by Jewel E. Ann
“Homeless?”
I nod.
“They wrote letters and talked on the phone until after they both graduated in the spring. My dad even switched his college plans to attend school with my mom. So the summer before their freshman year of college they met up in Colorado to camp for four weeks in the mountains. Neither set of parents approved, but they were both adults so there wasn’t much they could do.”
Trick pauses and I want to ask more questions but I know he’s not done with the story. He works his lower lip between his teeth, so I wait.
“A week after they started college my mom found out she was pregnant with me. Her parents campaigned for an abortion, and his basically disowned him. His parents found religion…” he glances over at me “…and I say that because had they actually found God there’s no way they would have disowned their own child over the creation of a life.”
“I take it they decided to keep the baby.” I grin and he does too.
“Yes, I’m here.” He sighs as if the story has only just begun. “My dad had planned on majoring in business and working on Wall Street, and my mom was studying music and had dreams of attending Juilliard. So with both parents against them and having basically nothing except a baby on the way, they moved to New York. My dad got an entry level job on Wall Street, aka as a janitor, and my mom taught piano lessons through a music outreach program in the city. They had a one room apartment…” another glance over at me “…not as in one bedroom, as in one room. Even making rent on it was a struggle for them. Then I came along and with no insurance they brought home a baby and a truckload of hospital bills. By the time I was five the outreach program had shut down and three weeks later my dad lost his job … I guess when Wall Street isn’t doing well even the janitorial staff is affected. Neither one could find work and eventually they were evicted.”
I hate hearing this because there’s such a misconception about the homeless, as if all of the people who end up on the street are addicts and lazy people with no work ethic. I will never look at a homeless person the same way again.
“So why didn’t they go home?”
Trick shrugs. “Neither one had talked to their parents since they left for New York. Five years later I don’t think they felt like they still had family. I’m sure pride was a big factor too. My dad was a proud man, even with nothing but the clothes on his back, he was still a proud man. He was never a panhandler and hated it when he saw my mom doing it. She had a child to feed and would toss her pride aside and beg for money to buy food. I admired them both for what they believed in. My dad never let the circumstances define him, and my mother … I think she would have asked family for help, but she loved my dad too much to ever do that to him.”
I wipe away a few tears. I’m sure it would never get made into a movie, but right now I feel the story of Trick’s parents, the forbidden, unstoppable love, and the way they truly lived out their “for better or worse,” was just … beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful love story I have ever heard.
*
There’s a cloud of somberness over the rest of our drive to Todos Santos. I imagine Trick’s mind stays with his past, maybe the times he remembers, maybe trying to figure out the parts he doesn’t. I think about my own life and what different paths we both took to get here. I would never say it out loud, but a part of me envies what he had growing up. It sounds crazy, I know it does, but he had two parents who loved each other and adored him. I had everything I needed and plenty I didn’t, and thankfully, so very thankfully, I had my nana. But I am the poster child for money can’t buy happiness.
Everything about Trick’s past spirals back to his parents. How did they both just disappear? He was still a child, fifteen, but still a child—their only child. It doesn’t make sense that they would leave him without a single word. But it also doesn’t make sense that they would both just vanish or die without a trace. But every time I mention my suspicion or lack of understanding to Trick, his pain makes me feel like I’m stomping on their graves.
“What do you think?” Trick asks as we pull up and stop on a dirt drive.
I hop out and scuff my flip-flopped feet across the hard dirt to an old wooden gate painted rustic red.
“It’s all I could come up with on short notice…” Trick walks up behind me “…we’re just renting it. I know it’s nothing huge—”
“I love it.” I turn and throw my arms around his neck. He hugs me back, lifting me off the ground. “I love it … it’s perfect.”
He chuckles. “You haven’t even seen the inside, and it’s dark. You can’t see much out here either.”
Releasing him, I practically bust through the gate to see more. The house is authentic Mexican architecture, with arched doors and windows, adobe exterior painted what looks like a muted sand color, and traditional tile roof. I walk a few more steps then turn a complete circle in awe of the lush gardens and fruit trees.
“Don’t act impressed. I know you’ve seen places much fancier than this.” Trick hangs back a few steps and his rare moment of insecurity saddens me.
I shake my head. “I’m in awe of the moment … this moment in my life.” Retreating, I place my palms on his cheeks. “It’s everything. It’s the house, these gardens, and us. I don’t ever want to leave.” My mind registers what I just said, but it only takes a moment to realize … it’s the truth.
Trick grabs the back of my legs and lifts me up. My hands in his hair, his lips on mine, and this world—our world—it’s paradise. He moves to my neck and I moan. “What are we going to christen first?” he mumbles along my skin.
I giggle. “If you don’t stop, I think the dirt beneath our feet will be first.”
“Suit yourself.”
My stomach flips as he starts to lower us to the ground. “Trick! I’m not serious.”
He sets me on my feet and nips my neck, followed by a smack on my ass. “Get inside. Between this and the backseat sex that never happened you’re being a tease today.”
I try to turn the knob. “It’s locked.”
“The owner said he’d leave a key under the planter.”
Bingo!
We walk through the doorway and find the light switch. It’s surprisingly spacious with modern appliances, handcrafted stonework, and Mexican tile.
“There’s no furniture.”
“It’s a rental, not a vacation home. I’ll grab our luggage.”
I walk out to the covered courtyard, welcomed by the rhythmic, lapping waves of the Pacific and the glassy reflection of the moon off its dark surface.
“Well, it’s our lucky night. Someone left a lounge chair.” Trick sets down our luggage and hugs me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.
I glance off to the right at the wicker chaise lounge with a weathered blue cushion. “We’re going to sleep on that?”
“We’ll pull it inside. It’s just for one night. At least it’s a roof over our heads.”
Ouch!
I turn in his arms. “Absolutely.” I grin, not wanting to seem like a spoiled little rich girl for a single second. “Let’s check out the rest of our place.”
He kisses me. “Mmm … our … I like that.”
We take our luggage upstairs to the master bedroom. A full wall of windows and double doors opening to a private terrace and a picturesque view of the ocean greets us.
“Wow!”
Trick’s lip twitches when I look over at him. He’s pleased and so am I.
He sets down our suitcases. “We’re never leaving.”
I laugh. “Uh yeah, … never.”
*
I have a small glimpse of the magic Trick’s parents had between them as Trick holds me in his arms on our gifted lounge chair, surrounded by darkness. It really doesn’t matter where we are … it only matters that we’re together.
“Trick?”
“Hmm?”
“Why do you have such an aversion to women?”
His neck stiffens as he takes a deep swallo
w. “My past.”
“The part you remember?”
“The part I don’t.”
“How can that be, if you don’t remember?”
He sighs. “After my accident, Grady talked with people who either lived near my building or worked in the area. One guy who owned a food truck that he parked on the corner of my building told Grady he occasionally saw me coming and going, usually with a woman, but not always the same one and they were definitely older than me. Grady said everything about it seemed off. He thinks those women were taking advantage of me in some way, probably something to do with the drugs. So between dealing with my memory loss and trying to stay clean, I’ve found it in my best interest to avoid women outside of a professional capacity.”
He laughs. “The truth is my female clientele were a bunch of rich bitches that always wanted more than what I was willing to give them. They’d fuck a gay man just to prove they could. It’s laughable; it didn’t matter how much makeup I painted on their face, the ugly on the inside always seeped through. So the makeup on my face, the ‘icy’ fuck-off attitude you felt, it was my defense—my way of protecting the part of me I don’t know. The less connection women feel with me the better. That’s the thing with memory loss, it makes you feel vulnerable.”
“So why me? I mean, obviously you lumped me into the same group as the rich bitches at first, but then you had a change of heart. Why?”
“You slapped me that night.” He chuckles. “I don’t know if a woman has ever hit me like that before and at first I thought you were just offended. I’ve seen that look too many times … it doesn’t phase me. But the way you stood up to me … stood up for yourself, it was just so fucking … hot.”
“Hot?” I laugh.
“Yes, hot. As in gloves are off let’s go eight rounds in the ring.”
I bite my tongue. That night after I slammed the door in his face, I was so turned on I could barely think. The tension between us that night, it was sexual. I thought it was just me.
After a few minutes of silence, I lean up, kissing the angle of his jaw. “The women, in New York, maybe you were sketching them. Did you ever think of that?”
“Grady did, but I’ve never sketched anyone for money, so that wouldn’t make sense. I mean, I sold my art, but I never did ‘special requests.’”
“Well maybe you did and you just don’t remember.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Maybe. Goodnight, sexy.”
I nuzzle into his neck. “Goodnight, I love you.”
Chapter Thirty
Disoriented. It takes me a few minutes to piece together where I am and how I got here. Stretching out of my fetal position, I get a whiff of the musty smelling cushion to our makeshift bed. What I’m not seeing, feeling, or smelling is Trick. However, I hear the most inviting sound ever—the ocean. I glance back at the opened door to the veranda, and there he is … inverted on his yoga mat and shirtless. All I can do is stare. The urge to say something or touch him … my God, the urge to touch that body is torturous, but I don’t. This is his time, his thing. Maybe he needs his meditative practice to make sense of the chaos in his life. As I turn toward the kitchen, I see several mangos and bananas on the counter that weren’t there last night. I peel back the skin to the mango, sinking my teeth into its juicy flesh. Amazing!
“Are you wondering what the hell we’ve done?”
That voice … my nipples respond first. I turn, wiping my chin and sucking juice off my finger.
“Lucky finger.”
Sliding it out of my mouth, I grin, struggling to keep my eyes off his bare chest—muscles, tattoos, and that dark happy trail that in fact makes me very happy.
“I feel self-conscious under your scrutinizing gaze.” He pinches nothing but muscle and skin at his waist. “Am I starting to get love handles?”
I giggle. “Yes.”
“What?” He looks up in wide-eyed shock.
I shake my head. “No, not yes to your love handles, yes to what the hell have we done. I didn’t think this was me. I love Chicago … I love my job. Then you came along and everything changed. I left my home and my job with barely a moment’s notice to get on a plane with a guy that I’ve known two seconds. And now we’re here and talking about staying … forever.” I laugh. “I still have food in my refrigerator and stuff in my locker at work. This is insane.”
Trick moves toward me with a predatory look in those dark eyes. “How did I change everything?” he asks, pushing me up against the counter, sending me into sensory overload that he does so well.
I wet my lips, craving his touch, his taste … craving him in me. “You showed me real love.”
“And now?” He grabs my wrist, bringing my mango to his mouth, taking a bite and licking his lips.
My breath quickens. “And now my favorite place to live is in your arms and my favorite job is …” I purse my lips to the side and rub my hand over his erection that’s pressed to my belly.
He smirks, his brow pulling up. “Yeah?”
I nod.
Trick looks at his wrist. “Well, you better get going, sexy. I’d hate for you to be late for work.”
I laugh, pressing my lips to his bare chest and easing my way down to work.
*
We shower since my job got a little messy, especially after adding the fruit into the mix, which I found out he picked from our front yard. We’re growing mangos and bananas in our front yard! Yeah, this girl from the Midwest hasn’t wrapped her head around that one yet.
I call Nana and let her know my whereabouts. She asks if I heard about my father’s attack, and I hate myself for lying but I play dumb anyway. I’m still trying to deal with it myself. What am I supposed to say? Yeah, he busted up my face so Trick paid him a little visit, and I saw the news about it at the airport, but I still chose to leave the country without so much as a phone call to see if he’s okay.
Truthfully, Nana wouldn’t blame me. If she knew she’d probably hire her own hit man to beat the shit out of him. Maybe she’d do it herself. It’s possible she has a black belt in some martial art that I don’t know about. Nana’s not privy to any of the four incidents between me and my father. I managed to avoid her after the first two until the evidence was gone from my face, and the third I blamed on falling down the stairs. I cringed after saying those words to her. It’s confusing; I was eighteen when he first hit me so none of it was ever “child abuse.” What was I supposed to do? Have my father arrested for assault because I have a knack for pushing his buttons?
“Does your Nana hate me?” Trick asks as we head to town for … everything.
“Hate you? Why would you ask that?” I glance over at him.
“For stealing you away.”
“I’m sure she’s going to miss me as I will her, but her dream has always been for me to live outside of the box, take chances, do something unexpected. Basically send my father to his early grave.”
Trick stiffens with my last words.
I clear my throat. “And speaking of sending him to an early grave. I have to know … I mean, I didn’t want to at first, but now I do. The gun, the violence, the security cameras you must have disabled … where did you learn all of that?”
“You really want to know?” He glances sideways with peaked brows.
“Yes, well no … I think I need to know. Don’t you?”
He shrugs.
“Were you a hit man?”
Trick laughs. “No.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No … well, I hope not.”
Yeah, that wasn’t a fair question.
“Have you ever shot someone?”
“Yes, but it was self-defense. I just kneecapped him.”
My eyes grow wide. “But were you trying to kill him?”
His head jerks back. “No. I was trying to kneecap him. If I would have been trying to kill him, he’d be dead.”
“So you’re a good shot?” I think I know this from the words that were share
d the night I was assaulted outside Trick’s place, but I want to hear it from him.
“Yes.” He sighs like he’s not proud of it. “I joined a gang when I was twelve. The kids were older and taught me a lot. We’d target shoot under the train tracks and in old abandoned buildings. From the moment they put a gun in my hand I could hit any target. I don’t know … I’m gifted in the eye-hand coordination department or something. I think that’s why I can sketch with such accuracy.”
That’s a reality check. While I was in girl scouts learning to tie a fisherman’s knot, Trick was shooting guns with his gang members.
“And the fighting?”
“Survival. It wasn’t really instinctive at first. I got the crap beat out of me on numerous occasions until something inside of me snapped. Then it ended. Never again was I the kid on the bottom getting his face smashed into the ground.”
I did take a self-defense class my freshman year of college, but I was screwing the instructor so I’m not sure I learned much more than he likes it doggie-style every time.
Might keep that bit of information to myself.
“Why a gang? I get the desire to fit in. Lord knows I had it in spades, but weren’t you worried about getting into a situation that could land you in jail or worse?”
Trick pulls into a shopping area. “For me it was safer to belong to a gang than not. Jail wasn’t a concern. At the time it would have meant a bed and three warm meals a day. I’m not saying I never broke the law. Sometimes we stole things to survive, but I didn’t do anything that would have meant years in prison. The guy I kneecapped was trying to steal my parents’ stuff, which wasn’t much, and he had a gun too.” He shuts the car off and looks at me.
I pull my hair back into a ponytail. “I get it. My senior year of high school Tammy Sievers stole my purse from the locker room. I could never prove it, but the bitch did it so I keyed her car … both sides.”
The lip twitches as humor dances in his eyes. “You were a real badass.”
I grab my purse and open the door. “Damn right I was. Now come.”
*
We’ve landed ourselves in an art lover’s oasis. Trick lights up every time we pass an art gallery or a shop with local handcrafted goods. Job? What job? Chicago? Where’s that? This sleepy town nestled amongst desert, mountains, and ocean makes Chicago seem like a social migraine. I hear no sirens or honking horns and the people here move at a snail’s pace, because really … what’s the hurry?
