“I’m not getting married, mother. I just…” I stood and walked to the sink. “I saw her the other day.”
As I rinsed my cup, she set the tamale aside and started on another.
“Don’t get mad and leave. I’m not done talking,” she snapped.
“I’m not leaving,” I said.
“Sit down,” she said over her shoulder. “You need to eat something before you go.”
“I’ve eaten. I ate early.”
“Eat again. You’re a big boy. You need to eat.”
“I need to get to work.”
“Tell me why you ask about the puta.”
I rolled my eyes and sat down. “I saw her. I was just asking.”
“You see people every day, and no questions,” she said, still focused on her tamale production. “Why you ask?”
“Her daughter was in trouble. She came to me looking for help. I just wondered what you remembered about her.”
“In trouble how?”
“Not really trouble. She was…” I paused, struggling with how to continue. Before I had a chance to structure what I was going to say, she asked again.
“In trouble how?”
“Her boyfriend was beating her,” I said. It was the truth, but not the entire truth.
She glanced over her shoulder and locked eyes with me. “Did you fix it?”
I let out a sigh. “I did.”
She smiled and turned around. “You’re a good boy.”
“How old is Alexandra? Fifteen?”
“Twenty-one.”
“It’s not possible,” she said.
“She was eleven when they moved. It’s been ten years.”
She looked at me. “Ten years? Are you sure?”
I nodded. “I was twenty-one.”
“So why you ask about the puta?” she asked. “She’s no good for you.”
“I was just asking. Making conversation, mother.”
“We make conversations about what we wish to speak of. Listen to your mother. She’s no good for you.”
She was right. I wanted her opinion of Alexandra, and whether or not she thought my interest in her would be awkward, disrespectful, or too lop-sided regarding age. Asking while she was in one of her moods could produce answers I didn’t want to hear.
I stood. “I was thinking about going by to check on Alexandra.”
She turned around and wiped her hands against her apron. She looked into my eyes, and while she did, her mouth curled into a sly grin. “You like the daughter?”
I leaned toward her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m just checking on her. I’ve got to go.”
“Is she pretty?” she asked, her voice hopeful.
“She looks like her mother.”
She wrinkled her brow. “She looks like a whore?”
“She’s beautiful. She looks like the Virgin Mary,” I said sarcastically.
“Bring her for dinner,” she said. “But not the puta.”
I kissed her again. “I’m going to work.”
“Bring her for dinner.”
I shook my head and turned toward the door. “I’m going to work.”
“Everyone must eat. Bring her for dinner.”
“Goodbye mother.”
“You’re growing old,” she said. “You need to get married.”
Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind. I had always told myself whenever I decided to marry, my devotions would be sincere, and I’d remain a one-woman man for the rest of my life.
For me to be tied down now – and limited to one woman – was laughable. My previous intentions with women had never been bad, but they certainly hadn’t been good, either. My thoughts about Alexandra, however, had been limited to curiosity.
At least that’s what I was trying to convince myself.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Lex
I’d spent the last five years or so waiting for the day I turned twenty-one to arrive. I envisioned a huge party, drunken acts I’d later regret, and all-night sex that I’d remember for a lifetime.
Instead, I sat alone in my mother’s living room binge-watching the Girlfriends’ Guide to Divorce while contemplating making tacos.
My previous relationship was an unhealthy one, and it took me a while to realize it. By the time I recognized my need to escape the punishing behavior, I’d already lost touch with most of my girlfriends and acquaintances.
Sandy offered to throw a small party for me at the strip club, but going to a place like that scared me.
While I watched the female lead in the show screw her fictitious ex-husband for the tenth time I wondered if a one-night stand with Josh was even possible.
I cradled my phone in my hand and toyed with the idea. After a moment, the faint rumble of a Harley’s exhaust sent a chill down my spine. I listened intently as the motorcycle sped up, slowed down, and speed up again. My thoughts quickly changed from a fling with my abusive ex to Cholo.
The sound grew louder. I paused the T.V. and walked to the door. I twisted the lock, pulled it open, and peered up the street.
Nothing.
I smiled at the thought of someone enjoying a ride, and quickly came to miss the freedom of riding on the back of Cholo’s bike. It was difficult to explain, but riding was unlike anything I’d ever done. Understanding why the men who chose to ride did so made me view them differently.
Instead of seeing them as thugs and criminals, I looked at them as people who simply sought solace out of something strangely close to flying.
The sound of the motorcycle’s exhaust went from being distant to being close in an instant. I looked up, realizing I had all but floated into a daydream. Over the crest of the hill a motorcycle emerged, and upon recognizing the rider, I flushed with emotion.
His bare arms were stretched out and up to reach his high handlebars. The sleeves of his white tee shirt did little to conceal his massive arms, and I enjoyed every moment of watching him flaring biceps as he approached.
He rolled into the driveway, flipped off the engine, and grinned.
As he pulled off his helmet I walked toward him. “Hey, stranger.”
He smeared his palms along the top of his cleanly shaven head. “How’s it going?”
“Was just chilling to some T.V., and I heard a bike. Came out hoping it was you.”
He pulled on his hat, stepped off the bike, and stepped right in front of me. I felt small, and suddenly felt shy.
His hand slowly reached for my face.
My heart raced.
He lifted my chin slightly and looked me over. I inhaled a choppy shallow breath and hoped he didn’t notice. Consciously, I held it deep in my lungs as he inspected me.
While his eyes searched my face, I admired his handsome looks and the muscularity of his upper body. He’d shaved since I’d seen him last, and no longer had his growth of beard. While I tried to envision him with the facial hair again, he nodded lightly and lowered his hand.
I turned my head to the side, exhaled, and then looked at him. “What?”
“Just looking you over. All the bruises are gone, aren’t they?”
I grinned pridefully. “Yeah.”
“How are you doing?”
I twisted my hair with my finger. “Good.”
His eyes narrowed. “Really,” he said. “Are you--”
“I’m doing just fine,” I said. “Really. I migrated from paralysis to analysis. Now I’m doing great.”
“What does that mean?”
“Instead of letting the thing suffocate me, I dissected everything. When I did, I realized I did nothing wrong. It wasn’t my fault. It was just something that happened.”
“You believe that?”
“Uh huh.”
He grinned. “Good.”
He rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger, and I noticed the back side of his hand was covered in scars. Surprised that I hadn’t noticed before, my eyes followed as he lowered it to his side.
“What happ
ened to your hand?”
He rubbed his palm against his knuckles. “What do you mean?”
“It looks like…” I shrugged. “Like it was…like you were in an accident or something.”
He looked embarrassed. “It’s from fighting,” he said.
I couldn’t imagine a side of him so eager to fight. He had a calm demeanor, was polite, and contrary to his massive size and rough exterior, was rather calm. “Holy crap,” I said. “You’ve been in so many fights that your hand’s all scarred?”
He shrugged. “I boxed for years.”
“Without gloves?”
He laughed. “Yeah, that too. Still do, sometimes.”
“Box? Or fight without gloves?”
“Without gloves.”
I was intrigued. “Why?”
“Not sure.” The look on his face matched his response. “Maybe for the thrill. I don’t know.”
“Huh.” I imagined him fighting in the back yard of a run-down house in the barrio with a crowd of people gathered around, all waving wads of cash in the air. “I’d like to watch you sometime.”
He shook his head. “Not a place for a girl to be.”
I arched an eyebrow and shot him a sideways look.
He grinned a slight grin. “Not a place for most girls.”
I motioned toward the door. “Want to come in?”
“Where’s your mother?”
I stepped onto the porch. “Working late.”
“I can stop by some other time--”
I felt like I was in a competition with my mother for his attention, and I didn’t like it. After their mad dash to get more liquor, she seemed to cling to him for the rest of the night.
We exchanged several glances throughout the night, but with my mother at his side there was never a time I could speak to him privately.
“Did you come by to see her, or to see me?” I turned around and waited for him to respond.
His lips parted slightly but he didn’t speak.
“Well?”
“I just…I came by…to see…” he stammered.
I cocked my hip playfully. “Do I make you nervous?”
He chuckled and stepped onto the porch beside me. “Maybe a little bit.”
Pleased with his response, I turned and walked into the living room. As I sat down on the couch, he shut the door and sat in the chair beside me.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do I make you nervous?”
“Not sure,” he said. “Didn’t really notice it until now.”
To think I made someone as big and as tough as Cholo nervous made me smile inside. I slouched into the corner of the couch. “What’s your real name?”
“Adam.”
“Adam what?”
“Downey.”
“Downey? Is that Irish?”
He nodded. “Yep.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Half Irish, half Hispanic.”
I sat up. “Your half--” I started to say Mexican, and caught myself mid-sentence. “Your half Hispanic?”
Every muscle in my body tensed. I found the thought of it a little repulsive.
“Yep.”
I looked at him with disbelief. “Really?”
He folded his arms over his chest and nodded. “Really.”
I nodded toward him. “Mrs. Kelley says when we cross our arms like that it’s because we’re protecting ourselves. It means we feel vulnerable or insecure. Do you not like it that you’re half-Hispanic?”
Immediately, I realized he could be uncomfortable for many other reasons, including being half-Irish, and felt like an idiot for asking.
“You’re not shy, are you?”
I shot him an innocent look. “Sorry.”
He uncrossed his legs, but it didn’t last. “Who’s Mrs. Kelley?”
“She’s my counselor.”
He looked around the room. “Not particularly.”
“Not particularly, as in you don’t particularly like it that you’re Hispanic?”
“Half-Hispanic.” He reached for the bill of his hat and starting messing with it. “And no, I don’t care for it much.”
“Why not?”
“In school, the whites looked at me as a spic, and the Mexicans looked at me as white. No one really accepted me. That’s part of the reason I ended up fighting so much.”
“But it’s part of you. Without it, you’d be someone else. Can you imagine being someone else? That’d be weird.”
“I can’t imagine it now, no. When I was a kid, I imagined it every day.”
“Well, I like you just the way you are.”
He chuckled. “Thanks.”
I scooted across the couch and grabbed my phone. “What’s your phone number?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve got a phone, right? They let you have a phone, don’t they? You’ve got one, you used it that night to call the tall guy, Pee Bee.”
“Good memory,” he said. “And, yeah. They let me have a phone.”
“What’s your number?”
“Why do you want it?”
He’d backed me into a corner. One of my character flaws was that I said whatever was on my mind. Another was that I always told the truth. The two, combined, often got me into trouble.
“I think about you sometimes, and I haven’t got a way to get ahold of you. The thought of losing touch with you makes me uncomfortable. What’s your number?”
“4-4-7-1-0-5-0.”
“4-4-2?”
He shook his head. “7-6-0.”
I punched the number into my phone, reciting it as I did so. “7-6-0-4-4-7-1-0-5-0?”
“Yep.”
“Adam Cholo Downey.”
“Cholo.”
“I like Adam.”
“Cholo.”
I looked up. “Cholo, then.”
He reached inside his vest and pulled out his phone. “What’s your number?”
I hoped he wouldn’t ask, but I fully expected him to.
I sighed. “I don’t give out my number.”
“What is it?”
“Seriously, I don’t give it out. Ever. Not until I’m comfortable. It’s like a weird quirk or something, but I’m being serious.”
“You’re not comfortable with me?”
I felt embarrassed. “Kind of. I don’t know.”
He nodded and put the phone back inside his vest. I felt bad, but didn’t feel comfortable giving him my number. At least not yet. “Sorry.”
He shrugged. “Not big deal. So, when’s your mother going to be here?”
“She’s on nights this week, her schedule alternates. So, like 7:00 in the morning.”
“Oh. Wow. What’s she do?”
“You don’t know?”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I did.”
“I thought you guys were old friends, or something?”
“When you were little, you lived across the street. That’s the extent of it.”
I hadn’t asked specifically, but to hear the way she talked about him, I suspected they were long lost friends.
“That’s it?” I asked excitedly.
“That’s it.”
“She’s a Nurse.”
“Oh.”
“That’s why I wasn’t worried about getting checked out the night you brought me home. I knew she could do anything they could do at the hospital, because that’s where she works. And, she could do it here, without having to file a police report. You didn’t need the cops digging around trying to figure out who shot those guys.”
“I sure didn’t. Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“Are you hungry? I was getting ready to eat something.”
“Look at me.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m always hungry. Why?”
“Impressive.” I stared at him for longer than I probably should have. “Want a taco?”
He blurted out a laugh. “You think because I’m Mexican I want tacos?”
&nb
sp; “Half-Mexican.” I stood and extended my hand. “And, no. I think you might want one because tacos are the most awesome food ever. I’m hungry, and I’m not going to eat something else just because you’re sensitive about your heritage.”
He reached for my hand and acted like I helped him to his feet, although I knew I didn’t offer much to aid his getting up.
“I’ll eat a taco,” he said.
Tacos were a staple in my diet, and I ate them almost every day. I made them out of ham, beef, pork, chicken, tofu, potatoes, and even hot dogs.
“Tacos are the shit,” I said on my way to the kitchen.
“Tacos are pretty good stuff,” he agreed.
I hadn’t eaten since I got off work, and I was starving. He followed me into the kitchen and watched eagerly as I pulled the food from the fridge. I doubted our taco desires were the same and wondered just how he liked his prepared.
After tossing some of the leftover roast in a bowl, I covered it with a paper towel and opened the microwave.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Warming up the meat. It’s gross cold.”
“You’re not going to warm it up in there, are you?”
I turned around. “I was.”
He stepped to my side and reached for the bowl. “Do you mind?”
I released the bowl. “Not at all.”
“Do you have a skillet?”
“Yep.”
“Some oil?”
“Yep.”
“An onion?”
“Sure do.”
“Tomatoes?”
“We’ve got those, too.”
“Chiles?”
“Huh?”
“Any kind of peppers?”
“Hold, please.”
I grabbed all the things he asked for and set them on the counter.
He turned on the stove, put a little oil in the skillet, and while it came to temperature, he chopped the onion, tomato, and jalapenos and mixed them together. After adding salt and pepper to the mix, he tossed the meat in the skillet and added a few of the finely chopped onions.
He was big, muscular, respectful, and quite handsome. As I watched him, none of those things seemed to matter. Seeing him cook, however, wadded me into a ball of sexual tension.
I never knew watching a man cook could be sexy, but after thinking about it, I’d never seen a man cook.
He lifted the skillet from the stove, did a flippity thing with his wrist, and tossed the ingredients into the air. They landed back down in the pan without spilling a drop. He did it again as it were no big deal then set it back on the burner.
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