by Lois Greiman
“Yes.” She nodded. “My Gerald opened his heart to me. While Miguel…” She made a face. “He thrives on secrets. And…” She shrugged. “He always had the eye for other women. Many women. Salina, she worked on his campaign. My husband, he thought her sweet. But I knew.” She snorted. “I knew even before my Gerald began seeing her. I warned him. But men…even the good ones, they are sometimes the fools, are they not?”
I drank. “No shit. So you think she was interested in him just because of the senator.”
“She knew of Miguel’s vanity. Understood it in the place where her heart should have been. What a conquest it would be for the old man to take a woman from the young, sí?”
“But she planned to marry the senator. Didn’t that mean—”
“Huh!” Fire sparked in her eyes.
That usually didn’t happen to eyes. Maybe I should quit drinking, I thought, and took another swig. “She wasn’t going to marry him?”
“Why do you think she is dead?”
“I’ve been sort of wondering that.”
“Because she was the liar and the whore.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Christina, for this I have learned.” She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “A man will accept a liar. And he will accept a whore. But only if she is his whore.”
“You think she was boinking…” The shrink and the cocktail waitress seemed to be duking it out in my churning brain. “You think she was unfaithful?”
“It was her nature.” She leaned into the cushy back of the chair. “People cannot fight their natures. Salina, she would have cheated on the Christ himself if given the chance.”
“And the senator found out.”
She drank. “He is a man. But he is not entirely stupid. And he is not forgiving.”
“You think he killed her.” My words were little more than a whisper. The room went silent. We watched each other, eyeball to eyeball, unspeaking for several seconds, then, “But he was on a plane.” My voice was raspy.
She raised her brows. “Was he? Are you so very certain of that?”
“I checked.” And may go to jail if the truth got out.
She looked surprised, then laughed. “Sí, you would do just that, would you not, Christina? But things are not always as they appear. Take my Gerald, for instance. He appears strong, sí? Sure of himself. Of his own worth.”
I didn’t answer. My mind felt spongy.
“But inside…” She sighed and put her hand to her chest. “Inside, he is the small boy. Miguel’s harsh words crushed his self-respect. Nothing was good enough.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, head wobbling. “That’s common. Men want to live victerous…victrous…vicar…They want to live through their sons,” I said. “Can’t allow them to fu—” I caught myself. “To fail, to be less than perfect.”
“Sí,” she said, then watched me. “Tell me, Christina, how is that you met my Gerald?”
She’d interrupted a sip. “What?”
“I told you the story of Miguel and me. Perhaps more than you wished to know. Sí?”
I laughed. It ended on a snort.
“Tell me,” she said.
In some dank corner of my mind, a woman with a stick up her butt, or perhaps someone with a Ph.D., suggested I employ a bit of diplomacy. The cocktail chick mocked her. “Bomstad attacked me.”
“Bomstad?”
“A client.”
“Ahhh.” She nodded. “And my son, he came to your rescue, sí?”
“Kind of.” I stopped the glass halfway to my lips. A little sloshed over the side. “How did you know?”
She shrugged. “It is the gift.” She drank, scowled. “Tougher laws. It is what we need here in this city, yes?” I nodded noncommittally, not unlike my years at the Hog. “Where I come from, the father of the girl would have the privilege to cut off his pelotas and feed them to her hounds.”
“I was houndless at the time,” I said.
She nodded, smiled a little, eyes gleaming. “You are good for my Gerald. Now, tell me, how did he save you from this bastard?”
Maybe, thought the cocktail girl, a bit of diplomacy wouldn’t be completely unmerited. After all, I wasn’t entirely certain she didn’t plan to kill me with a corkscrew and roll my saturated body into the street. But, in point of fact, her Gerald had shown up like a bad dream and accused me of killing the man who tried to rape me. He’d then escorted me home, taken my shirt, and tested a stain to see if it was the perpetrator’s blood. I had been certain her Gerald was a nutcase. Currently I thought he might be a nutcase with a really great ass.
“He is a good officer of the law, sí?”
I gave it some judicious consideration, ’cuz despite the fact that he drove me crazy, he’d kept me alive. And on more than one occasion, actually. What should this tell me about my lifestyle? “Sí,” I agreed. And that morning I hadn’t even known I was trilingual. I drank some more. Couple more glasses and I’d be fluent.
“And a jalapeño in the bed, yes?”
Some kind of noise escaped my mouth. I can’t really say what it was. Argwew maybe.
“After all, he is Latino.” She shrugged, laughed. “And he is my son.”
“Mrs. Rivera—” Even the cocktail chick was uncomfortable. And she had once fended off six biker dudes and an amorous pig simultaneously.
“Please.” She sounded utterly offended. “Do not call me by Miguel’s mother’s name. I am Rosita.”
“Rosita, I don’t think we should be discussing—”
She made a pffting noise and waved her hand. “Christina, I have but one son.” She drank. I did the same. I try to be a good guest. “Surely you see that I want nothing but happiness for him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And a man…” She made a fist and narrowed her eyes. “A true man…cannot be happy without a woman at his side.”
I gave that some sagacious thought while simultaneously dumping a little wine on my lap before righting my glass. “You think?”
“It is truth.”
“He was married before, huh?”
“Sí.”
“Was he happy then?”
“Tricia.” She sighed and shook her head. “She was a fine girl. But she was not…” She scowled as if searching for the proper word. “She was not one to make a man’s blood run hot.”
“Really?” I had met Rivera’s ex-wife under rather odd circumstances. Let me just say there was a borrowed dog with an alias involved. Tricia Vandercourt was cute, sweet, and tiny as a toothpick. Meeting her had made me feel like a lumberjack with bad hair. Come to think of it, she had been the very antithesis of Salina. And yet, years after his divorce, Rivera was, once again, involved with the hot Hayek look-alike who had surely wounded him on more than one occasion. Did that tell me anything about life, or did it simply imply something about boob jobs?
“While you are…” Rosita paused, watching me. “Tell me the truth, Christina. Does he not make your heart gallop in your chest?”
“Well, yeah, but usually that’s because he’s accusing me of murder,” I said, and remembered about diplomacy a second after the words left my mouth.
“He accused you of the murder?”
“A couple of times, actually.” Whoops. Wasn’t going to tell her that, either.
She nodded, thinking. “And yet you want him. I can see it in your eyes.”
She stared at me. I had the good sense to look away.
But she nodded knowingly. “So why are you here with me, instead of with him?”
“He accused me of murder,” I repeated. Damn it!
The pffting sound again. “He does not mean it. He only longs to keep you at a distance. For he knows he is not safe with you.”
“Safe?”
“He has been hurt by those he loves, Christina. He is afraid to risk his heart yet again.”
“You think so?”
“Trust me on this. I do not have many years of schooling, but men—men, I know.”
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“I have a buttload of schooling.”
She shrugged as if it were a fair trade. “A wise vaquero does not let a fine stallion run wild for long, Christina.”
I stared, mind slogging along. “Am I the wise vaquero or—”
“Do not let this one get away, Christina,” she said, looking a little peeved at my ignorance. “There are not so many good men left. You know this, sí?”
“I got it embroidered on a pillow.”
She laughed. “The Rivera men, they will make you want to kill them. This I know. But it is that fire that makes the nights warm, yes?” She drank. “Miguel…” She shook her head. “He is a cheating son of a wizened whore, but he can make a woman weak in the knees.”
“I’m not sure I want weak knees.”
She looked surprised. “What is it you want from a man, then?”
“I’d prefer it if he didn’t wear my underwear.”
I think she gave me a strange look. “I admit that there are things about American men that I do not understand.”
“You and me both.”
“Gerald will not wear your underwear.”
“It’s a plus.”
“But he will look good in his own, huh?”
“Yeah.” I gazed morosely at nothing in particular. “But shouldn’t there be more?”
“More?”
I leaned forward, holding my bathtub-size drink in both hands. “Don’t you want someone to engage your intelliction…intil…to share his deepest thoughts?”
“I have found that a man who shares his deepest thoughts does not often have culata hard as a Spanish onion.”
I felt suddenly deflated. “Good point.”
“And, too, how deep can a man’s thoughts be?”
I nodded and drank.
“Christina, you are woman of business, sí?”
Right at that moment I wasn’t quite sure.
“You have patients and friends and…What is the word? Colleagues. You have colleagues, sí?”
“Si.”
“And with them you can engage the intellect, yes?”
“Ummm…”
“Must you be engaged while in your bed also?”
I was pretty sure there was a mistake in her logic, I just couldn’t seem to ferret it out from the muzziness in my head.
She seemed concerned by my silence. As for me, I’ve found silence to be the least of my worries.
“Do you not find my Gerald sexy?” she asked. “Do you not burn for him?”
I opened my mouth, searching hopelessly.
Three knocks sounded from the front of the house, nearly launching me from my chair. “Someone’s at the door.”
“Sí.” She did not move. “That will be young Manny with the brandy. But he can wait. It will teach him patience. You did not answer my question.”
“Listen, Mrs. Rivera—”
“Rosita.”
“Rosita, sex isn’t that important in the big—”
“Not important? What do you say?” She looked appalled. “Do you not feel the fire when he touches you?”
She stared at me. My mind roved back to the time in my vestibule when I’d found myself straddling her son like a junkyard dog. The sound of his ripping shirt was still loud in my head. “There might be a little fire,” I admitted.
She watched me for a moment, then smiled. “So you do lust for my Gerald.”
“It’s not lust…exactly.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s—”
“Christina,” she warned.
“Okay, I lust!” I snapped. “I lust. Holy crap, I can’t sleep at night thinking—”
A noise sounded in the doorway. I glanced up. And there, not twelve feet away, stood Jack Rivera, dark, brooding, and lusty as hell.
16
She may be an old flame, but she’s still smokin’.
—Michael McMullen, to the woman who would soon be his ex
MY STOMACH DROPPED. I sucked in air. The room was as silent as death, and for one hopeful second I thought I was going to faint.
“Gerald.” His mother sounded euphoric. I felt like barfing. “This is the wonderful surprise. I was not expecting you.”
He was staring at me, eyes dark with suspicion and anger. “What the hell’s going on here?”
My cheeks felt hot, my stomach was doing some complicated knot work. I tried to speak. Nothing happened. I’d rather run naked through the frickin’ Getty Center with a watermelon on my head than have him hear the words I’d just spoken.
“Gerald Rivera, you watch the language,” Rosita scolded.
I felt him pull his gaze from my face. But it didn’t do any good. I was pretty sure he’d already singed my eyebrows. “What’s she doing here?” he asked.
Mrs. Rivera had risen to her feet, and even though her head didn’t reach his chin, she was a formidable force. “I asked her to come,” she said. “Invited her.” She took a step toward him. A little of the wind seem to sail out of his sails. “Into my house. My home.”
He shuffled his feet.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He looked at me, then away. Anger shone in the depths of his devil’s eyes, but there was something else there, too, something that had been showing in men’s eyes for as long as they had mothers. It looked a little like fear.
He drew a deep breath, settled his gaze on Rosita, and ignored me. “I need to talk to you.”
But her hackles were up. “About what?”
He didn’t shift his gaze, but I could feel his attention turn toward me. “Now’s not a good time.”
“Whatever it is you have to say, you can say it now.”
“Not with her here.”
She shook her head. “I taught you better…” she began, then slammed into a barrage of Spanish.
He countered with a tide of words just as confusing.
I stared like a besotted pumpkin.
The voices jolted to an abrupt halt, but the combatants were still glaring.
I cleared my throat.
“Well…” I gave Rosita an ingratiating smile. It hurt my face, which still felt hot. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Rivera, but I should be getting home.”
“What?”
“The hell you should.”
Both of them spoke in unison with the ringing of the doorbell.
“I’m going home,” I said, and rose to my feet. My head spun off into space. The floor jittered.
Rivera laughed. The sound echoed like a bell in my cranium. “You’re drunk off your…” He shifted his gaze to his mother, gritted his teeth. “What’d you give her, Mama?”
“Gerald, you shame me!” she scolded. “What is the matter with you? We had dinner. That is all.”
Rivera’s expression was deadpan. He can do deadpan like nobody’s business.
“We had some wine,” she said finally, and waved dismissively. The doorbell rang again. She made her way toward it, speaking over her shoulder. “Not so very much. But perhaps you are right, sí? Perhaps you should drive her home.”
“No!” The word escaped before I could grab it back.
Rivera turned toward me with a scowl.
I laughed. I’m not so great at deadpan, but I’m hell on wheels when it comes to maniacal. I stumbled a little, trying to keep my feet under me. They seemed kind of bendy. “I mean…no.” I cleared my throat and refrained from closing my eyes. My head was swirling. I thought I heard him swear, which was confusing, because I was pretty sure his lips never moved. “That won’t bed necessary.”
“What?” He and his identical twin to his left seemed to speak in unison.
“Be,” I corrected, not exactly sure which one to address. “That won’t be necessary. No need to trouble yourself.”
“Just some wine, my ass,” he snorted. “Come on.”
“I can drive,” I said, but maybe the last word sounded a little more like “dwive.”
I made a beeline for the door. It wa
vered like a shimmering palm tree, but I managed to keep it in sight. To my surprise, a man stood beside it holding an amber bottle by the neck. He didn’t seem to be either one of the lieutenants.
“Hullo,” I said.
“It is too bad you must leave, Christina,” Rosita said, fuzzily appearing beside him. “Manny has finally arrived with the brandy for the jubilee of strawberry.”
I tried to formulate some kind of response but my stomach beat my lips to the punch. It gurgled dramatically. I toddled outside and braced myself against the wall. The stucco felt rough and blessedly solid against my palm. The air caressed my face, rejuvenating me. I straightened my back, hurried my step…and toppled forward. I squeaked in surprise as the cobblestones rushed up toward me, but suddenly the pavers were yanked away. The world was set aright with confusing abruptness. I glanced to my left. It seemed that Rivera was holding my arm. My biceps protested beneath his deadly grip, but in my magnanimous mood, I gave him a grateful smile.
I think he swore in return. I know he tugged me toward the street. I stumbled along beside him like an inebriated duckling.
“Let me go.” I don’t really like being treated like an inebriated duckling. I gave my arm a dignified yank and almost fell off my feet. But I gritted my teeth and tried again. “Let me go!”
He turned toward me. “Over your dead, fermenting body,” he said, and hauled me over to the passenger side of his Jeep. “Get in.”
I gave him a condescending glare. We were eyeball to eyeball. He had a face that could make a virgin cry. I’d been a virgin once. Celibacy was my new friend. “I’m perfectly capable of diving…driving,” I said, and miraculously finding my keys, I toddled toward my car. Somehow, he beat me to it and plopped a hand on the little Saturn’s roof, barring the door. His arm was pressed against my breasts.
I faced him again. The muscles of his arm scraped across my nipples. They seemed to think it was cold outside.
But his skin felt warm against me, and he smelled like Hugh Jackman in heat. Granted, I’m not really sure how Jackman smells when he’s in heat. But I’m pretty sure it’d be like that. Rivera leaned in. I couldn’t help but catch my breath…pray…close my eyes. The last one was a mistake. The world spun. I teetered off balance a little.
“Fuck,” he said, and bending down, he lifted me off my feet, strode around the bumper, and plunked me into the Saturn’s passenger seat. I tumbled onto the emergency brake, protesting all the way.
