Break of Day

by Mari Madison

  So did that mean it was actually good?

  I rose to my feet to go grab the script off the printer. But Asher stopped me, putting another hand on my shoulder. “No,” he commanded. “You’re not an assistant anymore. I can fetch my own script.”

  I stared at him, speechless. He flashed me a grin, then walked down the stairs and into the newsroom to the master printer. I watched from the balcony as one of the newer production assistants, a girl named Greta who I didn’t know too well, giggled and blushed as she tried to grab for the script and dropped it. Asher stopped her from leaning over, then gallantly grabbed the paper himself, giving her a playful little bow in the process. She looked as if she was going to keel over in delight.

  My stomach sank a little as I watched their interaction. Here was the Asher everyone knew. The one I needed to keep at arm’s length. The flirt. The player. The one who could have any woman—and probably did.

  Sure, he might like me now. He might enjoy kissing me, too. But at the end of the day it couldn’t go further than that. I was his producer. His coworker.

  But not his assistant.

  A smile crept to my lips again as he reentered the weather center, waving the script with a silly grin. I turned back to my computer, rereading the script on the screen. The script that I wrote that would soon be read over the airwaves of all of San Diego.

  It was good. It was really good.

  Maybe I could do this after all.

  fifteen

  ASHER

  That’s your car?”

  I laughed at Piper’s shocked expression as I stopped in front of the old refurbished Volkswagen bus at the back of the News 9 parking lot. I reached into my pockets to pull out my keys then unlocked the passenger side door, pulling it open to allow her to climb inside.

  “Sorry, Maserati’s in the shop,” I teased. “Damn luxury sports cars, always breaking down on you. Unlike Fiona here.” I patted her rusty side with affection. “She’s dependable as rain.”

  Truthfully, I didn’t own a Maserati. Well, not anymore anyway. My mom had tried to foist one on me as a birthday present after Dad’s accident. But I’d crashed it my first weekend down in Baja—where I’d driven without bothering to acquire Mexican insurance—and it had been a complete loss. Which meant, arrivederci Italian sports car and Guten Tag German hippie bus.

  Which was fine by me. My baby was far more practical anyway. Sure, zero to sixty in any amount of seconds was more of a challenge, but she made up for it in other ways. Like being able to carry all my surf gear. And having room to camp out in if I wanted to catch some extra early swells.

  Plus, her existence pissed my mother off, which made Fiona even more loveable in my eyes.

  “Wow, I can’t believe this old thing is still running,” Piper marveled as she climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Hey! Don’t you be going and hurting Fiona’s feelings!” I protested. “She’s a lady, you know. We don’t talk about her age.”

  Piper laughed. “I’m sorry, Fiona,” she cooed, running her hand along the dashboard. “You are looking quite fetching tonight. And may I just say sea foam green is a lovely color on you.”

  I smirked, closing the door behind her and running around to the other side. I’d insisted on driving tonight—for our dining “do-over”—telling Piper it was silly to take two cars to go to one place. I wondered if she regretted her decision to hitch a ride, now that she’d been introduced to the ride in question. In the past I’d had some dates who had literally refused to “get inside that death trap” and who’d actually seemed offended that I would consider it a form of transportation befitting their rank.

  Let’s just say those girls didn’t usually get second dates.

  When I popped into the bus, I found Piper had left her seat to wander to the back and was examining the set-up with interest. I’d had it completely redone when I’d put in Fiona’s new motor, adding a little kitchenette and bedroom for the aforementioned overnight surf trips.

  “So what do you think?” I asked, and I was surprised to realize I was actually eager to hear her answer.

  She turned to me, an amused expression dancing in her eyes. “Every time I think I know you . . .” she said, shaking her head. “You are full of surprises.”

  “And the ladies love every last one of them,” I returned with a smirk. Even though that was definitely untrue. Luckily for me and my track record, however, most were willing to overlook my so-called “quirks” to keep their eyes on the prize.

  AKA my wallet.

  Piper, on the other hand, despite her earlier joke, now seemed quite enamored with Fiona. Taking her time to check out the kitchen and the bed, making remarks about how cozy and cute it all was. And from the look on her face I could tell this wasn’t just her trying to be nice, or trying to get on my good side. She actually thought this was cool. And when she finally did head back to her seat, I caught what looked like a spark of respect in her eyes. As if she approved of this other side of me. As if she actually preferred it.

  Which gave me an idea.

  “Look,” I said, “how adventurous are you feeling tonight?”

  She laughed. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as you know, I made the reservation at Addison. And we can totally go there if you want to—it’s an amazing place and I’m sure you would love it. But . . .” I paused before continuing. “If you were feeling a little more . . . daring . . . I could make another suggestion . . .”

  My heart thudded a little as I waited for her reply. Addison was a five diamond–rated restaurant in Rancho Santa Fe and it was nearly impossible to get reservations—especially on short notice. Most girls, I found, would give their right arm to get inside the place. To see and be seen and Instagram the shit out of their meal to impress their friends.

  But I’d already determined Piper was not like most girls.

  Sure enough, her eyes flashed something mischievous and it sent a small flutter to my stomach. “Tell me more.”

  I smiled. “It’s this little hole-in-the-wall down in National City. Called Miguel’s. It’s not fancy. But it’s got the best homemade tortillas this side of the border.”

  Piper nodded slowly, as if considering this. “How’s their salsa verde?” she asked.

  “Out of this world.”

  “Well then is it even a question?”

  I laughed. “Seriously though. It’s not fancy. I mean, it’s really not fancy. You can look it up on Yelp if you want. Just to make sure it’s going to be okay.”

  But Piper made no move to pull out her phone. “It sounds perfect,” she declared. “Let’s go.”

  I grinned like a schoolboy at the surety I heard in her voice. And suddenly it was all I could do not to lean over and kiss her—right then and there. “Well, all right then,” I said instead, my insides dancing with excitement. “Miguel’s it is.” I turned the key in the ignition and Fiona grumbled to life. “Okay, girl,” I said, patting her dash. “You know where to go.”

  And with that, we rolled out of the News 9 parking lot and headed south. Toward National City, a destination not usually frequented by tourists. And for good reason, too. Even though it had been somewhat cleaned up since the old days, it was still home to significant drug and gang activities, and violent crimes were commonplace. There wasn’t a lot down there to attract visitors, either, and so most people just drove right through or used it as a parking lot on their way to or from Tijuana’s bright lights and big clubs.

  I myself had discovered Miguel’s by accident, after a bad night south of the border a few months after my father’s car crash. I’d been angry, drunk, and desperate for a greasy meal to settle my stomach.

  And yet I’d gotten so much more than that when I’d stepped through the door. So much more than I had deserved.

  Addison—in all its five-diamond glory—couldn’t hold a candle to th
at.

  Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the small, ugly strip mall where the restaurant was located. As I pulled into my parking spot, I stole a glance at Piper, searching for that familiar uneasiness I’d seen in so many girls’ eyes when I’d taken them here. After all, I’d had plenty of girls pretend to be all excited at the promise of adventure—until they actually got here and saw how adventurous it really was. Then, when they turned up their noses and started making comments—I’d pretend it was all a gag. I’d turn around and take them to Addison or somewhere of that ilk. They would let out breaths of relief and laugh and tell me I was “too much.”

  And I would silently cross them off my list. Disappointed, once again.

  But weirdly Piper didn’t seem fazed by the seedy surroundings. Not just fake unfazed—at this point, I could spot a pretender a mile away. But Piper—Piper didn’t even seem to register the squalor. If anything she looked more relaxed here than she had at the yacht club. And somehow I didn’t think it was just due to the absence of the ocean, either.

  “Are you ready for this?” I asked.

  “Hell yeah. I’m freaking starving.” She jumped out of the car, not a single cautious glance into the dark parking lot—to make sure there weren’t muggers or rapists lying in wait—and headed toward the restaurant with a spring in her step.

  I followed suit, locking the bus behind me, following her into the restaurant, my heart now beating fast with anticipation. My stomach growled as I stepped inside and my nose caught a whiff of the warm, spicy smells of salsa and fajitas.

  I looked around; the place was packed, as was usual for Miguel’s. Filled with day workers having just finished their shifts and wanting to grab food before getting back into the endless border line and huge local Mexican families with kids spilling out of each booth talking and laughing loudly.

  Piper gave a low whistle. “Wow, this place must be good,” she declared. “I wonder if we’ll even be able to get a table.”

  “Oh, we’ll get a table,” I assured her with a smile. “Trust me. I’m a regular here.”

  I was proved right a moment later as Miguel’s wife, Angelita, approached us with a big smile on her face. “Mijo!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? It’s been too long!” She came around the hostess stand to give me a huge hug. I hugged her back, feeling that familiar warmth rise inside of me, that feeling of coming home. Angelita had that effect on people. Which was probably why her restaurant did so well.

  “And who is your friend?” she asked, turning to Piper, delight sparkling in her eyes. “She’s so pretty! What is she doing with you?”

  I snorted. And here we go again. Angelita sometimes got a little too excited when I brought girls by for dinner. And when I came solo she usually tried to hook me up with one of her regulars. Which was one of the reasons if I saw my dates turning up their noses outside, I’d turn around before bringing them in. I was nothing if not protective of Angelita and Miguel and their little slice of restaurant heaven. I would never allow anyone to insult them in their own place.

  But I was becoming pretty sure I wouldn’t have to worry about this with Piper. If anything I should have been more worried that Angelita would call a priest to come by and marry us before dessert.

  “Angelita, this is Piper. My new producer at News 9,” I introduced. “Piper, this is Angelita. She and her husband own this place. And are single-handedly responsible for fattening me up.”

  Angelita rolled her eyes, making a dismissive gesture to my stomach. “You call that fat? I’d hate to know what you call my husband.”

  “Aw, Angelita, you know he’s just big-boned.”

  “Big bones, big belly, big head,” she muttered. Then she grinned. “Now let me get you a table.”

  And with that, she scurried into the restaurant to figure out where to put us. I turned to Piper, giving her an impish look. “Obviously this isn’t my first time here.”

  Piper grinned. “Yeah, I got that.”

  “This place is worth the trip though,” I said. “I’ve actually tried to get them to move up north. To open a restaurant in a touristy neighborhood, you know? They would do incredible business in La Jolla or Pacific Beach.”

  “They’re not interested?”

  I shook my head. “They love it here.”

  “It looks like their customers love them, too,” Piper observed, watching Angelita reach down and hug one of her younger guests, a little girl with straight black hair pulled into two ponytails. “I can see why they’d want to stay.”

  “And if they do, I’ll keep coming back,” I asserted.

  Angelita returned to the hostess stand. “I have a table for you,” she said. “Best in the house for my mijo and his pretty lady friend.”

  She made a gesture for us to follow then walked us to the back of the restaurant, deftly weaving through all the children running around the place and the waiters serving food. We stopped at a large round booth, adorned with a colorful tablecloth. Angelita placed a couple of greasy menus in front of us, telling us she’d return in a moment with some water and chips and salsa.

  “So what do you think?” I asked, after allowing Piper to sit down and scan the menu for a minute.

  “I think it’s awesome,” she declared, looking up at me, her eyes shining. “I love discovering these hidden gems.” She laughed, then added, “Or maybe not so hidden, judging from the crowd.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly Zagat rated,” I said. “But I don’t think you’re going to be disappointed with your meal.”

  “I am positive I won’t be.”

  Angelita returned with our waters and we gave our orders, with Piper asking the owner’s opinion on various dishes before making up her mind. Angelita, who was always excited to talk food, especially with a new customer, rattled on about this spice and that and the fish market in Rosarito where they imported their daily catches. Finally, Piper made her choice, going for one of the specials, and Angelita headed back to the kitchen to place the order, looking pleased.

  I was feeling pretty pleased, too. Angelita, though enthusiastic, was not easy to impress. Most of the girls I brought here had her rolling her eyes. But Piper—Piper had already made a positive impression before the first course. The thought made me weirdly proud.

  I held up my water glass. “To our dinner ‘do-over’,” I toasted. “May it go much better than its poor predecessor.”

  Piper clinked my glass with her own. “I think it’s safe to say it already has.”

  I grinned. “So you like this place then?”

  “I love it. So much energy. So much noise. And,” she added with a chuckle, “bonus—no ocean view.”

  “You might not want to put that in your TripAdvisor review,” I said with a laugh. “But I’m glad I didn’t scare you off.”

  “Please. You made my night. I’ve been dying for some real Mexican food actually. How did you discover this place anyway?”

  I shrugged, feeling suddenly uneasy. Girls always asked me this, usually with a hint of derision in their voices, and I’d end up making up some silly story about throwing darts on a map and going wherever the road took me. But for some reason something inside me didn’t want to lie to Piper. Even if the truth was ugly. Maybe because it was.

  “It’s kind of a long story,” I hedged.

  Piper glanced around at the crowded restaurant. “I think we have time.”

  “Right.” I squirmed in my seat, now feeling totally uncomfortable. I could feel her watching me, but I couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” she said after a pause. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Funny. That was almost the same thing I had said to her the night before at the yacht club, when I had asked her about her fear of the ocean, and she had turned bright red. But in the end, she had confessed it all. About her brother’s tragic accident. About her lifelong fear. It couldn�
�t have been easy for her to talk about that, either. But she had done it all the same.

  And now it was my turn to share.

  “It was a bad night in Tijuana,” I said, my voice starting out slow. “Not long after my father’s car accident. I’d been drinking all night and had stumbled back across the border, looking for something to settle my stomach. Somehow I found my way here.”

  I drew in a breath. “The state I was in? I probably should have been shot. Robbed. Left for dead. Instead, Miguel took me to the back room and forced black coffee down my throat. Then he grilled up the most delicious carne asada tacos I’d ever had in my life and made me sit and eat them all. After I had finished, he gave me a blanket and pillow and let me pass out in the back room on an old cot.”

  I paused for a moment, watching Piper’s face. Waiting for a look of disgust, of judgment, of disdain. Yet strangely, I saw none of the above when I looked in her deep brown eyes. Only concern. Compassion. A weird look of understanding. A look that told me I should continue the tale.

  “The next morning when I woke up, Miguel had a piping hot breakfast burrito with my name on it,” I finished, emboldened by her reaction. “Not to mention a lecture about drinking and driving.”

  I leaned back in the booth, remembering that morning. It had been a dark time in my life. And Miguel had been my first glimpse of light. I owed him big-time. A debt all the money in the world could not repay.

  Piper gave me a rueful smile. “That’s pretty amazing,” she said. “Most people wouldn’t do something like that to help a stranger.”

  “Especially not a rich drunk gringo like me,” I agreed. “Seriously, you may think I’m a big fuckup now, but you should have seen me then. I was on a path to destruction. And no one stepped in to intervene. Not my parents, not my friends. Certainly not the girls I dated. Miguel was the only one with the balls to tell me the truth. That I was an asshole and I needed help.”

  Piper bit her lower lip. “So . . .” she said carefully, “is that why you don’t drink now?”