Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  “Hey, ladies!” I call over a trio of girls who look like they’re on their way to a wet T-shirt contest (fake boobs and tight, so-thin-they’re-practically-see-through tees) in hopes of steering the conversation in a different direction. “I’ve got free guava barbeque chicken wings. Come on over and give ‘em a try. They’re delicious and have fewer calories than those beers!”

  Intrigued by my sales pitch, they sashay over and avail themselves of some samples. “Mmmmmm,” the bleached blonde in the group moans like she’s starring in Steffi Shags South Beach and slides the chicken wing in and out of her mouth, like, well, I’m sure you get the picture. I should note that she’s putting on this provocative performance while staring at Z.

  “Wanna bite?” she offers the molested piece of poultry to him.

  His lips quirk up on one side. “I’m good, but thanks.”

  “You’re cute,” decrees one of the dark-haired girls, hanging over Blondie’s shoulder. (I’m guessing she’s the “edgy” member of their skank squad because she has some pink streaks in her ponytail and a metal stud in her nose.)

  “So cute,” the other brunette concurs, then proves herself to be the boldest of the bunch by trailing her fingertips up Z’s bare forearm.

  I suppose he does look cute-ish in his ripped jeans and torso-hugging Nirvana tee, with his shaggy brown hair perfectly framing his chiseled face. (First thing I noticed about Z when we met years ago was what great angles his face has. With his cheekbones, he really should be in front of the camera instead of behind it.)

  “Ohmigod!” I squeal. “Is that Jax Stryker? I can’t believe it; he’s even hotter in person!” Jax is the lead singer of the headlining act at this year’s Brew at the Zoo, and I’m sure most of the females here are groupies of his who’d be willing to drop their panties on his command.

  “What? Where?” Immediately forgetting about Z and his “cuteness,” the bimbo brigade’s heads swivel from side-to-side, scanning the party grounds for the rock god who always looks like he could use a bath.

  “He was headed over to the VIP area.” I point to a tent way down at the end of the beer booths. “If you hurry, maybe you can catch him.”

  I don’t have to tell them twice. They all drop their wings and bolt, probably envisioning a foursome in their otherwise empty heads.

  Topaz and Nacho snicker while I snort laugh.

  “Was that really necessary?” Z gives me a disparaging look.

  “Uh, yeah, I think it was.” Bending down to address his crotch, I say, “You’re welcome,” then raise my eyes back to his. “I just saved your junk from a veritable slew of STDs, some that probably haven’t even been recognized by the Center for Disease Control yet.”

  “My junk was in no danger. Those girls were hardly my type.”

  I shrug. “Maybe they would have enticed you to go off-brand. You know, since you’re between Birkenstock-wearing poets, painters, and playwrights at the moment.”

  Seeing a young couple with their arms wrapped around each other approaching, I extend the platter toward them and reel off my spiel, “Guava barbeque chicken wings from Paquito’s. $9.99 for a basket of ten.”

  “Thanks!” The female member of the duo is very enthusiastic as she reaches for a wing. She takes two as does her man, but I don’t stop them, because I really don’t care at this point.

  “I have never dated anyone who wore Birkenstocks,” Zane asserts after the couple’s gone on their merry way.

  “Yeah, you did,” Topaz begs to differ. “Remember D’Anna, the children’s book illustrator?”

  “That’s D’Anna with an apostrophe instead of an ‘e!’” I do a spot-on impression of Z’s ex with an annoyingly perky voice that rises an octave at the end of the sentence, making it sound like an exclamation even when it shouldn’t be.

  Z’s only response is a grimace.

  Turning to Topaz, Nacho whines, “All this talk about Zane’s fetish for anorexics is making me hungry. Let’s get a Double ShackBurger and some fries.”

  “Hey!” I protest. “Where’s the loyalty? You should eat at Paquito’s.”

  Topaz looks sheepish. “Sorry, Iz, but a cheeseburger with some ShackSauce really does sound good. We’ll swing back by before we leave, ‘kay?”

  The two of them traipse off, leaving Zane and me behind.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “I know how much you like the SmokeShack. Just do me a favor and tell me what time it is before you go.”

  “You have a hot date when you’re through here?” Z asks as he reaches for the phone in the back pocket of his jeans.

  “When don’t I have a hot date?” I query cheekily. “Eduardo said he’d wait up for me, so I’m going to meet him at his hotel as soon as I get my parole papers from Paquito.”

  I’m actually going to be spending the night with Eduardo in his posh suite at The Mondrian (something I’ve been doing on a regular basis lately). He’s having a breakfast meeting with his real estate agent in the AM, then she’s going to take him to look at some houses that just came on the market and Eduardo invited me along. Don’t get excited—he hasn’t asked me to move in with him (I don’t work that fast!), but I think it’s a good sign that he wants my input on his (maybe our) future home. If it was up to me, we’d just stay put at The Mondrian because hotel living rocks! You never have to cook or clean up after yourself and there’s a pool and spa right on site.

  “It’s 9:10,” Zane reports after checking the clock on his phone’s display.

  “Ugh,” I groan with feeling. “This night is end—”

  “Mmmmm mmmmm.” A heavy-set guy with a douche-y goatee and backwards baseball cap lurches up to us, placing his hand on Z’s shoulder for support because he’s too wasted to keep himself upright. “I smell something good. What kind of sauce is on those wings, sweet thang?” He gestures at the platter.

  “It’s Paquito’s guava barbeque sauce, which has a very special secret ingredient.” It’s really not all that secret since anyone with working taste buds should be able to detect the spiced rum in the sauce. (Funny how rum seems to be a recurring theme in my life lately!) “Help yourself.” I shove the platter toward the potential customer.

  He grabs a wing with each hand, devours them in record time, then tosses the picked-clean bones back down on the platter and lets loose a belch so loud that it reverberates through my entire body.

  Wincing with disgust, I say, “If you’d like more, you can get a basket of ten wings for $9.99 at the Paquito’s booth.”

  “I’d rather have breasts,” guy-with-no-manners declares.

  “Sorry, Paquito’s only has wings.”

  “I don’t know about that. I see two juicy breasts I’d like to get a mouthful of right here.” He sways forward with a lecherous smile, and the next thing I know he’s got his beefy paws on my tetas.

  “You’re getting sauce all over my shirt!” I shriek, but that doesn’s stop him from fondling me. I’m about to introduce my knee to his groin when Zane intervenes.

  “Get your hands off her!” he commands, giving the groper a forceful shove away from me.

  The jerk totters backwards and I’m hoping he falls flat on his butt, but he somehow manages to stay on his feet. Face red and eyes burning with fury, he vows, “I can touch whoever I want, pretty boy, and you can’t stop me.”

  Straightening up to his full height, which makes him about five inches taller than the bulldog of a man standing next to him, Z says, “I already did and you should be grateful because the woman you were treating so disrespectfully was about to deprive you of the ability to reproduce.”

  The drunkard chortles with disbelief. “Please, she couldn’t hurt a fly and neither could you, wuss.” He thumps Zane on the chest, trying to antagonize him, but Z only looks mildly perturbed.

  “I’m not going to fight you,” he asserts.

  “Why not? Because you’re scared?” the other man taunts.

  “No, because he’s a trained boxer and he’d k
ick your aaaaaaaa—” I scream and jump back when tough guy suddenly starts projectile vomiting.

  “This is officially the worst job ever!” I proclaim as he continues to spew. Leaving him to it, I march purposefully over to Paquito’s booth, pushing people out of my way so that I can get to the front of the line where I confront my boss-for-the-night.

  Dropping my almost-empty platter down on the counter in front of him, I say, “I’ve been sexually harassed . . .” I point to the saucy fingerprints on the fabric stretched across my breasts. “. . . and puked on, so I am done. Give me my money.” I extend a hand toward him and wiggle my fingers.

  He scowls, clearly not sympathetic to my plight. “You didn’t work the four hours you agreed to, so you get nada, chica.”

  Leaning forward, I declare, “You sold twice the amount of wings you would have tonight without me. So, pony up, you cheap hijo de puta, or I will tell everyone that . . .,” I turn back toward the crowd of people waiting to be served and raise my voice, “. . . Paquito’s wings come from dirty, disease-ridden pigeons instead of chickens, which is why that guy over there is hurling because he got bird flu from eating these things!” I shake a wing at the line, and they all recoil, looking horrified and repulsed, then they scatter.

  Dropping the wing, I once again hold out my hand to Paquito. “Pay me, or I’ll spend the rest of the night scaring away all your customers.”

  He opens the cash register while calling me some unrepeatable names in Spanish, then places a stack of twenties he doesn’t even bother to count on my outstretched palm. “I’ll never hire you to work for me again,” he growls.

  “I hope that’s a promise!” I say impudently before stuffing the wad of cash into the front pocket of my painted-on shorts. “Thanks,” I mouth the word as I take my purse from the yellow T-shirt-clad girl in the booth who was wise enough to anticipate my need for a dramatic exit. “Come on, Z!” I hook my arm through his, and we strut off. Well, I strut; he just walks.

  As we head away from all the booths and beer-guzzlers, Zane murmurs, “For future reference, just because I work out on the heavy bag at the gym and occasionally get into the ring to spar does not mean that I can kick someone’s ass in real life.”

  “Don’t spoil the fantasy for me, Z!” I reprimand him, and he laughs.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Last chance,” I warn Eduardo just as he raises his hand to knock on the door of my parents’ condo. “I can text them right now and say that you got stuck in a meeting or came down with a really severe case of the hiccups.”

  He lowers his hand and turns toward me. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint your mother now, would we?”

  “It wouldn’t be any skin off my nose if we did,” I grouse because I’m still pissed that Mamá went behind my back to set up this little dinner with Eduardo.

  Things have been going so well between us, and I don’t want this introduction to mi familia loca to make him rethink our relationship. I tried to tell Mamá that it was too soon for Eduardo to have a sit-down with the fam (we’ve only been dating six weeks for Cristo’s sake!), but then she found out that I’ve been spending time with Eduardo’s folks (Pilar and her loose lips!) and she decided to circumvent me.

  Eduardo smiles affectionately. “You’re very pretty when you pout, do you know that?”

  “I might have heard that before, but a good compliment always bears repeating.” Taking a step forward, I slide my hands up the lapels of his suit jacket. Mmmmm, the fabric feels so silky and expensive and the broad expanse of chest underneath ain’t too shabby either.

  “Then, I’ll tell you again how sexy I think you look in this dress.” He wraps his arm around my waist, his fingers slipping under one of the Xs that form a band around the bottom of my ribcage and expose diamond-shaped slivers of bare skin.

  As he softly traces circles on my back, I say, “I’m glad you like it,” then twine my arms around his neck and press the full length of my body against his, marveling at how well they fit together. When I wear a shoe with a medium heel, we’re exactly the same height, which means our mouths are now just inches apart.

  “Oh, I like it,” he assures me in a husky voice. “In fact, I can’t think of anything about you I don’t like.”

  “How about the way I kiss?” I press my lips to a sensitive spot on his neck that I know drives him wild and feel his pulse quicken. “Do you like that?”

  “I do,” he murmurs, his eyes appearing to grow darker with desire. “I’d like it even better if you put those gorgeous lips right here.” He touches his index finger to his mouth.

  “Just my lips?” I query, with a naughty gleam in my eye, then tease him by lapping at his lower lip with my tongue like it’s a scoop of Rocky Road that’s melting.

  Not being able to resist such an enticement, Eduardo captures my lips with his and devours them hungrily while his hands skim down my back. When they reach the swell of my butt, he cups the generous curves and pulls my lower half closer so that our pelvises connect and I can feel the arousing effect our kisses are having on him. I’m just about to suggest that we take the elevator back down to the parking garage where we can finish this in the privacy of his car (sex in a Ferrari > breaking bread with the Alvarezes) when I hear a door fly open and Mamá screech, “They’re here!”

  Mr. Happy, whom I had such big plans for, immediately deflates and Eduardo pulls away from me, looking guilty. Thanks a lot, Mamá! I spin around to face her, with a scowl.

  I really do think it’s my mother’s mission in life to ruin my fun. Under other circumstances, I would probably tell her that I think the zebra print jumpsuit she’s wearing looks amazing (not many women her age would have the guts or the figure to pull off something so bold and bodycon!), but seeing as how she just orgasm-blocked me, there will be no compliments forthcoming.

  Totally oblivious to my irritation, Mamá says, “Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but we’re all just so excited to meet Eduardo and when I saw the two of you out here, I just couldn’t wait another minute!” She claps her hands together and gazes at him expectantly.

  Gathering his composure, Eduardo replies, “Es un placer conocerla, Señora Alvarez,” then takes her beringed hand and places a kiss a few inches above her long, red, acrylic nails.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” She gives his hand a squeeze before dropping it. “And I insist you call me Luisa. We don’t stand on formality around here.”

  “Muchas gracias, Luisa. And I hope you’ll forgive me for staring, but I’m just so taken by the resemblance between you and Isidora. You are like mirror images of one another; and it is truly awe-inspiring to be in the presence of so much beauty.”

  Eduardo is playing my mother’s song now, in the key of mi, mi, mi, and she is loving every minute of it. Beaming, she smooths back her silky, black hair, which is perfectly arranged in a French twist. “Isidora did get her looks from my side of the family; she comes from a long line of women celebrated for their beauty and allure. Did she tell you that I was Miss Miami in 1977?”

  I groan inwardly as she loops her arm through Eduardo’s and ushers him inside. I may run screaming out to the terrace of my parents’ fifteenth floor condo and hurl myself off if Mamá is going to relive her beauty queen days for the zillionth time. This was my bedtime story every night for the first ten years of my life. Even as a child, I never understood what the big deal was. It’s not like she was crowned Queen of the World forty years ago; she just won some rinky-dink local pageant. Whatever.

  Fortunately, we are saved by the timely appearance of my father who greets us in the foyer. “Hola, hola. Bienvenido. I’m Arturo.” He thrusts a hand toward Eduardo, and they exchange a manly shake.

  Placing a hand over her heart, Mamá sighs. “I’m just so happy we are finally getting to meet you, Eduardo.”

  “Yeah, I was pretty sure Izzy was making you up,” Ana says as she strolls up to us with her perma-sneer firmly in place. “You’re not exactly her usual type seeing as how you m
ade it past the tenth grade and don’t have a criminal record.”

  “See, I told you he was real. You owe me twenty bucks,” Pilar gloats while waddling into the foyer, looking twice as big as the last time I saw her, which was just a week ago. Yikes—is she having triplets?

  “Hi, I’m Pilar.” She introduces herself to Eduardo with a smile and a wave.

  “She’s the nice one,” I remind him of the primer I gave him on my sisters on the way over. “That’s Ana,” I flick my fingers toward her, “the bitch.”

  “At least I’m not a skank. What’s with that dress? Are you going clubbing later? How are you going to sit down to eat without flashing everyone?”

  My mother chortles nervously. “These girls and their playful banter! You know how sisters like to tease each other.” She sends a warning glare Ana’s way, then mine.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any siblings.”

  “An only child!” Mamá’s eyes almost bulge out of her head with excitement at this news. “So, that means you are the sole heir to Sandoval Spirits?”

  “More or less. There are some aunts, uncles, and cousins who all have a piece of the pie, but my father has the largest and that will pass to me one day.”

  “Ooooo, such an important man . . .,” my mother trails off, giving me a look I don’t recognize at first because I’ve never seen it directed at me before.

  Is it possible that she’s actually proud of me? I never thought I’d live to see the day that happened. I’m so used to both of my parents being disappointed in my life choices and truth be told a lot of those choices were made just because I knew they’d hate them. Being the black sheep of the family has always been my thing, and I’ve had endless amounts of fun fulfilling that role. Doing something that Mamá and Papá approve of might be a nice change of pace, though. If my relationship with Eduardo works out the way I’m hoping it will, I might even bump Ana out of the number two spot in my parents’ affections. (I could never unseat Pilar as number one. She’s too perfect.)