by Penny Reid
“Then you have to believe me, now is not the time to take a break. You will lose all your momentum. You will become irrelevant. And then all the good you’ve done, breaking that ceiling for Latinas and women in this industry, will disappear.”
I sighed, tired of this argument. In fact, I was just plain tired. I’d cranked out twelve feature film scripts in four years, all of them had been optioned. I was constantly on the press junket for whatever movie I’d just filmed, or was filming, or was about to film. Or I was speaking to crowds and supporting charities dedicated to diversity in film. I agreed with Marta, all of it was worthy of my time.
And yet, I used to love writing, acting, making people laugh, and connecting with my audience. I still liked it, but I was in danger of hating it.
“I just want a break.” I hated how small my voice sounded. “I just want to sleep for a week and wear pajamas without someone taking my picture, or someone breaking into my house, or someone going through my trash.”
“I know, baby. And you will. Just not yet.”
I huffed a helpless laugh. “Please tell me you haven’t hired someone to go through my trash.”
“No. But we need people to take your picture. We need you to answer calls, respond to interview requests, post on social media. We need you to be visible and accessible. And if you’re visible, you need to keep your security team close.”
I nodded, hating she was right about the security team. “Okay. I’ll get online somehow and send Dave my address. There’s enough room here for him and the other guys.”
And there went any plans I might have had of peace and quiet. I liked my security staff, but they were such guys. They never did their dishes and left stuff all over the place.
I ended the call frustrated but covering it well. I promised to call her again in the morning and returned my attention to the ground beef on the stove. It wasn’t the shredded beef I preferred for my tacos, but I wasn’t complaining. However, if my mother had been here, she would’ve been horrified.
I’d just figured out how to turn the heat on again when I heard the front door open and close, followed by a bellowing, “Sienna?”
I smiled, my spirits immediately lifting at the familiar voice. “I’m in here, Hanky-panky. But don’t come in, I’m naked. And getting a gynecological exam. And having a mole removed.”
“You aren’t naked.” His rumbly chuckle greeted my ears, and he appeared in the doorway at my right.
I glanced over at him. My good friend was leaning against the door frame, his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. A crooked, happy grin made his typically stoic features handsome.
“Well, I was naked. But I got dressed really fast when I heard the front door open.”
“And sent your doctors away?”
“No. I was conducting my own GYN exam with a mirror and an ice-cold speculum, and removing my own mole. I hope you don’t mind if I used your steak knives for that. I’ll sterilize them after if it’s a problem.”
He made a face and strolled to the fridge, grabbing a beer. “You’re so gross.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. And I can’t wait to tell you all about my colonoscopy.”
“Just stop.” He lifted his hands to ward off my words, though he was laughing.
I’d taught Hank this ritual. It was a game I’d played with my siblings growing up, one we’d indoctrinated Hank into when he’d spent a weekend with my family during our freshman year of college. At the time, we were kinda, sorta dating.
The purpose of the game was to disgust each other. After the weekend ended, we quickly moved into friend-zone territory. It was a good lesson for me to learn about being too open—being my true, odd, gross, kooky self—too soon. I knew better now.
My willingness to share this tradition was based on his claim of being impossible to offend. Our backgrounds were as different as two people could be, but we’d bonded over disgusting boundary pushing. As a result, all romantic spark quickly fled and was replaced by poop jokes and buddy drinking. I became his wingwoman, he became my wingman, and the rest was history.
“Fine. I’ll stop. But I really wanted to show you this polyp that looks like Pluto’s heart-shaped crater—” He stepped behind me and closed a hand over my mouth, cutting me off, and bringing the back of my head to rest on his shoulder. I felt his body shaking with laughter.
“No polyps,” he demanded.
I lifted my eyebrows. He knew what I wanted to hear.
Hank sighed, his hand slipping away and squeezing my shoulder. “You win, okay?”
“Say it,” I pressed.
“Fine. Fine,” he grumbled. “You disgust me.”
You disgust me was the key phrase. It meant I won this round. I hadn’t been keeping track, but I was pretty sure I held claim to the championship at this point.
My grin was immediate, and I did a little victory dance in front of the stove. “Spatula, spatula in my hand, who’s the most repulsive in all the land?”
“Come here, doofus.” Hank started to laugh again as he swatted the wooden kitchen tool away so he could pull me into a proper hug.
I wrapped my arms around his torso and sighed against his chest, relaxing into the comfort of his embrace. Hank gave good hugs; quality, full-body hugs. They reminded me of my family’s hugs. I decided if this was my only chance in the house without my security team, then I might as well make the most of it.
Separating from him, I pointed the spatula at the fridge. “You stocked the fridge. Thank you. Make sure to send the receipt to my sister so we can reimburse you with the rent.”
He nodded. “Yep. Already done. She transferred the money yesterday.”
“Excellent.” I motioned to the kitchen with a grandiose, sweeping hand movement and bellowed in an odd voice, “In that case, stay for dinner, eat my tacos, drink my wine.”
He grinned. “I accept. Why didn’t you call? I thought you were coming into town on Wednesday.”
“I took an earlier flight, as I needed to get out of L.A. My mother was trying to set me up on another blind date.” I turned back to the stove; the meat had been neglected for too long and was now hissing. “Crap. I don’t know how to use a gas range. I feel like I’m burning this.”
“Your momma still doing that?”
“Yes. She thinks I need a man to ‘see to my needs.’ Every time she says it, an angel loses its wings and I know Baby Jesus cries.”
He smirked. “Your momma wants to make sure you get laid.”
“I don’t know where to start with her. She makes no sense, trying to set me up all the time. She raised me to believe everyone is an axe murderer.”
“Is this about that Layorona lady? The one your brother told me wanders around looking for her kids?”
“It’s pronounced La Llorona, and yes. She is the ghost of a woman in white, searching for her children, because she murdered them. Fear of strangers is second only to fear of La Llorona when you're a Mexican kid.”
Hank’s grin was pained, like a wincing grin. “Your momma is funny.”
“It’s not funny. It’s terrifying. We all grew up knowing who she was and being told we must listen or La Llorona will find you. I'm still not sure if the lesson is listen to your parents or La Llorona will find you and kill you, or listen to your Mexican mother because she might go crazy and kill you. Oh sure, she'll spend eternity crying and searching for you, but she will kill you.”
“Maybe if you’d listen to her, you’d find a good man.”
I scoffed and snorted, shaking my head. “No. She just enjoys flinging random men in my direction.”
“Little does she know . . .” Hank’s attention caught on the meat, and he bumped me out of the way, snatching the spatula from my grip. “Here, let me do this. You go cut the tomatoes.”
I relinquished control of the beef and began my search for a cutting board and knife. “How did you know I was here?”
He didn’t answer straightaway. I glanced over my shoulder and stared at him for
several seconds. He was stalling.
“Hank?”
“I ran into, uh, the guy who helped you get here earlier. He mentioned he’d taken you up the mountain.”
“Oh! Ranger Jethro with the sexy eyes and the George Clooney jaw.” I grinned at the wooden cutting board I’d just discovered, recalling how much fun it had been to flirt with the ranger. Too bad he was so adorable. In retrospect, I decided if he’d been slightly less of a hot guy I might’ve let him kiss me. And if he’d been a good kisser then I might’ve given him my number for . . . whatever.
Yes, it has been a while, and yes, he had been that tempting.
I wasn’t planning on entertaining any gentleman callers while in Tennessee, but plans can change. Although, my cell was getting absolutely no reception. Even if I’d given him my number, it would’ve led nowhere.
“Was he flirting with you?”
“Yes. He was flirting with me.” I lifted an eyebrow at Hank’s sharp tone. “And he was rather good at it, actually. You don’t see that kind of flirting skill out in the wild very often.”
“Yeah, well, he flirts with everybody,” Hank mumbled, stirring the meat with jerky movements.
I studied my friend’s sullen expression for a beat, mulled over his words. “If he flirts with everybody, then why did you ask if he flirted with me?”
“Because . . .” He huffed. “Fine. He doesn’t flirt with everybody. Well, he doesn’t mean to. He’s a con man is all, a charmer. People like him ’cause he’s easy to like. Regardless, if you see him again, avoid him.”
“He’s a con man?” This made me smirk. Ranger Jethro didn’t seem like the con-artist type. He didn’t give off a smarmy vibe, not with his penchant for rescuing red-faced damsels in distress and not wrecking the wheels of their luggage. Though, the intensity of the look he’d given me just before leaving made me think Mr. Hot Guy Park Ranger was more than a tad dangerous beneath his cowboy hat and tool belt.
“I should say: he was a con man. But, yeah, I mean, he’s turned his life around in the last few years. Used to be, if a car went missing, you knew who took it.”
“Ranger Jethro used to steal cars? When did he get out of jail?” My mouth dropped open.
Hank looked uncomfortable. “They never actually caught him. He was arrested a few times. The charges never stuck, but everyone knew it was him.”
“And people still like this guy?”
My friend rolled his eyes, looking even more uncomfortable. “Yes. He only ever stole tourists’ rentals, never any locals’ cars. Except one time he stole my father’s Mercedes.”
I winced. “He took your dad’s Mercedes?”
Hank’s father had been an extremely unpleasant man . . . possibly the nicest way to describe him. He was demanding and cold and, honestly, a prejudiced asshole. When he’d met me over spring break at Harvard, he’d asked me if I’d been accepted on one of those special charity case, minority scholarships—you know, for women like me.
When I replied that, no, I was accepted because of grades, test scores, and my parents paid for my tuition, he asked me if they were drug dealers.
So I lied, said yes, and implied I could make him disappear with a phone call rather than telling him my parents were physicians in private practice as well as militant about saving and education.
“Yes. Jethro stole it when he was fifteen or sixteen.”
“I can’t believe your dad didn’t have him arrested.”
Hank’s smile was wry as he filled in the blanks. “First of all, my dad couldn’t prove it. And second, Jethro returned it after three days. It was spotless. Of course it smelled like the inside of a urinal, but he returned it nevertheless.”
I’m not ashamed to admit, this made me giggle. “Ha ha! That’s hilarious.”
My friend chuckled too, his eyes growing hazy. “It was. No amount of shampooing or detailing could remove the smell.”
I gave him a minute with his memory, what I knew was likely one of the few happy ones from his childhood, before getting the gossip train back on track. “So, he stole cars and gave the proceeds to the poor? Like Robin Hood?”
“Uh, no. Nothing like that. He stole for the local biker gang, the Iron Wraiths. They had a chop shop and Jethro was the best at delivering inventory.”
“Well, if he was so good, didn’t see anything wrong with it, and he didn’t get arrested, why’d he stop?”
“He did see that it was wrong, eventually.” Hank turned down the heat and stirred the meat unnecessarily, his expression contemplative. “You know, lots of people think it was because of Drew Runous, the federal game warden in these parts. Drew was new to town a few years back and Jethro tried to steal Drew’s classic BMW motorcycle. Drew caught him in the act, beat the shit out of him, but didn’t turn him over to the cops. After that, Jethro got out of the Wraiths, got his GED, went to community college, worked his way up to become a wildlife ranger at the park . . .”
Whoa.
My eyes widened by increments as Hank relayed Ranger Jethro’s history. What I’d considered harmless gossiping about the locals had turned into something different. I was about to suggest we change the topic when Hank continued, unprompted.
“But I think it was Ben McClure who did it.”
Oh, crap. Now I was curious. “Who is Ben McClure?”
“Ben was Jethro’s best friend. They grew up together, but Ben was always the straight and narrow sort. He died in Afghanistan around the same time Jethro got his shit together. Plus,” Hank switched the gas off completely and rested the wooden spoon against the edge of the frying pan, “Jethro takes care of Ben’s widow.”
“What do you mean, takes care of?”
He shrugged. “You know, looks after her house, does repair work, yard work, cleans the gutters, man stuff.”
I made a face. “Man stuff?”
Hank gave me a flat look. “Don’t give me that. This ain’t Los Angeles or Boston. This here is Green Valley, Tennessee. Men do men’s work.”
“Oh, like run strip clubs?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
He snorted. “No. That’s just work work. I’m not saying men don’t clean ovens around here, and I’m not saying women don’t mow lawns. I’m just saying, more often than not, a man has his place and a woman has hers, everybody pulls their weight and no one minds it much. We all do our chores and help each other. So stop with the cosmopolitan, enlightened judgmental shit.”
Hank was easy to tease when it came to his roots. If I wanted to get him worked up, I’d call him a yokel. I didn’t think of Hank as a yokel. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what a yokel was.
But his retaliatory slurs—about women and Latinas—never bothered me since I knew he didn’t mean or believe them, kind of like when your big brother calls you a poopy-head. Well-meaning revenge slurs between friends were one thing, well-meaning ignorant slurs between strangers were quite another.
I held my hands up. “Fine, okay, whatever. I won’t pick on your precious cultural norms, your white privilege, or your fried chicken.”
“Good.” He nodded once. “Then I won’t pick on your telenovelas or tortillas.”
“That’s right, you won’t.” I lifted up the knife I was holding and narrowed my eyes. “Besides, listening to this Jethro guy’s tale of woe is much more engrossing than a telenovela. He steals cars for a motorcycle gang, then his best friend dies in the war, he gets beaten up by a federal game warden—”
“A federal game warden who is now his boss and engaged to his sister.”
“Whoa. Okay, beaten up by the warden, currently his boss, engaged to his sister, and now he’s a law-abiding citizen.”
“And his momma just died last year of cancer.”
I sucked in a breath, my head and heart flooding with shock and sympathy for Ranger Jethro. I couldn’t imagine losing my mother. She was my touchstone, my rock. “Holy crap. This guy . . .”
“And Jethro’s daddy is a good-for-nothing, and he has five brothers.”
&n
bsp; “Jethro’s father has five brothers?”
“No. Jethro has five brothers: Billy and Cletus, then the twins, Beau and Duane, then Roscoe. And his sister, Ashley. Jethro is the oldest.”
I shook my head. “This is a telenovela, or it should be. Why is his dad a good-for-nothing?” I couldn’t help myself, I now felt involved—if not invested—in this Ranger Jethro and his happily ever after.
“Let’s see, I don’t even know where to start. Darrell Winston, Jethro’s daddy, knocked up Bethany Oliver when she was fifteen. Jethro was born when she was sixteen. Bethany came from some money and was the only daughter of—”
I waved my hand in the air, motioning him to move it along. “Give me the CliffsNotes version.”
“Fine. Darrell was a bastard to his wife, cheated on her all the time, beat her up, the works. He’s part of the Iron Wraiths—”
“The motorcycle guys?”
“Yep. And Darrell is in deep, tried to get his kids involved. That’s how Jethro started stealing cars. Jethro was basically that bastard’s shadow for the first twenty-five years of his life.”
“How old is Jethro?” I tried to recall his face in detail, the wrinkles around his eyes that were becoming on outdoorsy men, but which actors and actresses avoided like B-movie roles. “He can’t be more than twenty-seven.”
“He is older than that. He’s thirty-one. And there’s another reason you should avoid the man. He’s too old for you.”
I snort-laughed. “That’s funny, Hank. You know Tom is thirty-eight, right?” I was referring to my last sorta relationship and current co-star, Tom Low. If you asked Tom, we’d been on the road to matrimony when I’d called it off. If you asked me, we were together for one long weekend before his inability to function without constant reassurance grew oppressively irritating.
As an example, he didn’t know how to do laundry. Any laundry. At all. Sometimes he threw clothes away instead of washing them, buying new outfits weekly.
“Yeah. Tom was too old for you, too.”
I shrugged, not wanting to argue, but disagreeing. Tom may have been thirteen years older than me, but he was a big baby. A big, adorable, metrosexual, helpless, wee little man of a hot guy baby. He was pretty good in bed, though. Like, a solid six or seven out of ten (six or seven orgasms out of ten attempts).
