by Liz Gavin
“You sounded desperate on the phone when we scheduled the interview. Considering the time a bus takes to get to Floripa from São Paulo, I’d say you came here straight from the bus terminal. On top of that, you look forlorn. It’s a safe bet to assume you’d do anything for this job.”
Hair standing on her nape and arms, she frowned. “Not really.”
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” His guilty expression convinced her of his sincerity. “I meant to say you’d do your best to keep the job and a staff member’s best is all a boss can ask, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” she shrugged, still trying to read his intentions and finding out she had zero prior experience on which to base her attempt. She decided to go with her gut instinct. It seemed to like Mr. Cartwright because she felt funny things inside her belly every time their eyes met.
“Besides, with all the tourists coming in, we’re in desperate need of a fluent English speaker as a server. Desperate bosses tend to do their best to keep staff happy. See? Desperation again working its magic.” His wink didn’t kill the butterflies in her stomach, only multiplied them exponentially.
Ana called out her inner princess warrior to shield her vulnerable self against the wicked sensations she experienced at that moment. The man was right about her being desperate to get a job that offered great pay, plus sleeping quarters for staff who lived far from the restaurant. Seeing as she didn’t own nor rent a place to live, she was sure she would qualify for that benefit. All she had to do was keep away from trouble and fooling around with the boss was a sure way of losing her chances at that.
Instead of walling Ana in some protective psychological fortress, the warrior chose an unexpected approach. Before she knew what she was doing, Ana winked back at him and tossed her long hair over her shoulder in a flirtatious attitude she had never had. “Who am I to question magic? I’ll take your offer, sir. Just know you’re in for a bumpy ride.” Her confident tone fooled even her own ears.
“Just the way I like it,” he assured her with a mischievous grin, as he tossed her an apron with the restaurant’s logo. Pointing to a dark wooden door to the left, he informed her, “Staff room is through that door, your shift started ten minutes ago.”
“On it, boss.”
Sashaying her way to the staff room, Ana couldn’t help mentally high-fiving her inner warrior. Thanks to her, Ana Oliveira had risen from the ashes of Ana Alvarenga Fonseca like a phoenix. It was up to her to make Ana Oliveira bolder and stronger than her predecessor. She felt like she was off to a great start.
4
Noah
3 Years Later
Tristan and Noah’s apartment on Beira-Mar Norte Avenue offered a breathtaking view of the bay. The sun setting behind iconic Hercilio Luz Bridge set the metallic Golden Gate replica on fire against the autumn sky. Deep tones of purple, red and orange reflected on the calm dark waters. Noah never got tired of watching the sunset from their living room floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
His bare feet disappeared in the thick carpet as he turned away from the window and went to the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge. There wasn’t much more in it, by the way. Owning a restaurant had turned them into lousy grocery shoppers. They never bothered going to the store for that since they ate at the restaurant or brought take-outs home.
The powerful guitar riffs of U2’s Bullet the Blue Sky hit him in the chest as he opened a door at the end of the corridor that led from the dining room to the bedrooms. Noah and Tristan didn’t need four bedrooms, so they had had one of them soundproofed and converted into a home studio. Noah had hoped that having a convenient place to rehearse would jump start their musical career. Big T appeared to have different plans. Putting a band together always came in last in his priorities. It had begun to get on Noah’s nerves.
He got that Izzie Anderson had stomped over Tristan’s heart, breaking it in an irreparable million pieces. He got that she was once a sweet girl whose international rock stardom changed her forever. He even got that his friend mistrusted music biz people in general. He had his reasons. Good ones, too, but all that happened freaking fourteen years ago. It was about time Tristan got his shit together and moved on.
He hadn’t had much better luck in the love department himself, but he didn’t sit around moping all day about Brenda. The fact that she wasn’t on every cover of every fucking magazine helped. Tristan didn’t have that luck since he was constantly reminded of Izzie’s betrayal and how further from him she had moved on, getting married to Mark King and having a kid with him. All that Tristan had planned for the two of them, she had built with another man. The cherry on top of that cake, though, was that most of her biggest hits had been written by Tristan when they were still a couple. That sucked big time and was one of the reasons Big T didn’t want to commit to getting a band together for the long run.
“Please, tell your buddy there’s more to Ireland than these guys,” Aidan pleaded with Noah, nodding towards Tristan, who seemed lost in the soulful sounds he was making with his guitar.
Aidan Gallagher, a tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed Irishman, had met Noah and Tristan a couple of months earlier at a concert they attended. About ten years younger than the two friends, Aidan had become Noah’s ally in the campaign to convince Tristan it was about time they started playing their own gigs.
Sitting on the corner top of a tower of speakers, the young Irishman held his bass guitar loosely, not playing along with Tristan. Just watching him as he plowed through a particularly difficult set of riffs. Noah smiled at his ability. The guy was a fucking guitar god; why the hell he didn’t want to play in front of audiences was beyond his comprehension.
When he finished playing and snapped his head up to look at the other two men, Tristan had a vacant expression. Noah knew he got transported to a whole new dimension when he played, so Tristan’s mind needed a moment to return to their studio. “What?”
Noah shrugged. “Aidan’s got a good point, man. You should play one of your own songs. We should be writing our own stuff. I mean, we’ve got our own Irish rock star. Why use another one’s material?”
“I can’t use my songs,” Tristan replied, then muttered under his breath, “you know that.” But Noah recognized the ‘don’t-go-there’ warning in his tone.
Too bad he wasn’t feeling generous that day. “You wrote for more than only one fucking big star. We could totally use those other songs. I’m not talking about that, though. We could write our own new material. You’re a virtuoso guitarist with a beautiful singing voice, I play drums like a mad man and Aidan here doesn’t totally suck with a bass in his hands.”
“Thanks, pal. I guess,” Aidan interjected. “We’ve got all we need. Let’s do this.”
Tristan stared at them both, his expression hard to read, except that he didn’t seem convinced.
“We’ll see about that,” he finally offered, in a non-committal tone that didn’t reassure Noah.
“You always do this, man. You say we’ll talk about it at an undisclosed time in the future, which never comes to be. I’m kind of sick of it.”
“What do you want from me, Noah? I’ve got too much going on right now. The restaurant, my mom’s health and some investments going south. We’re not twenty anymore, dude. We’ve got responsibilities. Well, at least, I’ve got them.”
Noah resented the accusing tone. Tristan’s past couple of years might have been shitty, but it wasn’t his fault. “Where’s that coming from? Not my fault your life sucks more than mine.”
Tristan ran a hand over his face and neck as if to control his temper. Still, his nostrils flared when he spoke again, “My bad. You’re right. It’s just that I don’t need the extra pressure right now. Can we leave it at that? For now?”
Noah reined in his own temper and nodded. “Just don’t take another ten years or so to make up your mind. As you said, we’re not twenty. I worry it might be too late for us.”
Many years of friendship and close contact made word
s irrelevant for the two friends at times. They locked stares and nodded curtly as if they had communicated telepathically.
“Care to share? I swear the both of you freak me out sometimes with this silent talk thing you do,” Aidan glanced from Noah to Tristan and then back, just like he would do in a tennis match.
“That’s a good one,” Noah chuckled and patted the Irishman’s back, before turning to leave.
“Never heard that,” Tristan added with a broad sincere smile as he gently set the guitar against its stand on a corner and followed Noah out of the room.
“Hate when they do that,” Aidan whispered to himself, but loud enough to be heard.
When they reached the living room, Aidan grabbed his coat. Noah frowned. “I thought you’d stay longer. Want a ride? Tristan’s about to leave for the restaurant.”
“About that,” Tristan started, but was interrupted by his cell phone.
Noah recognized the ringtone he used for booty calls and shook his head. He thought the upstairs neighbor was cute and all, but he really would rather Big T focused on other stuff. Like the band, for instance.
“I’ve got just a couple of hours before my shift at the restaurant. It takes half-an-hour to get there,” Tristan checked his watch as he walked around the room collecting wallet and car keys. A slow smile hitched the corner of his lips as he shrugged. His voice dropped to a low rumble when he added, “If you say so, gorgeous. Be there in a jiffy.”
“Seriously?”
“What now? You going to control my sex life as well?”
“That’s not it. See what you do? Two minutes ago, you said you didn’t have time for the band. Someone calls and you’re out the door. I get it, sex is great. No-strings sex is even better, I’m all for it. The thing is the band’s nowhere on your radar. You just don’t care.”
Tristan stood by the door, fisted hands on his hips, blue eyes turned even darker than usual. He opened his mouth then closed it again, as if changing his mind. “I don’t want to do this now. We’ll end up fighting. If you don’t get why I’m not ready, I don’t know how to explain it to you.”
“I get more than you think. Fucking half the town won’t make the pain go away,” he said as Tristan opened the door to leave. Freezing at the doorway, Tristan didn’t look back or reply. Noah added, “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
A loud bang as he shut the door behind him was all Tristan offered. Noah was aware he had hit a nerve there, but sometimes one must nudge a friend into action as opposed to sitting idly and watching them throw their life away.
Poor Aidan stood in the middle of the room looking stunned, coat hanging from his hands, forgotten.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get him around, even if it’s the last thing I do. Just stick around and I’ll make a rock star out of you.”
The young Irishman nodded, still seeming dazed, and left. Noah plopped into the nearest armchair, propped his feet on the low coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. Leaning his head against the overstuffed headrest, he closed his eyes and sighed. He had been feeling antsy for a while about the band. He was convinced that his family contacts in the entertainment business could put them in front of audiences and their talent would do the rest. He had no doubt about that part. It was just harder to begin a career in rock after a certain age. Tristan had just turned thirty-eight. His thirty-third birthday was around the corner.
“Shit, we don’t have much time,” he punched the armrest to release some of his frustration. Not enough. Getting up, he decided to hit a bar nearby. On his days off, he was a regular there. A great place to pick up women, especially the college students that hung out there after classes, since the largest university campus in the city laid less than five-minutes away.
* * *
Going down in the elevator, he realized his coping mechanism was exactly the same as Tristan’s. The difference being that Big T used casual sex to silence his demons, while Noah used it to fill a void.
Brenda had certainly dented his faith in women, but not enough to make him give up on his search for the perfect match. Different from most of his friends, when he was a kid, Noah’s parents had a happy marriage. He grew up in a household built on love and trust. That was not to say his mom and dad never quarreled. Reggie and Olivia Cartwright were too strong-willed to avoid confrontation. They always respected each other, though. That meant whatever differences of opinion they had, they wouldn’t hold a grudge. In fact, Olivia used to say they never went to bed before smoothing out whatever wrinkles they came across during the day.
That ideal relationship had always guided Noah’s search for love. He believed two people who had enough common interests, including moral standards, would be able to bridge any differences that might arise along their path. The trick was finding that one person, apparently. As the persistent man he was, he had not given up that quest.
Maybe that night was his lucky break. He smiled at the thought as he spotted an empty stool at the otherwise crowded counter. After ordering his beer, Noah scanned the room to gauge his odds of finding true love. He frowned when he recognized the redhead slow dancing with a college guy. His jock jacket gave his status away and his wandering hands made Noah’s blood boil as they grabbed Ana’s ass. He held the cool beer mug tighter to control the urge to go over there and toss the guy’s ass onto the sidewalk outside. He didn’t do so because his waitress seemed to have the situation under control. She swatted the guys hands and pulled them up to the middle of her back, away from one of her strongest assets. Noah could relate to the guy wanting to squeeze those round cheeks, but you’ve got to respect the lady’s wishes.
He dragged his eyes away from the couple and back to his drink. He glanced over to his left, where a tall woman with white-blonde hair and denim blue eyes was trying to catch his attention. His tentative smile got a wide grin in response and he made a mental checklist of topics to strike up a conversation. She didn’t look local, but with all the Northern European immigrants who had settled in that part of Brazil in the end of the nineteenth century, it was very hard to tell by looks only.
He was aware he had a thing for tourists. He sometimes wondered if Tristan had a point when he nagged Noah about that subject. Tristan’s theory being that Noah would get involved with the least attainable women possible to avoid falling in love. To him that concept didn’t make sense. He was looking for Ms. Right. He wasn’t to blame if he only managed to find an endless series of Misses Right Now, was he?
Raising his beer glass to the stunning woman, he wasn’t surprised when she responded with her Caipirinha in the air and gestured for him to go over to her table. In a couple of strides, he found himself at the end of a promising once over. “Boa noite,” he wished her a good evening in Portuguese.
She frowned and replied in English with a hint of a Nordic accent, “Beg your pardon.”
Noah mentally fist pumped and widened his smile as he pulled a chair and sat opposite her. “I’m Noah Cartwright.”
She shook his hand with a firm grip and he couldn’t avoid thinking the night had just turned even more promising. “Brigitte Erickson.”
“First visit to Bar do Chico,” he queried and raised his head to look around them for emphasis.
That’s when a flurry of activity drew his stare back to the dance floor, in time to see Ana Oliveira knocking down the jock with wandering hands. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back and had him face down on the dusty floor. Her stiletto heels pressed against his cheek.
Noah jumped from his chair and got to her side in time to hear her speak with the man in Portuguese. Her murderous stare wouldn’t need translation if Noah didn’t speak the language. It did funny things to his guts, though. She spat out, “No means no, jackass. Be glad I didn’t knee you in the balls as you deserved.”
As the crowd closed in on them, Noah spied a group of jocks wearing the same basketball team gear as Ana’s aggressor. Unfortunately, they weren’t whimpering like Mr. Jellyf
ish-on-the-floor. Their pill-pumped biceps threatened to burst their shirt sleeves as they approached Ana. Her stare focused on her prey, Noah would bet she hadn’t noticed them.
Snaking an arm around her midriff, he yanked her against his body and whispered in her ear, “I’ve got you. Let’s get out of here.”
It took her a nanosecond to get the seriousness of the situation, in which time she resisted Noah’s pull. That changed when her eyes widened at the sight of the other college basketball players a couple of feet to her right.
When he shouted “Run!”, she followed him out of the bar. Noah grabbed her hand and veered towards a side street. His apartment was less than a block away, so that was the logical place to go, under those circumstances.
He noticed Ana didn’t have difficulty keeping up with his strides and that her arm movements were in perfect sync with her legs. When the elevator doors closed behind them, as the group of disgruntled men banged their fists against the lobby glass door, Noah said a silent prayer for electronic locks.
“You jog?”
“And do yoga,” she replied, her breathing even as if they had finished a stroll along the promenade that ran along Beira-Mar Norte avenue. “And Krav Maga.”
Noah burst out laughing. “Makes sense. That jerk didn’t stand a chance.”
“Gah, I wanted to break his arm in three parts, but then I’d have to deal with the police.”
Still smiling, Noah opened the door to his apartment, stepped aside and bowed with an exaggerated hand gesture towards the doorway. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“I appreciate your help.” She hesitated, standing in the hallway.
“Ana, you know me. We’ve worked together for three years, right? You’re safe here.”
“Tell that to all those women lining up outside Chez Nous, trying to get a hold of you.”