Playing the Player

by Lea Santos

  Lola raised one perfectly arched brow. “You’re being pretty judgmental about Madeira’s lifestyle, considering.”

  Grace stared at her own stiff-jawed reflection, wanting to scoff at the irony but unable to drum up the energy to pull it off. Just like a little sister to rattle the skeletons in her closet. So she’d been a wild child herself in bygone days. Big deal. She’d admit it. That insider’s view of the player’s lifestyle only reconfirmed her lack of desire to fall anywhere close to in love with one. Grace’s life was finally headed in a new direction, one that left women like Madeira Pacias choking on her dust.

  She’d never be able to adequately explain this to Lola. Instead, she flicked a hand at her sister. “If listening to you read that article is the hoop I need to jump through before you’ll finish my hair, then read.”

  Gleeful, Lola turned her attention back to the paper. “Where was I? Let’s see. Here. Yadda yadda…a confirmed single woman known as ‘The Thief of Hearts,’ left her work as a nonprofit project manager with OUR WORLD: Building Communities One Garden at a Time, to pursue a career as a paramedic…”

  Lola’s voice became a distant buzz in Grace’s ears, replaced by the loud rush of blood dispatched by her thrumming pulse. She gripped the armrests of the chair tighter beneath the cape and fought to maintain her disinterested expression, but a surge of adrenaline twirled stars before her eyes and closed her throat.

  A paramedic? Her breathing shortened. Since when?

  Harold had never mentioned Madeira being a paramedic.

  Why hadn’t he prepared her for this bomb?

  Lola’s voice wavered back into her consciousness. Grace held up a hand. “That’s enough.” She swallowed thickly. “Finish my hair.”

  “But did you hear the part I just read?”

  “Yes, she’s a paramedic. I heard.” She reached up and touched one of the spiky tubes bending her hair into unwilling submission. “I think these are too tight. I feel dizzy. I might throw up.”

  “No, I meant the part after that.”

  Grace blew out an exasperated sigh. “What?”

  “Listen.” Lola smoothed her finger down the newsprint until she found her spot. “To pursue a career as a paramedic after”—she paused for emphasis, pointedly meeting Grace’s eyes in the mirror—“after the fateful day her path and Obregon’s collided on Interstate 25.” Crushing the paper to her chest, Lola fluttered her eyelids, and sighed. “Didn’t I tell you? Is that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Yes. Grace gulped. “No. It’s just another example of the media sensationalizing the story in search of the almighty buck.”

  “Curmudgeon.”

  “Pollyanna.”

  They made mirror-reflected faces at each other, but inside, Grace’s mind reverberated with shock. Wow. If Harold’s facts were straight, Madeira had changed her entire career path after the crash. Grace would never have imagined the accident had impacted Madeira’s life as deeply as it had her own. She had scars, a limp, and a profound fear of driving to remind her. Could it be Madeira had a few scars of her own? Against Grace’s will, the pendulum of her attitude swung in Madeira’s favor again.

  Danger.

  Grace knew herself. She needed to avoid emotionally unavailable bad girls like an alcoholic needed to avoid booze. They were her weakness and her downfall.

  Not anymore, Grace. That’s in the past.

  She tried to convince herself that she’d moved beyond falling prey to another player but failed. She’d changed, but some aspects of her life still needed work, and that was one of them. In spite of herself she cleared her throat and fiddled with the hem of the plastic cape. “What else does it say?”

  Lola set the article aside and spoke in a breezy tone. “You aren’t interested, remember? We are short on time, after all.” With deft motions, she began to unwind the curlers from Grace’s crunchy hair, chucking them in the open drawer of her station.

  “Don’t be annoying. Just this once, I beg you.” Grace pleaded with her sister’s smug smile in the oval mirror. Lola’s iPod was kickin’ it old-school, and TLC’s “Unpretty” boomed over the salon’s sound system. Grace thought it an apt theme song for this moment. “Tell me what it said.” So much for avoiding the article.

  “Well…three sisters, one older, two younger. Madeira comes from Mexico, been here six years, I think it said. You already know about her job, and she donates to some kind of charity on the side.”

  Charity? Great. Drop-dead sexy and altruistic, to boot. A regular Mother Teresa—just Grace’s luck. “Donates to what charity?” she asked, feeling snarky at the fates for throwing this sexy woman in her face and making her weak.

  “It didn’t really say. Just something having to do with emergency medical services.”

  “Hmm.” Grace didn’t know what to think, much less what to feel about this complex-sounding woman. According to the article, Madeira allegedly had a citywide reputation as a big, giant tramp. But she had also gone from one thankless, underpaid job to another, and in her spare time she helped worthy charities. Fuck. This would be a whole lot easier if Madeira didn’t have any redeeming qualities.

  When it came down to it, why did Grace even care if Madeira was a player? Why was she acting as if it was a personal affront?

  I wanted her to be perfect. That’s why.

  She bit her lip, disappointment curling in her stomach.

  “What do you think, Grace? Tell me the truth.”

  Grace sniffed, striving for nonchalance. “She sounds…”

  “Perfect?” Lola released the last curl, snaked her fingers into the stiff mess and began to vigorously—and, oh yeah, painfully—shake the strands free. “It’s okay to admit it.”

  “Not even close to perfect, but—ow! Jesus, stop it.”

  Her sister shook harder. “Beauty is pain.”

  “Which is why I’m okay with being ugly. Go easy, or I will punch you.” She snaked her hands out from under the cape to grip her sister’s wrists, but Lola flicked them off.

  “Suck it up.” Lola squinted in concentration. “And you aren’t ugly, you’re just…very raw material.”

  “Gee, compliments abound in this salon.”

  Lola shoved Grace over until her hair hung forward, between her knees, then went at the wavy length of it with a styling comb like a bushwhacker with a newly sharpened scythe. “Keep your options open with Madeira. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “There are no options, Lo, beyond hello, thank you for rescuing my bear, and good-bye. Madeira’s not my type.”

  “Anymore.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Fine. Be that way.”

  Grace winced as comb met tangle, and tangle won. Through gritted teeth, she added, “But I will admit…”

  “What?”

  Grace sighed. “I’m looking forward to seeing her. I’m just so incredibly touched that she kept Ms. Right.”

  “I knew it!”

  “Touched enough to tell Madeira thanks, Lo. That’s all. Now that I know what kind of woman she is, I’m even less interested than I may have been before.”

  Lola remained silent for a moment, and when she finally spoke, she sounded dubious. “Well, whatever. At least you’ll get to thank her, Grace.”

  Which she didn’t want to do in front of the nosy media, with the entire world thinking she was hot for Madeira Pacias, a woman who had zero interest in her. Why couldn’t Lola understand how appalling that prospect sounded? If only Grace could explain this debacle to Madeira privately, she might be able to get through this. Whoa. A brainstorm hit.

  “Speed it up, Lo. I have to get there before Madeira does.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you have to know everything?”

  “Yes. Just tell me.”

  Grace sighed. “Because. I’ve got to get her alone before the press conference. I just have to.”

  Lola’s full mouth spread into a Cheshire cat grin. “Now, that’s what I like to hear.
”

  Shaking her head slowly, Grace couldn’t help but smile at her devious, matchmaking little sister. Grudgingly. “Not like that. You’re utterly hopeless.”

  Lola reached around and patted her cheek. “Yes, but the good news is, I’m beginning to think you might not be after all.”

  Chapter Four

  Hasta el diablo fue un ángel en sus comienzos.

  Even the devil was an angel when he began.

  Madeira strode up the sidewalk toward the newspaper offices, almost, but not quite, late. She slowed her pace to an unconcerned saunter, making an effort to lower her shoulders and loosen the muscles of her jaw. No sense looking eager—which I’m not.

  Maybe a little curious, but definitely not eager.

  Unfortunately, she caught sight of her reflection in the windows and realized, with dismay, that she’d dressed precisely like an eager woman. What an idiot. Regret aside, she took a moment to straighten her olive green, Henley-style silk sweater and smooth the creases in her black slacks—a woman had her pride, after all. She might as well look her best now that she’d left herself no other choice. But she wished she’d had the presence of mind to wear her favorite torn and grass-stained jeans and the T-shirt Iris had given her last Christmas that read, Too Shallow to Love, Too Jaded to Care.

  That would’ve conveyed her point.

  No matter. She could do this and come out unscathed.

  She’d prepared herself to face the media.

  She’d prepared herself for the public scrutiny, for the taunts she’d suffer at work.

  She’d prepared herself to bow out of this soul mate thing gracefully and with style.

  What she hadn’t prepared herself for, she realized sickly, as she swung the door open and entered, was coming face-to-face with Grace.

  Madeira stopped short, and her heart made one squeeze before drumming out a rapid warning. Why hadn’t she remembered…Gracie? In all her mental preparations, Madeira had simply avoided thinking of Gracie, and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why. She stood with her arms tightly crossed on the opposite side of the vast lobby. Beyond her loomed a cluster of people armed with notebooks, tape recorders, and cameras. Reporters, no doubt. Gracie was with them, but not a part of them, that much was clear. Bright and beautiful, she stood out from the mass in sharp relief.

  Madeira had exactly one split second to replace her stunned expression with one of schooled nonchalance before the door swung shut with a clunk, and all eyes—including Gracie’s—turned toward her.

  As the breath left her, Madeira was struck with the strange sensation of being one of only two people left on the face of the earth. She remembered that dance scene in West Side Story, the first time Tony laid eyes on Maria. Just like in that scene, every single person in the lobby faded to inconsequential, undefined blurs. Everyone except Gracie.

  A brief stricken expression moved over Gracie’s face before she squared her shoulders like a warrior facing battle. Madeira watched Gracie’s long, slender throat work around a deep swallow, remembering the last time she’d seen that motion, remembering all the blood. Remembering Gracie, and how she’d stolen inside Madeira and touched something Madeira hadn’t even known was there.

  A little too late for the memories, don’t you think?

  “Hi,” Gracie said, airy and feminine, equal parts nervousness and challenge.

  Madeira stood riveted to the threshold, unable to do more than clench and unclench her fists. “Gracie?”

  “That would be me.” A ghost of a smile touched Gracie’s lips. She started toward Madeira, hesitantly, a pronounced limp giving her gait an unspeakably sultry sway. Her chest rose and fell with breaths that mirrored Madeira’s. Anxious, expectant, scared.

  Madeira had spent so many months fighting the shock and guilt of Gracie’s “death,” so many nights telling herself she hadn’t known Gracie anyway, that she’d forgotten how swiftly they’d connected that awful day. Forgotten how, for a handful of minutes, the world had consisted of just the two of them, terrified and tentative, beneath an upturned car. She’d forgotten—or denied—that meeting Gracie had spun her future on its axis, whirling her off in a completely unexpected direction.

  A feeling of rightness, of relief, of joy filled Madeira just seeing Gracie, and she couldn’t keep the slow smile from her face. For one fleeting moment, Madeira struggled to remind herself, this was the woman who wanted to snatch her freedom. Unfortunately her mind and heart didn’t seem to care. Gracie was as sexy as she was off-limits, as intriguing as she was irresistible, and Madeira’s mutinous mind slipped into full admiration mode.

  Lush breasts bounced gently beneath a short, tight red sweater that screamed, “touch me!” with every fuzzy fiber. Gracie’s curves transformed a pair of dark wash jeans into the sexiest thing to hit a pair of female legs since Madeira’s own lips. Still, she might’ve been able to handle the alluring womanly package named Gracie if it hadn’t been for those brandy-colored eyes. Eyes that looked at Madeira, looked into her and said, “I know you.”

  No. Madeira absolutely hadn’t prepared herself for those eyes.

  In two unplanned strides she’d pulled Gracie into an equally unplanned embrace and felt hot breath whoosh out of her. Gracie’s body warmed against her own. Soft and pliant, so right. Gracie’s spill of hair smelled like green apples, and Madeira could feel Gracie’s chest vibrating against her solar plexus. Something akin to fireworks exploded around them; Madeira realized distantly that the photographers were taking the opportunity to capture their reunion on film. Oddly enough, she didn’t care. Swallowing back staggering tenderness she didn’t want to feel but couldn’t help, Madeira said, “God, I can’t believe it’s you. They told me you were dead.”

  “I know,” Gracie said, her cheek against Madeira’s shoulder. Madeira felt Gracie’s eyes squeeze shut. “What an awful mistake they made. But that whole situation, it was…it was—”

  “Pandemonium. Claro. I was there, remember?”

  Gracie’s body relaxed, and she shifted to look up. Her eyes filled with affection Madeira didn’t want to see. “Yeah.”

  Panicked, Madeira set Gracie arm’s-length away but didn’t, couldn’t, let go of her. Tucking her chin, she studied Grace Obregon. Keep it simple. Keep it businesslike. “How are you?”

  Grace gestured vaguely toward her leg. “I’m okay. It’s getting better.” Her voice dropped to a private whisper, and she peered at her through her lashes. “Thank you for…that day. Thank you so much for—” Her words caught, and she swallowed hard before continuing. “For finding my bear. For keeping her. I know, it’s just a silly…toy. But you have no idea, no idea how much that means to me.”

  Madeira’s lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say. She should be thanking Gracie, no? Madeira’s whole life had changed, and for the better, thanks to Gracie and that silly bear. Before she could compose an appropriate response, something heavy landed on Madeira’s shoulder. Dazed and disconnected, she blinked, then turned to find an older man who could only be Harold LePoulet invading their private moment, one meaty palm resting atop each of their shoulders. He looked like the rumble of his voice.

  “Kids, come on.” Harold grinned, releasing Gracie but giving Madeira a wink and one last way to go shoulder squeeze. “Let’s save some of this great emotion for the interview, huh?”

  Emotion? What emotion? How had that slipped out? Madeira glanced from Harold to Gracie, who appeared, strangely, wide-eyed, like a trapped animal. Similar to a bucket of ice in the face, the memory of why they were here hit Madeira. Damnit, she shouldn’t have let herself get so caught up in the moment. Gracie wanted something from Madeira that she couldn’t give—she had to remember that. Madeira might not want an “I do” kind of woman, but she wasn’t in the habit of leading them on, either. She couldn’t bear the thought of hurting a woman. Especially Gracie.

  Dropping her hands from Gracie’s upper arms, Madeira backed up slightly and addressed Harold. “Sorry. It’
s been a long time since we—”

  “Sure, sure. You’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

  But would they?

  Madeira’s intention was to return the raggedy bear and make it clear that the so-called la ladróna de corazones wasn’t and would never be anyone’s Ms. Right. If Madeira followed through with the plan, she’d probably never see Grace again.

  All of a sudden, Madeira didn’t feel ready. Time seemed to be whizzing past her faster than she could grasp.

  Clearly oblivious to the turmoil raging inside Madeira, Harold turned and clapped his hands—two sharp alerts—silencing the reporters. When he had their full attention, he raised both arms in the air and pointed sausage-chubby index fingers toward a long corridor behind them. A few people glanced over their shoulders. “If you’ll all make an about-face and head down the hall to conference room B, we can get started. Both of the soul mates have arrived,” he added, in an amused tone. Excited chatter rose from the crowd as they turned and jockeyed for position.

  Madeira eyed Gracie surreptitiously, surprised to find that she looked as nauseated as Madeira felt. She would have thought Gracie would be eager for this culmination of all her publicity efforts. Madeira noticed Harold hurrying to catch up with one of the station managers, and cool gratitude washed over her for the fact she and Gracie were alone. They trailed the crowd, and though Madeira fought for it, she couldn’t quite get a handle on how she felt.

  “Where’s my bear?” Gracie whispered from the corner of her mouth, one eye on Harold steering the crowd toward their ultimate destination.

  “I left her in the car. I wasn’t sure…” Madeira twisted her mouth in apology and jabbed a thumb in the direction of the entrance. “Should I get her?”

  “No,” Gracie said, hastily grabbing her forearm, then snatching her hand back as if she’d crossed some imaginary boundary they’d agreed not to breach. “To be honest, I’d rather you gave her to me, you know…later. Just tell them you forgot her at home if they ask.”