by Ellie Hall
So basically the same old same old like the other eight million birthday parties we go to as a family. Except one thing. I’m actually happy to be here. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my adult life. And it’s all because of the woman in my arms, dancing to Selena songs like a true Chicana. She hasn’t stopped since the music began and, judging by the huge grin spread across her features, she’s not slowing down anytime soon.
“Where did you learn to dance Cumbia?” I ask after I twirl her into a tight embrace.
She giggles. I love that sound. “Believe it or not I learned in France. I made some Colombian friends who were there on extended holidays. We’re still in touch, actually.”
I’m picturing these Columbian ‘friends’ as she speaks. Are they guys? Why am I so jealous all of a sudden?
“Oh really?” I clear my throat. “These, uh, guys taught you to dance?”
January pulls a face, totally catching on to my tone.
“Guys and girls, yes. And all we did was dance.” She steals a kiss and all is forgotten. I nuzzle my face into her neck and take in her sweet jasmine scent. I’m completely lost in her.
“And make out,” she adds.
“What?” I jolt back to catch her eyes and she’s laughing, an ornery expression on her face.
“Just kidding.” She squeezes me closer to her body and we’re not even dancing anymore. More like hugging with slight movement. Our rhythm doesn’t even match the music. I capture her mouth. Her lips are so soft and responsive. I’m falling hard and fast. Would it freak her out if I told her I’m falling in love? Too soon? Yeah, I’ll bide my time.
“Enrique?” she softly coos and my heart cracks a little. There’s only so much of this intense feeling I can take. I hold her beautiful face in my hands and tell her with my eyes, I’m yours.
“I was thinking. When we go back to LA...” She shakes her head like she’s finding the words. “I mean, once all this...all my...”
She curses under her breath and laughs at herself. “Real smooth.”
“Hey.” I caress her chin, lifting it up to me, and kiss her tenderly. We don’t need words right now. The music’s too loud anyway. Then again... “Wanna get outta here?”
She nods eagerly and I’m not thinking with my brain anymore. I want her. Which is bad. And good. But bad. Ugh! I’ll just be dousing myself with holy water for the next five minutes.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet so we can—“ Talk. I was going to say talk but something flying in the sky catches my attention and it’s rapidly getting closer. “What the...”
Soon the whirring noise overtakes the music, the chuff-chuff of helicopter blades pulsing with a roaring intensity. As it descends too near the festivities, I feel the rumble of the machine vibrate through me.
Somebody in the crowd cries, “La Migra!” to which I hear my brother Nate respond, “We’re already in Mexico, sonso. What do you think they’ll do? Send you back to San Diego?”
The whine of the engine dies down as it touches ground, the waves of wind churning up dust from the vineyard surrounding the reception area. January’s hair sweeps up from the gusts of air, and although all the other ladies present struggle to keep their dresses from flying over their heads and hairs to fling in their mouths, January looks like she’s the subject of a high fashion photoshoot. Even her face has that pout to it as she watches the helicopter land. I don’t want to tear my eyes away from her but there’s a huge aircraft fifty feet away to draw my curiosity. From this distance I can see the writing on the side which reads Madison Industries. Not La Migra.
I turn to January. “What’s going on, here?”
“I don’t know, I swear.”
And although I want to believe her with all my heart, I can’t help that sliver of doubt from creeping up telling me she’d called her daddy to rescue her. The door opens and out steps Velma, completely out of place in her tight pencil skirt and blazer jacket. She hones in on January right away and makes a beeline straight towards us.
“Thank heaven we found you,” she says without preamble. “Let’s go.”
Just like that. Let’s go. Like she’s picking her up from the mall or something.
January digs in her heels and takes my arm. “No. I have a ride home.”
Velma turns her attention to me for the first time, scanning me from head to toe—and not in an appreciative sort of way.
“Oh, it’s you.” She sniffs degradingly. “Mr. Madison hasn’t forgotten about your little agreement.” She dips into her blazer pocket and produces a thick, bulging envelope, handing it to me. “For your troubles.”
January cuts her gaze to me. “Agreement? What kind of agreement?”
I’d like to know that myself. The only agreement I know of is the job he hired me to do, but that’s no secret. I peek inside the envelope to find a huge wad of cash. All hundreds. Great, now I really do look like a drug lord.
“Enrique?” she bites out. “What kind of agreement?”
“Driving I guess.”
Velma isn’t having any of this. Impatient to go, she waves toward the helicopter. “We really must get going, Miss Madison.”
“Wait.” January's eyes drift to the envelope and back up to meet mine. They’re glazed with a sheen of salty tears. “That’s a lot of money, Kinky. What’s it for?”
I shake my head. I’m no expert at counting bills by thumbing through them like a true gangster, but even I know it’s more than I earned. Not to mention the advance I got pretty much covered my fee for the year.
“It’s all in your contract, Mr. Precio. We’ll be in touch.”
What?
“Miss Madison. Shall we?” Velma inclines her head toward the chopper and leads the way for January to follow. I go to reach for her but she recoils. There’s hurt and indecision on her features.
“Look. I need to figure this out, okay?” She breaks down, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I better go.”
And just like that, she runs to the helicopter and ascends with it, leaving me in a cloud of dust. I watch until the chopper reduces to a dot in the sky and stare in vain long after it’s gone, fixing my eyes to where January vanished from my life.
13
ENRIQUE
ONE YEAR LATER
“Hey, sad loser. Make yourself useful and hold the pan for me.” Nacho’s making a honey-baked ham for the Precio Sunday dinner and if I wasn’t so caught up in my thoughts, my mouth would be watering from the amazing smell. I hold the baking pan while he scrapes the drippings into a bowl. He uses them for something magical, I’m just not sure what.
“Off in La La Land again?” he teases.
I’ve been pretty much fine lately. I was given the “Your services are no longer needed.” dismissal from Velma not long after that fateful day which shall not be named. Now I’m working for Barf Girl, believe it or not. Well, her husband, to be precise. She married a big shot movie star and I’m in charge of his fleet of shiny toys when I’m not driving my limos. Yes, limos plural. I invested in some real estate, allowing me the capital to start a rent-a-limo service. I do a lot of quinceañeras much to Tia Lucy’s delight. And I bought a Bentley—not for hire. Just for me. Just in case. Nobody’s ever ridden in it. So I’ve been busy—and I don’t pine over January as much anymore. Well, not obsessively anyway. She’s been in Paris as far as I know, working on her eco-friendly products, being awesome with her charities. I’m happy for her. But something triggered a memory today—the smell of jasmine maybe—and I’ve been lost in thought more than usual.
“Just hungry, that’s all,” I lie.
“Mmmhmmm.”
I hear Tia Lucy squeaking from the front of the house. “Kiki, why the limo outside?”
Limo? I know exactly where all my cars are and my parents’ house is not on the docket. I jog to the front door to find Elvis of all people walking up the path. I can hear the purr of the engine as I meet him outside. It’s a nice machine. He stretches out his arms proudly. “W
hatta ya think?”
“New gig, Elvis?”
He grins. “I wanted you to be the first to see. Can I take you for a spin around the block for your opinion?”
I’d rather look under the hood than go for a ride but I agree. “Sure.”
He leads me to the curb, and I’m heading to the front seat but he opens the rear door for me. “To get the full experience,” he says.
Okay. Whatever.
I slide in, and as my eyes adjust to the interior lighting, I make out the figure of a full-sized Nicolas Cage photo in the seat across from me. In the seconds that follow, Elvis shuts my door, the car rolls away from the curb, and I see Elvis waving goodbye, all toothy smiles. Dork. The only person who would know about the Nick Cage prank is January. My heart pounds in my throat. Did she put Elvis up to this? And if Elvis isn’t driving...
The silence is broken by a blast of music through the surround sound speakers. Baby You Can Drive My Car by The Beatles. It’s so loud, I’m sure the neighbors will start to emerge from their houses with their happy hour drinks. What is even going on and where is this guy taking me?
I’m in such a shock I don’t even notice when the driver pulls over and cuts the engine. The partition glass lowers and I get a glimpse of the driver in the rear-view mirror. Long golden hair spills out of a chauffeur hat and a pair of aviator glasses sit on a perfect nose. January. I’m frozen solid. Is this really happening?
“Are you just going to stare like a fish or are you going to come over here and kiss me?”
I leap into action, reaching through the partition window to cup my hands around her beautiful face. And I kiss her. I adore her lips with every ounce of energy I possess. Half my body is jammed in the window. It’s freaking uncomfortable but I don’t want to lose the few seconds it would take to meet her in the front seat. Or the back seat. Scratch that. Back seat would be a bad idea. She’s trying to explain something but I need to feel her lips on mine now. I’m a hungry dog. I might even snort in a frenzied breath.
“Kiki, I’m sor—“
I capture her mouth.
“My dad’s been—“
I nibble her chin.
“Lying to... oooh.”
I trail my lips down her neck to that sensitive spot behind her ear.
“I don’t care,” I say between feather light kisses. “You’re here now.”
And I don’t care. I really don’t. Her father made it perfectly clear he wants me to stay away from his daughter. And he’s gone through great lengths to make me out to be some kind of low life. I’ve respected the distance January put between us, knowing she’d come back to me if she really wanted to. And now she’s here, clinging to my hair, humming with delight.
“But… the money,”she breathes. “I shouldn’t have jumped… to… conclusions. Oh wow.” She’s so responsive to my every touch. And I’m just kissing her through a window.
“I tried to give the money back,” I say between pecks along her shoulder blade. “But they wouldn’t take it. So I gave it to the dogs. Mmmm you smell so good.” Her jasmine perfume hits me like a shower of sexy bullets through my senses. Yeah, I know bullets aren't sexy but I’m working with no blood in my brain here.
“Dogs?” January scrunches her chin back to look at me. “You mean Kanines for Kids?”
“Mmmmhmm,” I moan returning to her neck. I get in a couple of nibbles but she fists my collar and crashes her lips into mine. I love how she takes control over this unconventional make-out sesh.
“I love you,” she says, and although it’s the first time I’ve heard her tell me, she declares it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she tells me she loves me every day. “I think I started loving you when you started those ridiculous pranks. I thought I must have been out of my mind to have those feelings. But this past year has shown me it’s okay to be a little bonkers sometimes.”
“Is that what this is? Bonkers?”
A dazzling grin overtakes her features. “In the best way.”
“Good.” I plant one big, sloppy kiss all over her mouth. “Because I’m crazy in love with you, Princess. And I don’t ever want to be sane.”
Of all the ways I could have imagined seeing January again, crammed through a partition window wasn’t even on the list. And it couldn’t be more perfect… except the way the edge of the glass is digging into my side. “Now can you help me out of this hole? I think I’m stuck.”
The corner of January’s mouth curves into an evil smirk. She finds her sunglasses and hat and slides them on devilishly.
“I think I’ll leave you there while we drive for a bit,” she teases.
“I think I lost feeling in my pancreas.”
“Not possible.”
“January, please!” I’m desperate here.
She lowers her glasses on her nose and winks. “What’s my name?”
I mumble something under my breath.
“What’s that?”
“Mmmzmadnnum.”
“I’m sorry, couldn’t quite hear.”
I grumble through my teeth. “Please… Miss Madison.”
She smiles victorious, reaching around my torso to help me wiggle out of this position. And squeezes, right in the tickle spot.
“With pleasure… Mister Hot Bod.”
Epilogue
IGNACIO
The problem with owning your own catering business isn’t family and friends wanting a dirt cheap deal on their swanky wedding. No. Au contraire. (Although that does happen from time to time.) The problem lies solely in me and my inability to let a stranger prepare the meal on my brother’s special day—not when I can do it better, healthier, and with more discretion.
I tried to stay out of it. I really did. But when I stumbled upon (spied, cough cough) Enrique and January’s list of potential caterers, I almost had an aneurysm. One guy was charging four grand a head for (get a load of this) soup! And I heard through the grapevine he cheats with canned broth. Another so-called chef had so much grease on his menu, the paper it was printed on almost clogged my arteries—and not a single mention of vegetables. I couldn’t let that happen. My sister’s a vegetarian. What would she eat?
So here I am, overseeing the reception with my best crew on the job. I promised Kiki I wouldn’t do any of the work on the wedding day. And I’m not. Mostly. The thing is, there are a couple of new faces on staff. We had to hire some extra servers to account for those of us in the family not on the clock so we can celebrate with Enrique and January. I made sure background checks were ordered for every single new hire—we don’t need any psychopaths at my brother’s wedding. A high-profile bride is stressed enough.
January does look radiant. More than usual, I think. It’s the whole wedding day thing, and the way she looks at my brother. Her face lights up like a Christmas tree when he smiles at her which reveals a hidden beauty not naturally present. Don’t get me wrong, she’s pretty, I guess. I’m not the one married to her so it doesn’t make a difference to me. But my taste in women is a little less blonde and a little less skinny. I like a woman with curves. Something to hold on to. Which is why my gaze keeps skating over the new girl on my staff. Julia, I think her name is. It’s a hot day and the servers wear black button-ups. I don’t expect them to have the collar closed up to their chins. I’m not a monster. Two buttons undone is modest enough. But that girl... well. I don’t want to seem pervy or anything but let’s just hope the strain doesn’t pop a random button into the mascarpone figs.
“You can stop obsessing over every detail, now.” Mateo, my obnoxious younger brother, shoves a cocktail in my hand. “Relax. The fondue fountain isn’t going to blow up if you have some fun.”
“I’m not obsessing.”
“Oh really? What did Tio Enrique just say before he left us to attack the open bar?”
“I try to avoid anything Tio Enrique says.”
“True. I wasn’t listening either. Too many hot girls to watch.”
I grunt. Mateo doesn�
�t need any encouragement to pick up women at a wedding. He has a master’s degree in the subject.
“Cool your jets and get Mom a bottled water. I don’t want her to dehydrate in this heat.”
Mateo turns his head in time to see Mom cooling off her armpits with the ice cubes from Dad’s vodka cranberry.
“Good call. Lord knows she’ll need it after crying all day.” He scoots away and I try to resist going over to check on the cook. It’s only cocktail hour but I’m worried he might not get the entree right for the sit-down meal. It’s a delicate timeline, maintaining temperature without overcooking the filet. The servers are passing around trays of hors d’oeuvres—seared ahi, Tuscan truffles, coconut shrimp. I take one and pop it in my mouth. Quality check. Could use more orange marmalade sauce. I search through the crowd of wedding guests to flag another server but the only ones I see are at the other end of the garden. And that’s when she catches my eye again. Julia. But this time it’s not her large brown eyes that hold my attention, or the quirky smile she wears when she’s offering olive tapenade to a guest. The reason my gaze is fixed on her now, and why my jaw hits the floor, is because she’s diving through the air towards Tia Lucy. And Tia Lucy is flying towards the cake.
Connect with Gigi Blume
Gigi is a hopeless musical theatre nerd who has perfected the art of lollygagging.
Former professional wedding singer, Gigi lives in Southern California with her personal chef (AKA that sexy beast who cooks her favorite foods) and two weird and awesome teenagers.
When Gigi is not staring at a blank screen waiting for her muse to show up, she likes to belt out showtunes, embarrass her kids, and spend all her free cash on books… and donuts.