Say When (12 page)

I foolishly decide my best option is to play if off. I realize I’m digging an even deeper hole of bullshit, but I can’t stop myself. “He’s just being protective of his house. He doesn’t know you,” I say to Andrés. Then I smile sweetly at the mutt, aptly named Diablo, and try shooing him away.

The dog doesn’t budge. His claws are planting roots in the carpet as he holds his ground. Amazing how so much evil can be compacted into a little ball of fluff.

“Hey, what’s up?” Grace comes out of her bedroom wrapped in a cotton robe. She’s toweling her wet hair and, much to my relief, she’s not looking startled we’re here.

“Andrés, this is my roommate, Grace.” I make a big show of sweeping my arm toward both of them, widening my eyes at Grace and praying she plays along. “Grace, this is Andrés. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

“Nah.” She shrugs, flashing a knowing smile. “I needed to take Diablo for a walk, anyway.”

She whistles to Diablo, but he doesn’t budge, so I grab Andrés’s hand and carefully make a wide circle around Diablo. Andrés chuckles behind me while I pull him toward the bedroom.

“Wait!” Grace calls at my back. “Violet is taking a shower.”

My jaw falls open. “Violet?” I murmur, and then I silently curse myself for acting surprised. I remember what Rodeo Chick looks like—spiked black hair, lots of denim, leather and tats—and I’m kind of shocked her name is Violet.

Andrés arches a brow. “Your other roommate?”

I swallow, casting a nervous glance at Grace. She shrugs back at me, so I nod.

I leave Andrés with Grace and rush inside her bedroom. I can hear the shower water running as I cross the floor toward Grace’s sliding closet door. I recognize a T-shirt I’d lent Grace last week and yank it off the hanger. I throw my ripped shirt into her wastebasket and slip on the other one. I’m back out of her bedroom and pulling Andrés by the hand.

Grace is in the kitchen brewing coffee.

“Thanks!” I call toward her as we hurry past the demon dog and out the door.

And then I cringe. Why did I just thank her for allowing me into
my
apartment? Andrés has to know what’s up, but he doesn’t say anything as we walk down the stairs and hop inside his truck.

* * *

Andrés clenches the steering wheel so tight, he feels the leather crack beneath his grip. Why had she taken him to someone else’s apartment? The same reason she walked out on him yesterday? Is Andrés nothing more than a casual fuck for a pretty college girl? Just a way to pass the summer until she finds a rich college boy to marry? Is that why she won’t take him to her home? She doesn’t want him to know where she lives, so she can easily walk away when she grows tired of fucking him?

Andrés keeps his gaze centered on the road while a million possible reasons for Christina’s deception run through his head. Of one thing he is certain. That dog was barking at her because she was a stranger. Then the realization hits him. He’s spent two amazing, passionate nights with this woman, yet she is every bit a stranger to him, too.

* * *

“So where do you
really
live?”

I exhale the pent up breath I’ve been holding. Andrés has been suspiciously silent for the past ten minutes as we drive down the highway toward his uncle’s shop. And though I have been dreading this conversation, I am just so relieved to get it off my chest.

“With my psychotic mother,” I say, not wanting to look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to meet her.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

I hear the hurt in his voice and I feel terrible. Why didn’t I just tell him the truth? Now he’ll probably never trust me. But then I think what would have happened if I’d have brought Andrés home to my mother. A shiver steals up my spine.

“That my mom’s a psycho?” I look out the window as I clench my fists so tight, my nails break the skin. “Why would I want to tell you that?”

“So she doesn’t like Mexicans. Is that it?”

I turn to him, and a laugh dies in my throat. “I don’t think she cares as long as you’re rich.” My limbs freeze as the color drains from his face. Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. “But it doesn’t matter to me, Andrés,” I hastily add. “I don’t care how much you make. I like you. I
really
like you.”

I’m pretty sure I stop breathing, and time seems to move in slow motion as a tic works in his jaw. Otherwise, he’s about as motionless as me. We stop at a red light, and he stares out the window. I wish I could take back the last half hour of my life.

The light turns green and, as he taps the accelerator, he heaves a sigh. Or maybe it’s a groan. I’m not quite sure, but it doesn’t matter, as either one is bad. I cover my face with my hands and suppress the urge to scream. What the heck is wrong with me? Maybe this is why my mom and Jackson have always kept me on a tight leash. Maybe they know I can’t control myself.

I jerk back and get pissed at myself for thinking I need someone to control me. That’s the old Christina talking. “Look, I’m sorry I lied to you.” I’m suddenly choked up as the realization hits me I might have already blown it big time with Andrés. “Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not mad.”

He reaches over and squeezes my hand, and the tension in my neck unwinds. I smile at him while willing the churning in my stomach to subside.

Chapter Fifteen

Andrés’s uncle’s shop isn’t on the best side of town, but the entire area is surrounded by a high fence with surveillance cameras at just about every post. Every door and window on the building is protected by iron bars. I don’t know if I feel comforted or worried by the extra security. The building is big and bright blue, painted with graffiti art. As I look around at some of the finished cars and trucks in the parking lot, tripped out with huge flashy rims and gaudy scenes of slavering pit bulls, Virgin Marys, and half-naked girls, I get this sinking feeling in my gut that I am the wrong artist for this job.

“This is your uncle’s shop?” I say as I look up at the huge Cruz Paint and Body billboard overhead. It sports an illustration of a shiny new truck with flames on the sides. “I thought I saw another Cruz shop across town.”

“He owns shops all over Texas,” Andrés answers as he punches a code into a box next to the entrance. “Mostly repair and tire centers.”

“Uh huh,” I say absently as we walk inside. The waiting room is divided by a huge Plexiglas wall with a cashier’s desk behind it. Again, this should make me feel safe, but it doesn’t. Then again, maybe this is standard protocol for all of the shops.

“My uncle was real upset when his best artist quit. He’s going to love you.” Andrés smiles as he leads me through a side door.

I try my best to smile back as I follow him down the hallway and out into the garage. I don’t think Andrés’s uncle will love me. I can’t do a lot of the artwork I’m sure his clients expect. Actually, I probably could, but I won’t airbrush heaving tits spilling out of bikini tops. I just won’t.

The garage is huge, large enough to accept tall boats and semi-trucks. Several bay doors line the side wall. I figure most of the painting takes place behind the doors. We ascend a staircase that runs up the back wall. At the top, I notice another Plexiglas window. This office is huge, covering the entire width of the garage.

“Tio, this is Christina,” Andrés says as he pulls me beside him.

I swear, I’m so nervous, the coffee and bacon rebel in my stomach.

A man wearing a large white Stetson, boots and jeans with a Cruz Automotive T-shirt stands up from behind a desk to greet me. Like Andrés, he’s tall. Beneath the hat, his hair is greying at the roots. He smiles as he holds out his hand, and I think of Andrés’s smile.

We shake and say something like “hi” or “hello.” I have no idea what I’m saying to this smiling man with the very strong grip. My stomach makes this weird grumbling noise, and I hope I can keep it together. I’m fairly certain crapping all over the floor wouldn’t make a good impression on Andrés’s Uncle, and it would pretty much be a turn-off for Andrés.

“Talk about fate,” the man Andrés calls Tio says to me in a baritone so deep and booming, I nearly jump out of my boots. “Andrés called me this morning and told me all about you.” Then he motions me toward the Plexiglas and points down at the boat below. “Is that one of yours?”

My jaw drops, and for a long moment, I think I forget to breathe. “Omigod,” I say on a rush of air.

It’s a thirty-footer, a center console with twin Yamahas. It’s one of my dad’s boats. My jumping fish are on the back.

“He wants us to airbrush the sides and make it match the logo,” Tio says as he folds his arms across his chest, eyeing the boat like it’s a misfit child. “I had to fire my best artist last week.” He turns to me, the lines around his mouth and eyes tightening in a grim expression. “Drugs.”

I swallow hard. I know all about what drugs can do to people. “I’m sorry,” I say, before my gaze flickers back to the boat. Dad used to take me out on a boat just this size. We’d fish for Reds in the bay, but when the weather was good, he’d take me out farther and we’d troll for big beautiful fish, like Sails and Dorado. I usually brought a sketch pad with me, and if my dad was in a good mood, he’d let me take some paints on his boat, too. I loved capturing the moment on pad and paper when my dad would reel in the fish. Eventually, he liked one of my creations so much, he had me air brush it onto all of his boats.

Mom hated when he took me fishing. She said I came back smelling like week-old fish guts. I actually loved fishing with my dad. Those were my only happy memories of him. Funny though, because whenever I think of him, it’s just about that one bad memory. Seeing this boat brings me back, and I can almost feel the sun beating down on me and taste the salt water spray.

“Can you do what he wants?” Tio says to me. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars?” That knot in my stomach starts to unravel. I take in a deep breath and then let out a slow exhale. He’s holding out his hand, so I grab it. “I’ll do it.”

After we shake hands, Tio’s got that grim expression again. “How soon can you start?”

“When do you need me?” I ask.

The worry lines around Tio’s eyes deepen. “This boat is supposed to be finished tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll get to work,” I say.

I look over at Andrés who comes up beside me. His smile nearly stretches ear to ear and he’s got this look in his eyes, kind of like he’s proud of me. He leans down and whispers. “Thank you.”

My heart flutters as warmth spreads through my chest. I have to admit, it feels good to be appreciated. Plus, I get the chance to earn some money. I realize such a huge task may take all day and even all night, but if I earn enough money this summer, I can afford to move out of my mom’s house, something I never thought possible unless I married Jackson.

But I’m not going to marry Jackson. As long as I make my own money, I can be on my own, because I’m pretty sure my mom will cut me off as soon as she learns I’m dating a mechanic. Besides, this is my life, and I’m living it on my terms.

* * *

My neck and shoulders are killing me, but I’m finally finished with one side of the boat. I stop for a minute to rub the kinks out of my shoulder and admire my work. I like it, which is a shock because I’m always my biggest critic. I’ve replicated the splashing Dorado, plus I’ve added a ball of bait fish beneath. A prism of colors reflects of the predatory fish’s scales and the surface of the water. I’ve already sketched out what I’m putting on the other side, a trio of Sailfish surrounded by effervescent bubbles as they cut through the current, spearing another ball of fish.

It’s taking me longer than expected, and I’m worried because I fear I may be stuck here most of the night. Tio’s shop doesn’t use paint cans, but professional spray guns with big, noisy compressors. It took me a while to learn how to handle the darned thing. I’m just glad the paint came premixed, or I’m sure my artwork would be a runny mess.

I hear a noise behind me, and realize Andrés is back with food. He’s already tried to get me to take a break several times, but I refused. I hate stopping in the middle of a project. But now that one mural is finished, I can finally relax and take off this damned mask. I slowly rise on unsteady legs. My calves and butt muscles are cramped and sore. I’m going to need a long, hot soak in the tub after today. I’m just so glad I don’t have classes this summer.

I stretch my arms and back before trudging toward the break room. He’s laying out sodas and sandwiches on the table. Today is Sunday, and the shop is supposed to be closed, so Andrés has been keeping himself busy by learning how to do bookwork. His uncle was here for the first few hours, showing him some of the ins and outs to running a business.

I overheard Tio telling Andrés something about turning over some of the shops to him, which would probably mean a big pay raise. Not that it would matter much to my mother, as it will never be sufficient for her. Again, I remind myself it doesn’t matter what she thinks.

My arms and legs feel like deadweights as I trudge toward the table. I’m trying to pull the damned mask off my face, but my fingers are cramping, and I realize I’ve been squeezing the trigger on that paint gun much too hard. Andrés sees me struggling, and he comes over and undoes the mask. Then he unzips my suit and removes all my protective gear. I stand like a limp ragdoll while he works.

Finally, he leads me toward the table, and I fall into a seat. I stare at the colorful walls. Someone painted graffiti on every available inch of the small room, and from the looks of the chipped paint, it was done a while ago. I’m so sore, I feel like a zombie. My arms are too stiff to reach for my soda, so I just sit there for a long moment. Damn I hurt.

Strong, warm hands begin kneading my shoulders. I groan as I let my head fall back. Andrés doesn’t say a word. He kisses the top of my head and continues massaging. I stifle a curse when he pulls away. His touch felt so good.

Andrés leans over me and grabs a grocery bag off the counter. I smile when he pulls out a tube of medicated sports cream.

“I thought you could use this,” he says, slipping on a set of gloves. I don’t protest when he pulls my T-shirt over my head, leaving me in a bra and jeans. His uncle went home a few hours ago, and it’s just us here. I sigh when he rubs the cream into my sore muscles. He massages the knots with light and then deep pressure, working over each area for several minutes. By the time Andrés is finished with me, I’m sprawled back in the chair, wanting nothing more than to take a nap.