Crashing into Her
Page 11
A ghost of a smile appears in his profile. “Okay, no restaurant work for you. But why not something less drastic?”
Interesting choice of words there, Anthony. “Why do you consider it drastic?”
“Because it’s unpredictable. And dangerous. And it could get you killed.”
“Only if you’re not properly trained, right?”
“Even if you’re properly trained.”
“So why the hell do you do it?”
He frowns. “This isn’t about me.”
“I disagree. Something about you is interfering with my ability to take your class. And bear in mind that at this point, that’s all I want to do. It’s entirely possible that I won’t enjoy it or I won’t be any good at it.”
He doesn’t speak for the length of a city block. I’m seconds away from resigning myself to a silent car ride for the rest of the trip when he asks, “Why do you really want to do this? Talk to me. Pretend I’m your friend.”
I blow out a raspberry, knowing he wants me to dig deeper. “Okay, okay. It’s not the money. Not primarily. I’d definitely love some extra cash in my pocket . . . for a car, perhaps. But really, I came to LA to stretch myself, to find my passion.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Fitness isn’t your passion?”
I sigh. “It is and it isn’t. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy it, but I wonder if I should be doing more, and I’m trying to figure out what that more could be.”
“And stunt work might be it?”
“Could be,” I say, nodding. “I’ve always been a physical person. I was the kid who never sat on the couch. Who always wanted to play outside. Sitting at a desk to do my homework felt like punishment. That didn’t change in college, either. I tried to combat my boredom by joining the swim team. Worked for a while, until my father convinced me that I needed to concentrate on my coursework.”
“So, what? He didn’t want you on the swim team?”
“Essentially, yes. My father’s very practical. When my grades started to slip, he pointed out that I was in college to get a degree, not swim.”
He nods knowingly. “So you quit the team.”
When he lays it out like that, it sounds like I just gave up. But really, I didn’t want to squander the opportunity to graduate and land on solid ground. “Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to the Olympics or anything like that.”
“Hmm.”
Ugh. He’s Tori’s cousin, all right. That hmm is a defined term in their vocabulary. It means, I’m not sure I agree with your thinking, but I’m not prepared to say so.
“My father’s not a bad guy. You have to understand, when my parents split up, he was the one who cared for me while my mother was in school. And when I went off to college, his one wish for me was that I build a stable career, something with growth potential. He just doesn’t think fitness fits that profile.”
“And some part of you wonders if he’s right.”
“God, yes. A big part of me hopes he’s wrong, though.”
Damn, Anthony’s so skilled at getting to the heart of a matter that I don’t have time to think about my answers. With him, I lose the ability to dress up my thoughts, make them pretty and palatable. They’re just there for him—and me—to absorb.
“So yeah, there’s some fear,” I continue. “But apart from that, I never gave much consideration to other things I could be doing. When Kurt mentioned the training school, it was like a lightbulb went off. ‘Why not that?’ I thought. ‘Why not take all of my skills and use them in a position with the potential for extra money and prestige?’”
“Something your father would approve of.”
“I’m not looking for his approval, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Hmm,” he says, maneuvering his truck into a space across the street from my apartment complex.
I release the seat belt and twist my body to face him. He does the same.
“I just want to show him that I haven’t been as shortsighted as he thinks I’ve been.”
Anthony nods repeatedly as he reflects on what I’ve said. “I’m not sure there’s much prestige in stunt work within the industry. But you’re right that people outside the industry think it’s impressive.” Rolling his eyes, he flashes his hands. “Exciting. And sure, you can make good money. But just like anything else in this business, it’s a roller coaster. One minute you’re turning down projects. The next minute you’re begging to get even one. And it’s not easy to get into the Screen Actors Guild.”
“I read about an easier way to do it. Being Taft-Hartleyed, whatever that means. Could Kurt arrange that for me?”
He draws back and tilts his head to the side. “I see someone’s been doing her research.”
“There’s a page on Elite’s website about that.”
“I’m impressed. Being Taft-Hartleyed just means you’re a nonunion actor hired to work on a SAG production, either as a principal or a background performer. It can get complicated, but yes, that’s an option, although again, like anything else, there are no guarantees.”
“I don’t need guarantees, I need opportunities.”
He sighs, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. “Then apply for the boot camp. We’ll make space for you in the next session if you want it.”
“Really?” I’m so excited by the news, I reach over and hug him, but he doesn’t reciprocate. Oh, wrong move. Be professional, Eva. I slip on my cross-body to busy myself while I studiously avoid meeting his gaze. “But what about the interview? The website says every applicant must make themselves available for one.”
“You just had it.”
I want to flail, but I manage to temper my reaction, beaming at him instead. “Anthony, I can’t thank you enough for the chance.”
“Don’t expect any special treatment because you know me.”
“I don’t know you, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
He gives me his version of side-eye, and it’s the most glorious thing ever. Those dark eyes, along with that kissable smirk, are enough to make me regret the impossibility of a minor fling with him. If I’m not careful, I’ll forget Anthony possesses a penchant for playing with women’s hearts.
“You’ll need a physical.”
“Got one before I left Philly.”
“It won’t be easy,” he warns. “Classes are all day on Sundays and on Wednesday evenings, and the first session starts this week.”
That’s okay. It’s better to sign up now when I’m not teaching a full schedule at the studio. The midweek class will be tough to make, though. “Damn, my last class on Wednesday ends at six.”
“If you want it badly enough, you’ll make it work.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re going to be a hard-ass about everything, aren’t you?”
“It’s what I do best,” he says smugly.
“Well, before we become mortal enemies, let me tell you that I had a great time today.”
His expression softens, a half smile appearing like the perfect end to the day. “Me, too.”
There’s nothing else to say, is there? Okay, I should leave the car.
Perhaps sensing my hesitation, he helps me along and sends me on my way. “Take care, Eva.”
“You, too, Anthony.” I’m partly out of the car when I turn around to meet his eyes. “You won’t regret this.”
I swing the door shut. Before it closes, though, he says, “I already do.”
Chapter Thirteen
Anthony
When I get home, I open the door to find my father sitting up in his recliner, yelling and cursing at the television. “Ese cabrón, gran hijo de puta, él está mintiendo.”
Which can mean only one thing: My father’s favorite Spanish-language show, Caso Cerrado, is on. There’s no point in fighting it, so I join him, taking a seat on the couch. “What did I tell you about watching this show? It’s not good for your blood pressure.”
“I can’t help it. It’s like watching a train wreck.”
He sits back and reaches for his beer can, bringing it to his lips with a satisfied grin. If I took a photo of him right now, I’d caption it “Single Middle-Aged Man Enjoying Life.” Maybe this is enough for him, but I wish he had more.
“No plans to go out with the guys tonight?” I ask, hoping to inspire him.
“Nah.” He waves the beer can in the air as though his friends are buzzing around him. “All they want to do is play poker. I’m not good at it.” He takes another swig of his beer, eyeing me while he does. When he’s done, he raises his chin. “What about you? It’s Saturday. Shouldn’t you be out with a lady friend or something?”
My mind immediately wanders to my day with Eva, but that’s not what he’s asking about. She’s a friend. Not a lady friend in the sense that he’s using the term. “The answer is, ‘Or something.’ And relaxing here counts as something.”
He doesn’t speak again until the show breaks for commercials, prefacing his question by clearing his throat several times. “Why aren’t you dating anyone, mijo?”
I give him a blank stare. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Isn’t there a woman you’re spending time with? Or someone you want to bring over for some . . .” He makes a crude motion with his fingers.
I twist my face in distaste. Fuck, this is ridiculous. “Stop. No, there’s nobody like that in my life, but I’m not lacking in that department, if that’s what you want to know.”
His eyes bounce around the room before he speaks again. “Are you seeing a man or something?”
Okay, what the hell is going on here? This isn’t like Papi at all. We kid around all the time. We talk about politics. We discuss whether I’ve been cutting the grass too low or what meals he should make for the week. But we don’t discuss my sex life. Ever. “Are you asking me if I’m gay? Bi?”
Beer still in hand, he points at me. “Hey, don’t be offended. There’s a lot of stuff I don’t understand, but I know it’s a thing. Berta says you might be exploring your sex.”
It’s a thing? Exploring my sex? Christ, this is painful. “I’m not offended. I’m just shocked those words are coming out of your mouth . . . And uh, who the hell is Berta?”
“She’s a friend.”
“A lady friend?” I tease.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Just a friend. You know me better than that.”
He’s right. I do know him. And Berta’s existence is a monumental deal. As far as I know, my father hasn’t dated or spent time with any woman outside our family since he and my mother separated. Until recently, he was still clinging to the hope they’d reconcile. “So let me see if I have this right. You’ve been discussing my sexuality with your new friend?”
He avoids my gaze. “Maybe.”
Shit, now I’m curious about this Berta, but I don’t want to push too much or too soon. I’ll let him enlighten me when he’s ready. “Well, to answer your question, I’m straight.”
He still doesn’t meet my gaze, focusing his attention on the TV screen instead. “Look, we’ve never talked about this, but Berta pointed out that maybe you don’t date because I’m around. And I never thought about it like that. You’re a single guy, in his prime, she says. You should be out there dating or something. Your mother and I were married and had you by the time we were your age.”
Okay, so apparently we’re glossing over what that relationship did to him. The way he tried his best to make my mother fall back in love with him but failed. The way she left us when she could no longer “hold on.” The way he didn’t know what to do with himself for years after she was gone. The way he still doesn’t smile nearly as broadly as he did before they split up. “Dating is overrated. Romance isn’t the end game for everyone. And my life is fine the way it is. What about you?”
Maybe that supposedly perfect photo is masking his discontent. If it is, I’d like to know.
“I’m fine,” he says, a few seconds too late. “I just worry about you. Sometimes I wonder if you’re living my life when you should be living your own. Berta says I need to give you room to grow.”
Who the fuck is this Berta? And what other stuff is she putting in my father’s head? She doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know that I tried to love someone. God, when I think of how hard I tried to make things work with Melissa—how badly I wanted it to work—my stomach cramps.
Melissa, my first and only serious girlfriend, and the woman who broke my heart. She was a receptionist at the bike messenger company where I worked when I first came here. Before dating, we’d flirted with each other, Melissa mostly teasing me about being the incorrigible office heartthrob, until I asked her out. Weeks later, we were inseparable. And it was great for a while. But as we grew serious, things got bumpy. The more I told her I loved her, the less she believed me. I had to be stepping out on her, she accused. Had to be. And the pain she felt about an imagined indiscretion devastated me.
“Do you remember when you first came to LA, and I was seeing that woman from my job? Melissa? Did you know we had talked about marriage?”
His eyes widen in interest as he leans forward. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Planned the wedding in our heads and everything. But she couldn’t wrap her head around the idea that I’d be faithful to her. And I did my best to prove to her that there was nothing to her fears, but she didn’t believe me. Fact is, I loved her more than she loved me.”
Just like my father loved my mother more than she loved him.
My father draws back. “How do you know that?”
“She left me, Pop. Not because I’d actually cheated, but because one day I would.” I rise from the sofa and sit on the arm of his recliner, nudging him with my shoulder. “So you see, Pop, I tried. I tried so hard I didn’t recognize myself. And I still ended up causing someone pain. I’m just not willing to do that again. But don’t worry about me. I have a roof over my head, interesting work to keep me busy, and I get to eat your food most nights.”
That’s enough for me. It has to be.
Later that night, I lie in bed thinking back on my day with Eva. Winning first place in a reggaeton contest is not an achievement I’d ever thought I’d reach, and I didn’t expect to enjoy dancing on a stage in front of hundreds of people. But that’s Eva for you. She brings the party with her and sweeps you into the celebration. After that drive home, though, I now realize she’s a softie inside, too, vulnerable in a way she lets few people see. I like that she exposed that side of herself to me.
The dancing, as hot as it was, must be forgotten. I can’t think about the way we pressed against each other, our bodies bumping and grinding in the afternoon heat, the thump of the heavy bass thrumming through me. I can’t picture the way her supple skin glowed in the sun, her smooth legs dipping to the music as her hands caressed my chest. And I’d be a fool to take it a step further and recall the memory of the way she gasped, her eyes fluttering closed, the first time I sank inside her in that hotel room.
With these images fresh in my mind, it would be so easy to slip my hand under the sheet and give myself the relief I need. I want to. But Eva and I are friends now and friends don’t make friends come—not when they’re trying to be platonic, at least. So I take my frustration out on my pillow and pound on it, getting it situated how I like it. Then I flip over onto my stomach, anticipating a restless night—the first of many probably. Puñeta.
Chapter Fourteen
When in doubt, make a joke.
Eva
I need a T-shirt that says I Survived LA’s Metro System.
Twenty-five. That’s the number of bus stops I suffer through—on two different bus lines, no less—before I ge
t to Elite Stunt Training’s facility in downtown LA. On a Wednesday. After work. And according to this itinerary, I still need to walk half a mile to get to my destination.
Jesus, be a Lyft driver.
I readjust my backpack and mentally prepare myself for the trek. Imagine what it’s like for the people with no other option, the ones who rely on public transportation to get them to work every day? There must be a better way for people without cars to get here, but whatever it is, it can’t be found through a simple Google search. I make a mental note to ask Anthony about it after class.
The neighborhood itself is showing signs of neglect—too many boarded-up houses, for one—but there are plenty of people walking around and lots of business activity. It’s comforting. Reminds me of North Philly, where the structures aren’t shiny and new, but the heart and determination of its residents are etched into every crack in the concrete and every inspirational mural on the sides of its buildings.
When I arrive at the address, I see a small professional sign on a steel door. The sign’s no larger than a legal-sized document, with the letters EST on it and nothing more. I’m going to take a wild guess and say I’ve reached the correct place.
My first try pushing the door open fails, so I back up and throw my shoulder into the effort. Because my strength sometimes reaches Wonder Woman levels when I put my mind to it, I fly through the threshold and come skidding to a halt in a room that’s larger than all the rooms in Tori’s studio combined.
It’s surprisingly bright in here, which makes the room’s deficiencies more apparent. Dust moves freely in the rays of light that bisect the space, and the walls are riddled with scuff marks, some of them resembling tire treads. What the . . . ? On the walls?
My gaze bounces around the warehouse, finally settling on the bald white guy sitting atop a table by the window, his fingers separating the blinds so he can peek outside. Too many tattoos for my comfort. When they cover most of your body, they’re less about the art and more about the message. His tats, a patchwork of skulls, crows, and snakes, say, Fuck you very much. I silently pray I won’t need to partner with him during the training.