by T. R. Cupak
Is he really going to play the race card? Is he trying to say we can’t be more because I’m an American mutt? My mother was African-American and my dad was Scottish. The only trait my mother passed to me was her unruly hair. I’ve never branded myself as black or white. I’m American. I’m human.
“So, what, your family is racist?”
“That isn’t what I’m saying.” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “My family is Mexican. They can’t be racist.”
“That’s just stupid. Anyone can be racist.”
“Your race has nothing to do with their aversion to our relationship.”
“Then what is it? I’m not a virgin? I’m not Catholic?”
He chuckles. “I wish it were that simple.”
“How do you even know they won’t like me? I’ve never met them.”
He nods. “And I’ve never met your sister.”
Checkmate.
“I didn’t realize you wanted to meet my sister.”
He shrugs. “I assumed you weren’t ready—or willing—to introduce me. Maybe this was something casual to you.” He looks at the bed when he speaks. “Like I was saying before, this wasn’t supposed to be anything, just a little fun. But this isn’t just fun, not anymore.”
Someone push the panic button on my heart because it’s beating at warp speed.
“I told you earlier I wasn’t looking for a pet. I’ve had those. Women who want to be taken care of. I’m tired of dating women with no drive. No ambition. That’s the kind of woman my mother wants me to marry. A baby factory. An obedient baby factory.”
His mother sounds like a bitch.
“I want an independent woman. Someone with a career and a home of her own.” He looks around my tiny bedroom. “Someone who won’t get sucked into the politics of my family.”
My parents passed away within two years of each other. My dad first of a heart attack, then my mom of ovarian cancer that was caught too late. It’s been just Cindy and me for nearly ten years. Cindy was only fifteen when Mom died. I became her guardian at eighteen. We struggled to make sure she finished high school. When she wanted to quit and work full time, I wouldn’t allow her. I worked two fast-food jobs and nights at Target restocking shelves. We did it together. Then she met Mick, and he swept her off her feet. After kissing a lot of frogs, I gave up on the idea of finding my prince charming. Until now.
“Are you trying to ask me something?” I can’t help the ginormous smile that’s taken over my face. This is not how I pictured it in my mind.
First, I wouldn’t be giving prince charming a blow job.
Second, a ring would be involved.
Since we’re sitting in the middle of my bed totally naked, I don’t think he’s about to pull a ring from a hidden pocket.
“You have become a bright spot in my life. I’m ready to take this to the next level.” He takes my hands. “Scarlet, I want you—”
“Yes!”
“I didn’t finish.”
“I don’t care, the answer is yes.” I jump into his arms, on the verge of happy tears. I don’t need a ring…not now. We kiss, but it’s brief.
“I need to call my mom and let her know.”
I’m crestfallen when he gets out of bed and rummages for his phone on the floor. He’s really not going to ask the question? Even worse, his first inclination is to call his mom?
“My family needs to prepare for guests. They like to put their best foot forward.” He brings the phone to his ear and waits.
I get out of bed and dress in a t-shirt and shorts.
“Hola, Mama.” He speaks too quickly for me to grasp every word of his conversation. I get enough.
I had it all wrong.
He wasn’t asking me to be Mrs. Marcus Arini. He was asking me to be his date at a family barbeque.
Relationship status: TBD
Chapter Two
The promenade is busy on Sunday mornings. I stand beneath Surfhenge, an art installation made of abstract surfboards at the entrance to Portwood Pier Plaza. Surfers weave past harried vendors setting up to sell everything from jewelry made from seashells to home-baked chocolate chip cookies.
Sunday morning jogs on the beach have been my thing since I moved to Imperial Beach from Los Angeles. At first, it was strictly exercise. I had gained fifteen pounds my first year on the job. Half-off at McDonald’s and free donuts start to add up. I wish I could say the extra pounds were what ruined my first relationship but that’s a lie. It was me. All me.
I met Elias in high school. When my parents died, he stood by me, kept me from falling apart. I followed him into this career, then I nearly got him killed.
After the academy, we both landed dream jobs in Los Angeles. I went straight to patrol, while he was assigned to a special task force. Elias grew up with some questionable dudes. His connections to street gangs afforded him the opportunity to help on a big case. It involved him going undercover in a Hawaiian biker gang. He’d lived on the Big Island until he was twelve, so Elias knew how to speak Hawaiian Pidgin, a slang dialect that gave him a free pass into the gang.
We’d go weeks without seeing each other or even talking on the phone. One day he showed up with flowers and a bottle of Hennessy. We spent the next twenty-six hours having drunk sex. In a moment of utter stupidity, I did something I will regret for the rest of my life. Elias was sleeping beside me, snoring softly the way he did. I positioned my phone above our heads and snapped a picture. Then I posted it on Instagram, tagging us both.
Elias was using his Instagram while undercover and my account was filled with pictures of me in uniform: snaps of my partner and me getting free coffee, our unit doing the mannequin challenge—you name it, I’d documented it. I captioned the photo ‘Sleeping bae’ and posted it. By the time his alarm went off three hours later, his cover was blown, and I’d ruined both of our careers. He was reprimanded for being careless, and I was scolded for being an idiot.
Just to be safe, Elias was sent out of state in WITSEC, and I transferred to Imperial Beach. That was six years ago, but I still think of him almost every day, especially when I run. Running is my therapy. Sand beneath my feet, the ocean at my side, sun shining above—It doesn’t get much better than that.
Today I’m not thinking of my past. I’m worried about my future, the near future. In a few hours, I’m meeting the Arini family.
I cut my run short so I have ample time to prep for the barbeque. Marcus insisted I don’t cook anything or bring wine. It isn’t that kind of barbeque. Whatever that means.
My outfit was another conversation. Marcus hinted that I should wear a dress. A dress. To a barbeque. My go-to for outdoor events is usually shorts or jeans. It’s May, so the weather teeters on warm most days. Today is a mild seventy-two. Not dress weather. Still, I find myself perusing the dress side of my closet. I land on a simple wrap dress from Old Navy. It’s charcoal gray, ties on the side, and will pair well with the flats I plan to wear. I draw the line at heels. It’s a barbeque. Even in flats, I look smoking hot in this dress, especially my boobs.
I insisted on driving myself to his family estate. Not so I can make a quick exit if needed, but because if I drive, I won’t drink. There are plenty of officers who imbibe off duty and drive home, but I’m not one of them. The no tolerance for law enforcement rule is taken seriously in Imperial Beach. I can’t afford another blemish on my record.
I text Marcus when I’m in the car, ready to go.
Me: On my way
Him: I can’t wait to see you. Text me when you get here.
I start my crappy Honda and back up. A car honks and I slam on my brakes. I check my rearview mirror and find Theresa blocking my driveway.
She gets out of her Prius and taps on the roof of her car.
“Hello! I was sitting there for three minutes. What were you so engrossed in that you didn’t even see me?”
I get out and watch her facial expression change when she sees my outfit.
“Are you going to church
or something?”
“No, I have…a thing. What are you doing here?” I start walking towards the end of the driveway.
“I was going to see if you wanted to catch a movie. Obviously, you plan to catch something else in that dress,” she smarts. “I’ll see you Monday.”
Theresa pretends it’s no biggie, but I can tell something is wrong.
“Wait, T.” I join her in the street. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she sighs. “It’s just that we never hang out anymore. You’re always with your mystery guy, and I’m… Just forget it. I’m in a mood. I think I’ll go have hate sex with the guy from narcotics.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“He isn’t that bad, actually. And he can cook.” She gives one of her sassy grins. “You look amazing, Scarlet. I hope Mr. M is one of the good ones.”
I feel guilty for keeping so many secrets from her. There really is no reason to continue. I’m going to meet his family. Welcome to the next level.
“Marcus,” I tell her. “His name is Marcus Arini.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Marcus is a sexy name.”
“It is. He is.”
“I’m going to google him.” She closes her door and rolls the window down. “I’ll have a full report for you on Monday.”
“Of course you will.”
I arrive at the Arini Estate just after two o’clock. The circular driveway hosts an array of SUVs. My little Honda is so out of place. I squeeze behind Marcus’s car and get out, leaving my Chapstick in the center console. This is a strategic move. A Chapstick run to the car is always a great excuse to get away.
“You must be Scarlet.” A man in dirty jeans and a plaid button up shirt greets me from the door. He’s dressed casually, you know, like for a barbeque.
“I am.” I put on my fake smile and pretend to be thrilled to meet him. “Is Marcus around?”
“He’s out back playing with the birds. Come on, I’ll bring you in.” He steps aside, and I walk through the open double doors. “I’m Johnny, Marcus’s uncle.”
John Arini, the owner of Arini Imports.
“I’m Scarlet, but you know that.”
I’m doing my best to be cute, friendly, not cop-like at all. Even though I make mental notes of his height, build, and the color of his eyes.
He looks back with a curious smile. “I don’t know your last name.”
“Macaw.”
“Like the bird?” He looks at me as if I’m joking.
“Yep, like the bird.”
“Interesting.”
People have been teasing me about my name since elementary school, none of them have used the word interesting.
Johnny leads me through the Mediterranean style home. The marble floor glistens in the afternoon sun, lighting a path through the house. The furniture, paintings, even the doors scream “Mexico.” Natural wood and white walls with splashes of color. It smells like the best Mexican restaurant in town.
“That’s the family crest.” Johnny points to a symbol painted on the floor. I recognize it from the website.
“It’s lovely.”
We continue into a formal living room. “That fireplace was built by our great-great-grandfather. It was part of the original house, and this one was built around it. Go ahead, you can touch it.”
I feel weird as I walk across the marble floor to fondle a fireplace. Up close I can see the bricks are weathered and chipped; soot stains and cracks attest to its authenticity.
“It’s amazing.”
My phone buzzes in my hand. I know it’s Marcus wondering where I am. I was supposed to text him when I arrived but Johnny hi-jacked me.
We stop at a set of French doors.
“And here we are,” he announces. At least fifty people turn and look as I step onto the patio. None of them are Marcus.
“Where exactly is Marcus?” I whisper to Johnny.
“He’s around. Go get some tamales before they’re all gone.”
Johnny walks in the direction of a beer keg.
I check my phone.
Him: What’s your eta?
I reply with a photo of the yard.
None of the other men or women approach me as I wait for Marcus. They sit in silent judgement wondering why a girl like me is crashing the party. A dog runs around the side of the house and sniffs my feet. He’s some kind of bully breed—tall, slobbery, scary.
“Hey, Nacho!” Johnny yells. “Váyase.”
The dog scampers towards the brick wall turned barbeque in search of scraps.
“You like beer?” Johnny offers me one of the beers in his hand.
Fuck it. I need a drink.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Tio, I see you’ve met Scarlet.” Marcus places his arm around my waist. “I hope he wasn’t harassing you.” He kisses my cheek.
“He was showing me around the house.” I take a sip of beer.
“Linda tu chica. y arriesgado.”
“No quiero oírlo, tio.”
Johnny’s smile fades as he turns and walks away. A group of men and women wait for him to join their circle to get the scoop on me.
“Is everything okay?”
My cop instincts tell me that was a heated exchange. I didn’t catch what they were saying. Aside from my being beautiful. Arriesgado, I repeat to myself. I’ll have to look that up later.
Marcus lifts the beer from my hand and drinks half the glass. “I’m not sure I can make it through the day sober,” he confesses.
He offers me the rest of my beer. “That makes two of us.”
We glance around the yard. Large trees give shade to the patio and the area where Johnny and his posse are judging me. The other side of the yard is filled with picnic-style tables and a playground.
“Johnny said you were playing with the birds. Is that code for something.”
He shoots a look at his uncle. “No.”
“Are you going to elaborate?”
“I’d rather show you.”
We walk past the playground onto a dirt path lined with bushes as tall as Marcus.
“Must have been great playing hide-n-seek through here as a kid.”
“We weren’t allowed to play out here when I was kid.” Marcus takes my hand.
“Why not?”
He looks down and takes note of my shoes. “You dressed perfectly.”
I stop and look at him in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. His parrot tattoo peeks from beneath his short sleeves.
“And what are you?” I tug at his shirt. It’s so tight, I can barely grasp a finger full of material.
“I’m not meeting your family for the first time.”
“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t sound super sexist.” I keep walking.
He pulls me into his arms. “I didn’t want them to have any excuse to hate you. Believe me, they just need one little thing, like tight jeans and dirty sneakers. I want them to love you—,” his face turns serious, sexy, “—I want them to love you as much as I love you.”
My heart sings along with the birds whistling nearby. One loud caw draws his attention.
“I want you to meet someone.” His smile turns playful, youthful, as he leads me down the path to what I can only describe as an aviary.
The melodic chirping is so loud I can barely hear Marcus speak.
“Those are blue-cheeked amazons.” He points to the birds making all the noise.
“How many are in there?” The cage, if it can be called that, is massive, like something seen at the zoo.
“Six,” he says. “They get loud when they're excited.”
Apparently, they’re excited to see Marcus.
We walk past enormous cages holding dozens of exotic parrots. Marcus is like a child showing off his toys. He names them all; I don’t even pretend to remember them.
We stop in front of a small tree with a cage built around it. Marcus points to a branch midway to the top where a bright blue bird sits on one foo
t.
“This is a hyacinth macaw. The Spanish word for macaw is guacamayo. We call him Mayo. ”
“He’s beautiful.”
“He’s nothing compared to her.” He spins me around. A white octagon, at least fifteen feet high, sits beneath a beautiful eucalyptus tree. “That is a scarlet macaw.” He presents the bird like a proud parent.
I’ve seen pictures of the macaw—I am her namesake—but I’ve never seen one in real life. Her head is bright red, with equally bright blue, and yellow wings.
“Scarlet Macaw, meet Linda.” He walks to her cage and places his finger through the bars. He makes a clicking sound, and the bird makes its way towards him. Marcus pulls something from a container hanging off the side of the cage. Linda means ‘cute’ in Spanish but it’s pronounced lien-da. The bird’s name is a play on the English name.
“Out of the hundreds of birds my family has raised, she has always been my favorite.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-nine, same as me.” He offers her another seed. “My father got her the same year I was born.”
“Are you breeders?”
Marcus stops fawning over the bird and turns back to me. “More like collectors. Technically, it’s illegal to sell birds without a license.” He wraps his arms around me. “On occasion, my father will sell a bird to one of his friends.”
“I promise not to tell.” I kiss him, and Linda squawks in my ear. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“She is the least of your problems.” Marcus takes my hands. “Come on, it’s time to meet my mother.”
We emerge from the path to a gang of curious faces. Marcus stops and asks a woman where his mother is.
“Donde esta, jefe?”
The woman looks like she wants to slit my throat. “Cocina.”
“Gracias.” Marcus guides me around the girl like he’s afraid she’s going to attack me.
“Who is that?”
“Oh, she’s a cousin.”
“Really?” I look back at her dirty blonde hair and blue eyes.
The people scattered around the yard don’t seem like family. A dozen or so kids play on the structure, a few older women sit at the tables shucking corn. Marcus didn’t introduce me to any of them. Not a single one has shown any interest in meeting me. Except for Johnny.