gave one indication of his interest, she’d write it off merely as a result of the phone sex revelation. And, okay, in the interest of full disclosure, the image of her on the phone talking dirty did fire his pistons. He was a man. Cut him some slack.

  But that wasn’t why he found her sexy, not in the least.

  Not that she’d believe him.

  Bottom line, he’d been hired to protect her, not to put the moves on her, no matter how appealing the thought. More than anything, he wanted her to come away from this trauma knowing that not all guys were dirtbags, and that Diego Mora always had, and always would have, her back.

  The news vans had returned.

  Not just the ones from yesterday, either. There were more, lined up on the street like vultures on Wild Kingdom, drawn by the scent of road kill. Ironic, because after her stressful, sleepless night, she felt like road kill. The news vans’ mere presence stirred up a cauldron of defeat, desperation, and deep-seated resentment inside her. Sheesh, wasn’t there a murder to cover? Some sort of illegal police chase or sexual harassment claim in the fire department to follow up on? At the very least, they could certainly report on yet another stupid decision or comment made by the President. Those issues were news fodder.

  Her life was not.

  And yet, she had to play by their stupid rules regardless of how it hindered her business, because they’d somehow decided she was the flavor of the week. Idiots. If she didn’t lock the place down like a prison cell, she had no doubt they’d barge right in with their cameramen, shove mics in her face, and then take every word she said out of context. Consequently, for the second day in a row, the phones were unplugged, her shop was locked, curtains drawn, and a sign on her front door read, BY INVITATION ONLY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  Her regulars were invited—no one else.

  The whole thing cranked her off and freaked her out. And even though she’d stomped away from him that morning, she had to admit, knowing Diego Mora was outside watching the place eased a lot of her fear. At least she didn’t have to worry about some freak spanking the monkey as he stared into one of her windows.

  She’d have to apologize to Diego. He’d always tried to be nice to her when they were kids. She hadn’t meant to be so rude earlier, but embarrassment had launched her fight or flight response, and judging from his sculpted physique, fighting would’ve been useless. Flight had been her only logical option. But, still. He probably thought she was a total wing nut, not to mention a tramp and a shrew. And that, combined with the growing pressure from the media, left her nerves wound tighter than a sleeve caught in a meat grinder.

  For now, though, she needed to concentrate on business. On the surface, this was just another workday. A few of the shop’s regulars gathered around the large table, stitching and bitching, just like always. But instead of joining them as she usually did, Cristy prowled the main gathering room straightening yarn displays and pretending she was fine, just fine, thank you very much for asking. What a load of crap.

  Oh, she put on a decent enough act. She shared in the laughter of her customers, pausing to ooh and aah over their various projects now and then, but her head wasn’t all there. And everyone knew it. Bottom line, she pretended her life wasn’t in shambles, and her regulars—God bless them—played along with the charade. At least, for a while.

  After she had piled, unpiled, and repiled the new display of sherbet-colored eyelash yarn twice, Lisa Mondragon, the twenty-three-year-old, ultra-hip mother of twin toddlers, blew out a big sigh and set her aluminum needles down with that familiar tink-tink.

  “Cristy, stop straightening those shelves and come knit with us. You know knitting is a cure-all.”

  Cristy turned from the wall of displayed yarn toward the familiar circle of knitters and clasped her hands behind her. “I’m sorry. Am I distracting you?” She forced a smile.

  Lisa’s sister, Racquel, beckoned her over. “You’re not distracting us, but you’re distracted. I know we’re all pretending not to notice that giant purple elephant standing in the corner, but it’s there.”

  “I—I’m not sure what you mean,” she lied.

  Racquel sighed. “We know the media’s outside. We know you want to kill your sister. We understand why you’re stressed out, okay? We’re your friends.”

  “I…I know.” Cristy dropped the act and ran her fingers through her hair. “And I appreciate it.”

  “So don’t give them the satisfaction of rattling you, Cris.”

  She huffed. “Too late, I’m afraid.”

  “Sit.” Racquel indicated the empty chair with her chin. “We won’t ask you any more uncomfortable questions.”

  Cristy narrowed her eyes playfully. “Promise?”

  “For now.” Racquel winked. “Aren’t you still working on that round-t
he-bend sweater?”

  Sweater? Knitting? Huh? Oh yeah, that. Her normal routines had gone woefully awry. “I am,” Cristy said with zero enthusiasm. She walked over and claimed the chair next to Racquel. “Eternally, because it scares the bejeebers out of me, that pattern.”

  “It scares everybody. You just have to go for it.”

  “I know. But it takes too much concentration.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m going to leave it alone until I get through this fiasco. I don’t want to mess it up.”

  “Nonsense,” said Alma Perea, a Simplicity icon who’d started training for marathons at age sixty. Now, at sixty-eight, she had the body of a thirty-five-year-old athlete and the confidence of a twenty-five-year-old rock star. Not to mention, she could knit anything in the world, probably with her eyes closed. She’d begun knitting as a way to pass the time after her husband died, and found she had a knack for it. “It’s the concentration that eases the mind, mija. Get the sweater. I’ll help you if you get stuck.”

  “Okay. You’re right.” Cristy grabbed her bag from the window seat, then sat again, between Racquel and Alma. “Thanks.” A lump rose in her throat as she looked around at her friends. “You don’t know what it means to me that you’re all here.”

  Alma blinked at her a couple of times. “Well, where else would we be? We’re here every Tuesday, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What makes you think today would be any different?”

  “I love you guys.” She gave Alma a quick hug, then shook her head as she pulled out her work-in-progress. “What would I do without my Simplicity family?”

  “Luckily, you’ll never have to find out.” Alma patted Cristy’s knee, then leaned over to inspect her work.

  “You, too, Lola,” Racquel yelled toward the kitchen. “Get out here.”

  Lola appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a flour sack towel. “You ladies need something?”

  “Yes. You,” said Allegra Morrison, a gangly eighteen-year-old who took all kinds of crap at school because “her parents had named her after a drug.” At least, that’s what the other kids claimed. In actuality, she was named after her paternal grandmother, who’d spun her own yarn and had taught Allegra to crochet when she was three. Yarn work came to her in her bloodline; she’d already whipped through several complicated knitting projects like they were nothing, and had begun spinning and hand dyeing.

  “Come sit with us, Lo,” Cristy told her, releasing the last vestiges of her resistance. “There’s no need for you to slave in the kitchen when we’re basically closed.”

  “Except to the A-list,” Allegra said, smiling shyly at Cristy before turning back to her project—a fitted halter top out of red, hand-dyed hemp.

  “That’s right. The A-list is always welcome.” Cristy had felt an immediate kinship with Allegra when they’d met in Simplicity’s first-ever beginning knitting class. The teen had started out quiet, painfully shy. Eventually, she grew more comfortable, and during their last session, she confided in the rest of them about how much she hated school and why. Cristy knew all too well what it felt like to be an outsider. After everyone besides Allegra had left, she had encouraged the girl to think of Simplicity as her oasis, too. She was pleased Allegra felt comfortable enough to do so.

  “Okay,” Lola said. “Let me get some treats together first. You all can be my guinea pigs. I just baked something new.”

  “Yum. What?” Lisa asked.

  “I call them butter knit-knots.” She grinned. “They’re a bit like shortbread, but wait until you see them. They look like little sweaters in stockinette stitch.”

  “I can guarantee you they’re probably too gorgeous to eat,” Alma said once Lola was out of the room.

  “No way,” Allegra said. “I’ll eat anything she bakes, pretty or not. It’s easy. You just have to close your eyes and open your mouth.”

  Everyone laughed. Taking her first deep, relaxing breath of the day, Cristy pulled her pattern from the felted knapsack she’d whipped up last winter for precisely that purpose. It was her project bag, and like any good knitter, she never left home without it. Then again, thanks to Mar, she might never leave home again. If she turned into one of those creepy old hermits with thirty cats and newspapers stacked five feet high, it would be Marisol’s fault.

  Lola presented the knit-knots, to much adulation, on a big orange tray from the local imports store. Despite Lola’s insistence, everyone refused to eat the masterpieces after they found out Lola had carved the design into each one individually.

  Lola pouted. “How would you feel if I wouldn’t wear one of your sweaters because I knew how much work had gone into it?”

  Cristy arched one eyebrow. Her mouth watered, and the rest of the women looked just as ravenous. “She’s got a point.”

  “Here.” Allegra pulled out her camera phone. “I’ll take a picture for posterity, and then we can eat. Deal?”

  “Deal,” they said simultaneously. With a permanent digital record of the cookies in hand, they dug in. Pure, buttery bliss.

  “Lo, these are your yummiest creations yet,” Cristy said.

  “Thanks. Maybe I should take a few out for Diego. I’m sure he’s getting hungry,” Lola suggested, glancing toward the curtain-covered front window.

  Cristy eyed her sharply.

  “Or…I could just set some aside? Never mind,” Lola said.

  “Huh? Who’s Diego?” Allegra asked.

  Lola said, “He’s—”

  “No one,” Cristy said, casting a “thanks a lot” glare at Lola. “Just an old friend of the family.” She stared straight down at her knitting, watching her stitches get tighter and tighter. Swear to God, if she had to rip out these rows, she was going to bitch-slap her sister clear to California. This pattern was difficult enough without the added annoyance of having to redo any part of it.

  “Actually, he’s a professional bodyguard,” Lola said quickly, holding her chin high as she faced Cristy head on.

  “Lola!”

  “Marisol hired him to watch the place because Cris has been getting some scary phone calls since the radio show.” She spread her arms wide and shrugged. “They’re familia, Cris. They have a right to know. You don’t have to carry the burden alone just to maintain some sort of image in front of them.”

  “She’s right,” Lisa said softly. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I don’t know. It’s embarrassing!”

  “You know, we’ve all been publicly humiliated at one point or another. Maybe none of us has ever worked as a phone sex girl, but we really do get what you’re going through.”

  Cristy’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. It’s just so infuriating. My sister always puts me in awkward situations. The former job isn’t something I’m proud of.”

  “Why not?” Racquel waved her arms around at Simplicity. “Look what it got you.”

  “Well, there’s that. Sure. But no one really needed to know the details, did they?”

  Racquel smacked her sister in the arm with the back of her hand, smirking. “Tell her about that time with Mom in the Safeway parking lot. Talk about embarrassing.”

  “Ugh!” Lisa fluttered her eyes closed for a minute, then held up her index finger. “This goes nowhere, ladies.”

  “Of course not. Fess up,” said Alma, eyes gleaming with anticipation of some juicy girl gossip.

  “Well, I had a crush on this particular guy in high school. Popular, athlete, the whole nine yards, and we’d been doing the mutual flirt thing for a while. I was sure he’d ask me out soon. So my mom, Racquel, and I were walking through the parking lot toward Safeway one day when he pulled up in his Camaro.”

  “Lisa was laying on the whole cute act,” Racquel said, “trying to be cool and stuff as they chatted at his window.”

  “Yeah, of course I was.” She grinned at her sister. “And the whole time I was praying that you and Mom would just go into the store without me so I could get my full flirt o
n.”

  “But, no,” said Racquel.

  “Nope. No such luck. Instead, Mom actually walked up to me as I was talking to him, lifted my arm by the wrist and sniffed, then said—”

  “We need to get you stronger deodorant, mija. You smell like fried potatoes with onions,” said Racquel, imitating their mom’s accented speech.

  “And that’s verbatim, people,” Lisa added.

  “Oh, my God!” Cristy exclaimed as the rest of the group gasped, laughed, and chattered. Cristy covered her mouth. “I can’t believe she fronted you like that! What did you do?”

  “You mean, other than wish for an instant death?”

  “Been there,” Cristy said.

  Lisa rolled her eyes. “I skipped school for three days and then never spoke to him again. Lance—” She smacked her palm on the table. “—that was his name. I’d blocked it out. Ugh, I haven’t thought about that in a few years.” She scowled playfully at Racquel. “Thanks for the memories, sis.”

  “That’s beyond awful, Lisa,” Cristy said, feeling less alone for the first time. “Really.”

  Lisa brushed away the sympathy and started knitting again. “For the most part, I’m over it. I still have a B.O. complex, though. I think I’ve tried every antiperspirant on the market at least once. No lie.”

  “I’ve told you a million times, you don’t stink, sis. That was just some adolescent hormone thing.”

  Lisa smiled gratefully at her sister.

  “Something awful like that happened to me once, too,” Lola said, her face turning red.

  Cristy couldn’t imagine anything rattling Lola. “Do tell.”

  “Well, I was a senior. This is weird, but I’m going to tell you anyway, because I know you’ll all understand.” She paused for a deep breath. “I’d worn my favorite pair of underwear to school one day. You know—” She flipped her hand. “—the kind you hunt for forever, that don’t give you VPL or crawl up your crack or anything?”

  “What’s VPL?” Alma asked.

  “Visible panty lines,” the others intoned, in stereo.