by Tara West
“Talk about fate,” the man Andrés calls Tio says to me in a baritone so deep and booming, I nearly jump out of my boots. “Andrés called me this morning and told me all about you.” Then he motions me toward the Plexiglas and points down at the boat below. “Is that one of yours?”
My jaw drops, and for a long moment, I think I forget to breathe. “Omigod,” I say on a rush of air.
It’s a thirty-footer, a center console with twin Yamahas. It’s one of my dad’s boats. My jumping fish are on the back.
“He wants us to airbrush the sides and make it match the logo,” Tio says as he folds his arms across his chest, eyeing the boat like it’s a misfit child. “I had to fire my best artist last week.” He turns to me, the lines around his mouth and eyes tightening in a grim expression. “Drugs.”
I swallow hard. I know all about what drugs can do to people. “I’m sorry,” I say, before my gaze flickers back to the boat. Dad used to take me out on a boat just this size. We’d fish for Reds in the bay, but when the weather was good, he’d take me out farther and we’d troll for big beautiful fish, like Sails and Dorado. I usually brought a sketch pad with me, and if my dad was in a good mood, he’d let me take some paints on his boat, too. I loved capturing the moment on pad and paper when my dad would reel in the fish. Eventually, he liked one of my creations so much, he had me air brush it onto all of his boats.
Mom hated when he took me fishing. She said I came back smelling like week-old fish guts. I actually loved fishing with my dad. Those were my only happy memories of him. Funny though, because whenever I think of him, it’s just about that one bad memory. Seeing this boat brings me back, and I can almost feel the sun beating down on me and taste the salt water spray.
“Can you do what he wants?” Tio says to me. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars?” That knot in my stomach starts to unravel. I take in a deep breath and then let out a slow exhale. He’s holding out his hand, so I grab it. “I’ll do it.”
After we shake hands, Tio’s got that grim expression again. “How soon can you start?”
“When do you need me?” I ask.
The worry lines around Tio’s eyes deepen. “This boat is supposed to be finished tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll get to work,” I say.
I look over at Andrés who comes up beside me. His smile nearly stretches ear to ear and he’s got this look in his eyes, kind of like he’s proud of me. He leans down and whispers. “Thank you.”
My heart flutters as warmth spreads through my chest. I have to admit, it feels good to be appreciated. Plus, I get the chance to earn some money. I realize such a huge task may take all day and even all night, but if I earn enough money this summer, I can afford to move out of my mom’s house, something I never thought possible unless I married Jackson.
But I’m not going to marry Jackson. As long as I make my own money, I can be on my own, because I’m pretty sure my mom will cut me off as soon as she learns I’m dating a mechanic. Besides, this is my life, and I’m living it on my terms.
* * *
My neck and shoulders are killing me, but I’m finally finished with one side of the boat. I stop for a minute to rub the kinks out of my shoulder and admire my work. I like it, which is a shock because I’m always my biggest critic. I’ve replicated the splashing Dorado, plus I’ve added a ball of bait fish beneath. A prism of colors reflects of the predatory fish’s scales and the surface of the water. I’ve already sketched out what I’m putting on the other side, a trio of Sailfish surrounded by effervescent bubbles as they cut through the current, spearing another ball of fish.
It’s taking me longer than expected, and I’m worried because I fear I may be stuck here most of the night. Tio’s shop doesn’t use paint cans, but professional spray guns with big, noisy compressors. It took me a while to learn how to handle the darned thing. I’m just glad the paint came premixed, or I’m sure my artwork would be a runny mess.
I hear a noise behind me, and realize Andrés is back with food. He’s already tried to get me to take a break several times, but I refused. I hate stopping in the middle of a project. But now that one mural is finished, I can finally relax and take off this damned mask. I slowly rise on unsteady legs. My calves and butt muscles are cramped and sore. I’m going to need a long, hot soak in the tub after today. I’m just so glad I don’t have classes this summer.
I stretch my arms and back before trudging toward the break room. He’s laying out sodas and sandwiches on the table. Today is Sunday, and the shop is supposed to be closed, so Andrés has been keeping himself busy by learning how to do bookwork. His uncle was here for the first few hours, showing him some of the ins and outs to running a business.
I overheard Tio telling Andrés something about turning over some of the shops to him, which would probably mean a big pay raise. Not that it would matter much to my mother, as it will never be sufficient for her. Again, I remind myself it doesn’t matter what she thinks.
My arms and legs feel like deadweights as I trudge toward the table. I’m trying to pull the damned mask off my face, but my fingers are cramping, and I realize I’ve been squeezing the trigger on that paint gun much too hard. Andrés sees me struggling, and he comes over and undoes the mask. Then he unzips my suit and removes all my protective gear. I stand like a limp ragdoll while he works.
Finally, he leads me toward the table, and I fall into a seat. I stare at the colorful walls. Someone painted graffiti on every available inch of the small room, and from the looks of the chipped paint, it was done a while ago. I’m so sore, I feel like a zombie. My arms are too stiff to reach for my soda, so I just sit there for a long moment. Damn I hurt.
Strong, warm hands begin kneading my shoulders. I groan as I let my head fall back. Andrés doesn’t say a word. He kisses the top of my head and continues massaging. I stifle a curse when he pulls away. His touch felt so good.
Andrés leans over me and grabs a grocery bag off the counter. I smile when he pulls out a tube of medicated sports cream.
“I thought you could use this,” he says, slipping on a set of gloves. I don’t protest when he pulls my T-shirt over my head, leaving me in a bra and jeans. His uncle went home a few hours ago, and it’s just us here. I sigh when he rubs the cream into my sore muscles. He massages the knots with light and then deep pressure, working over each area for several minutes. By the time Andrés is finished with me, I’m sprawled back in the chair, wanting nothing more than to take a nap.
Or have sex.
Because I do have hormones, and they liked the massage even more than my sore muscles did. In fact, I shift in my seat, feeling an uncomfortable ache between my legs, an ache fueled by lust.
I watch out of the corner of my eyes as Andrés slips off his gloves and walks over to a large tub sink. I admire his toned, tanned arm and back muscles flexing as he lathers up his hands. I don’t remember when he stripped off his shirt, but I’m not complaining.
I stretch my legs out in front of me and squirm in my seat. I can smell the fresh bread and roasted meat from the sandwiches, but I’m not hungry for food right now.
When Andrés turns to me, a bulge pressing against the zipper of his tight jeans, I realize Andrés is hungry for something else, too.
Eyeing him pointedly, I slowly rise, unsnap my bra and toss it on the table.
Andrés freezes, water dripping from his hands and puddling on the floor. His dark gaze is boring into me, as he unbuckles his belt and then unzips his pants.
I lick my lips and admire the large erection that springs out as he pulls down his underwear. Andrés crosses the short distance between us in a few strides. His wet hands are on my breasts. He firmly squeezes each mound before pulling back and tracing each nipple with his fingertips.
I moan and toss back my head as wet heat pools in my underwear. And then he’s removing the rest of my clothes, tossing my jeans to the floor in a tangled heap. He’s stroking my sensitive cleft, coaxing
more moisture and causing me to moan louder.
He traces the bud until it swells with painful need. I’m holding onto him, digging my fingers into his arms, panting hard as he trails kisses down my neck and across my face.
The wind whooshes from my lungs as he spins me around and lifts me onto the table. I’m on all fours, my palms flat against the smooth surface. I wince as the hard table presses against my knees, but I don’t say a word. As if he’s reading my mind, Andrés is lifting me, pressing his T-shirt beneath each knee. I smile, amazed at how thoughtful he is.
As he circles my cleft with his slick fingers, my thoughts become a jumbled mess, until the only thing I care about is reaching that orgasm. He pulls away, and I hear a ripping sound. I know he’s slipping on a condom. My flesh hums and my core throbs in anticipation.
And then he’s sliding into me. I press back against him, forcing his entire length into me. I cry out when he reaches my womb, and I bump and grind against him even harder. Andrés must sense my growing need, as he digs his fingers into my ass and slides in and out with sharp thrusts, rattling the table beneath me.
A few more thrusts against my core, and I scream his name as the orgasm consumes me. He presses deep into me and cries out too, his organ throbbing against my center as my sheath squeezes around him like a tightening fist.
I’m so weakened by the wave of euphoria that washes over me, that I press the side of my face against the table, pushing my ass against Andrés’s groin, relishing the feel of him deep inside me.
I sigh when he pulls out and lifts me off the table. He sets me on top of his T-shirt. I’m probably soaking his shirt, but then fatigue washes over me. My sore and aching limbs are now limp, and my sensitive flesh hums from the pleasure of our lovemaking. I give into my fatigue and lie back on the table. I’m just too weak to do anything else at this point.
I can hear Andrés zipping up his jeans, and then he’s pulling paper towels from the dispenser above the sink. He comes to me and wipes between my legs, then he slides on my panties and jeans. He leans over and suckles one nipple, releasing it with a pop and then does the same to the other. Finally, he brushes his lips across mine. ”You need to eat, mi amor,” he breathes against me.
“I know,” I say as I splay my hand across my forehead. “I’m just so tired.”
Andrés pulls me up and fastens my bra with surprising dexterity. He slips on my shirt and pulls my hair out from under my collar. “Eat, and you will get your strength back,” he says as he holds out a sandwich. My mouth waters when I look at the monstrosity he’s placed in my hands. It’s a turkey and bacon club, loaded with all kinds of veggies and smothered in creamy sauce.
I’m pretty sure I eat my entire meal in record time, including chips, pickles and chocolate cookies. I swallow the last of my sweet tea and drag my hand across my mouth. Who knew painting could work up such an appetite? But I’m pretty sure my hunger had a lot to do with the amazing sex, too.
Andrés massages my back once more and then he works on rubbing the kinks out of each finger. By the time he’s finished, my body is thrumming with need. Much to my disappointment, Andrés starts suiting me back up. I sigh when he slips the gloves on my hands, but then I catch sight of the bulge beneath his jeans, and I know he wants another round just as badly as I do.
I can’t wait to finish this next mural. I know I’ll paint it in record time, just so I can take another break with Andrés.
Chapter Sixteen
I haven’t given myself time to assess my feelings for Andrés. Truthfully, I’m afraid to, because I already suspect I could easily learn to care for a guy like him. Just about every person I have let into my life has let me down. What if Andrés turns out to be like Jackson? Or worse, like my parents and Karri?
So far, he’s been completely opposite the other people in my life. Actually, he’s been perfect. But I’ve come to learn that there is no such thing as perfection. The canvas is always flawed somehow. My eye just isn’t trained well enough to find Andrés’s faults yet. So I tell myself in case this guy is the real deal, I’m not going to do anything else to blow what we’ve got.
We’re parked in my circular driveway, and I’m so nervous, I fear I’m about to lose my dinner, but I need to get something off my chest. “Andrés,” I say as I clear my throat, which is hard because it feels like I just swallowed a wad of cotton balls. “I want to apologize again for lying to you about where I live.”
“You don’t need to. I totally understand. I should probably leave you off here.” Andrés smiles, but there’s lingering doubt in his gaze.
He must think I’m ashamed of him, and I feel terrible, but that’s not why I’m keeping him away from my mom. It’s not him I’m ashamed of, it’s her.
My mom is peeking at us through the front bay window, and I repeat to myself that what she thinks doesn’t matter. She’s never cared about my opinions, so why should I care about hers?
I unlatch my seatbelt and grip the door handle. Then I pause, and I’m reluctant to go. I don’t want to leave Andrés. Even though I’m still in the truck with him, I’m already starting to miss him.
I tell myself I’m moving too fast. I shouldn’t be pining over a guy I’ve just met. But Andrés isn’t just any other guy. He’s different, and that’s what makes him so dangerous. I could easily lose my heart to a guy like him.
“Thank you for everything,” I say, gripping the door handle harder.
Andrés shakes his head. “I should be thanking you for saving my uncle’s ass.” Then I see what can only be described as a glimmer of pride in his gaze as he laces his fingers through mine. “You have an amazing gift.”
There is so much more I want to say to him, like, “Thank you for all of your support when not even my own mother has faith in me,” but I just can’t get the words past the lump of granite lodged in my throat.
Instead, I lean up and kiss him. It is just an innocent peck, but my lips linger on his long enough to probably give my mother a heart attack.
“Andrés, I won’t let her ruin us. I won’t. I really like you,” I say as I look deeply into his dark eyes.
He strokes my cheek. “I like you, too. Do you want me to pick you up for work tomorrow?”
“What about your job?” I don’t want him to be late to his shop on the other side of town.
“I can be late,” he says, squeezing my hand. Storm clouds are brewing in his eyes as his gaze tunnels on me. “I want to be the one to introduce you to the other guys.”
I hear protectiveness in his voice. “I’d like that,” I say. I am already edgy enough starting a new job, but add to that it’s on the bad side of town with a rough bunch of guys. Andrés told me most of them are reformed gang-bangers. Work tomorrow is going to be interesting, to say the least.
He leans down for another kiss, and I don’t even flinch when his full lips press into mine. I moan and wrap my arms around his strong back when he deepens the kiss, his tongue gently probing my mouth. The kiss seems to go on forever, but it doesn’t and I sigh when he pulls away, instantly missing the feel of him against me.
“You should pack your things,” his voice is a heated breath in my ear. “And come home with me after work.”
“Okay,” I say. At this point, I’m so hot and bothered after that kiss, I’d probably agree to any of his requests.
* * *
The Spitting Cobra is waiting for me at the door with her fangs unsheathed. I’m so tired and sore, all I really want is a hot bath, but one look into her serpent stare, and I know I’m not trudging upstairs unscathed. As she slams the door shut behind me, I turn toward her and brace myself for her attack.
“Who was that?” The words come out on a hiss, one of the many reasons the snake metaphor fits my mother so well.
“Andrés.” I square my shoulders and look her dead in the eyes. A bold move, but I’m channeling the new Christina, plus after having amazing sex twice on top of the break room table, I’m feeling pretty good. I’ll be damned if
I’m going to let my overbearing mother screw with my buzz.
“Andrés?” she says haughtily, and then her face twists into such a tight scowl, I’m afraid she’s going to bust a stitch or pop those collagen balloons she calls lips.
I shrug a shoulder, but I don’t dare avert my gaze. Once I do that, she’ll think she’s won. “Andrés Cruz. The new guy I’m seeing.”
She folds artificially tanned arms across her chest. “Is that where you were all day?”
I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. I will not let her force me to back down. “I was painting at his uncle’s shop.”
She arches a thin brow. “His uncle owns an art studio?”
“A body and paint shop.” I do my best not to shrink back. The Cobra is about to unleash her venom.
Her jaw falls open. “For cars?”
“Cars, trucks, boats, whatever,” I say in the most casual attitude I can muster. My heart is pounding heavily, but I do not let on that my anxiety is building. “I painted one of Dad’s boats today. You should see how it turned out.”
“So this Andrés paints cars, too?”
Figures Mother doesn’t even care about the boat I painted. I fist my hands by my sides, and prepare to drop the bomb. “No, he fixes them.”
Her hand flies to her chest, and she stumbles backward. “Oh, dear Lord!”
I can tell her theatrics are staged, because, despite her abnormally high heels, she quickly regains her balance. Her expression has turned from shock to outrage, her spine stiffens, and her fingers curl into claws.
Her attitude only fuels my resolve. “I like him, Mom.”
“You could have been set for life with Jackson.” Her tone is condescending, demeaning, like I’m her errant toddler who’s just pissed her pants in front of her country club friends.
