The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7) (29 page)

I snorted. “Right...because she just happened to show up at Forbidden, the Granada
and
in Chicago all on the same nights I was there. That’s totally possible. Sure.” Then I rolled my eyes.

“It’s...slightly possible,” Remy hedged.

I smiled and shook my head. “Yeah, and mix those two in with punk rocker chick, and we’ll have my dream woman...right there. Boom.”

Straightening, Remy said, “Punk rocker chick. Who’s punk rocker chick?”

Damn. There went my mouth. “No one. Just...some girl who auditioned for your drummer position the day before you did.”

Remy brought his hand up to his chin. “I thought only
one
girl had...had auditioned for that.”

“Yeah...and she dressed in this punk look with a spikey white Tina Turner wig, and I just had this brief little kinky vision of ripping it off and...” When I realized where I was going with my confession, I stopped cold and lifted a hand. “You know, I’m going to stop right there, stop thinking about sex, stop talking about sex, and women, and just...all that shit. Let’s go to my place and slaughter some futuristic zombies. What do you say?”

Remy opened his mouth and then shook his head. “No sé; it’s late. And
some
of us don’t have insomnia. I’m one of those rare breeds who needs more than two hours of sleep a night, so...yeah. I’m going to head home and crash.”

Disappointment hit me hard. I didn’t want to go home alone. But I nodded and forced a smile. “Fine then, loser. I’m going home to practice so I can finally kick your ass the next time we play.”

He snorted. “Dream on, fucker. You should just face the facts. You’ll never beat me, because I am...a legend.”

When I made it home from the diner with Remy, I felt lonelier than usual. I let Mozart out of his cage to play, so he ran and hid under the bed and was lousy company. I ended up practicing the lyrics of my new song as I cleaned out his cage.

I finally dropped off to sleep around five in the morning, and Pick called at eight.

“Hey, I got another house to check out this morning. You coming?”

Yawning as I sat up, I ran my fingers through my hair. “Yeah, sure. But I thought you were going to go back to looking at them with Eva.”

“She refuses. Says she wants me to check out this one last house. So...pick you up in ten?”

“Sounds like a plan.” I hung up and dragged my ass out of bed. Mozart banged around in his cage, reminding me I had to feed him. But after I tossed some broccoli in for him to munch on, he only looked at me, letting me know he wasn’t even about to eat that healthy crap. So I sighed and gave him some of my old stale corn nuts, which he promptly pounced on.

When Pick showed up, the first thing he asked me after I slid into the passenger seat was, “Heard anything else from your dad?”

I groaned and sank lower into my seat. “Jesus, you’re as bad as Sticks.”

“Sticks?” He lifted an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

After I told him about my run-in with the old man in Chicago and how Remy had threatened him with his mace and whistle, Pick threw back his head and laughed. “I like that kid. You need to keep him around.”

I shrugged, declining to mention how my motorcycle’s fuel line had been cut and the theory Remy had about that. I’d fixed it the next day, so no harm done. No reason at all to mention it to Pick.

“So which fancy-schmancy neighborhood are we headed to today?”

Pick sent me a look for making fun of his possibly new neighborhood, then he said, “Glendale.”

I nodded, deciding it wasn’t as ritzy as the last neighborhood we’d been to but it was a good modest, decent family-oriented type of area.

“Tinker Bell’s aunt and uncle—Reese’s parents—live around here.”

“Ahh,” I murmured. “Cool.”

This time around, neither Pick nor I beat around the bush. As soon as we saw the realtor, we spoke in unison. “Backyard?”

As I followed Pick out the sliding glass door, I asked, “So when’s your wedding anyway?”

“The Sunday after next.”

I froze on the back patio as Pick moved toward the middle of the yard and spun in a slow circle.

“I’m sorry, did you say the Sunday after next?” I asked, shaking my head, sure I’d misheard him. “Because that’s only—”

“Eleven days away,” Pick answered. “Yeah, I know.”

“Shit, man. What’s the rush?”

He shrugged. “We just decided we didn’t want to wait any longer. We’re doing it at Forbidden, so...there’s not going to be a lot of decoration or party planning. And it’s going to be small, mostly just everyone who works at Forbidden, their families and maybe Tink’s aunt and uncle. But that reminds me.” He finally looked my way. “Since you’re going to be the best man, am I going to have to find a different deejay to take care of the reception?”

I shook my head. “Nah. I can ask Remy to do it. He’s learned the setup already; I’m sure he’ll agree.”

“Cool.” Pick nodded, distracted as he squinted at a huge old tree in the corner of the yard.

I hooked my thumb over my shoulder, motioning back to the house. “You ready to head back in yet?”

But my brother just stood there, staring at the tree, then he glanced around as if looking for something.

I blinked. “Holy shit. Is....is
this
the place?” I pointed to the ground under me; it suddenly felt as if I were standing on hallowed grass.

“I don’t know,” Pick finally murmured, wiping his hand over his face. “It looks...different.” He motioned to the wooden fence, separating this yard from the neighbors. “That fence was white, and there was a small tree...right over there. A huge swing set here with a row of purple and yellow tulips to the side.”

A big grin spread across my face as I clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Well, it looks like you have some painting, planting and building to do then, because congratulations, big brother, you just found your dream house.”

“Holy shit,” he uttered, looking stunned speechless as he pushed his fingers through his hair and gaped at the yard around him. “I did.” Then he turned dazed eyes to me. “I don’t know how to plant a fucking tree.”

I laughed. “Then I guess you’re going to learn. Come on. Let’s check out the inside. How many bedrooms does it have? You going to have a spare one for Uncle Asher to come crash in every once in a while?”

“I don’t even know.” Pick’s voice sounded hollow as he remained rooted to the center of the yard. “I didn’t bother to check how many rooms it had.”

When I realized he was still too discombobulated to move, I retreated to his side, grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the back door. “Come on, old man. Let’s see what the master bedroom where you’re going to make sweet love to your wife for the rest of your life looks like.”

That got him to move. We thoroughly checked each room, and with each one we entered, this smile would spread across Pick’s face as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d make little comments about which one would be Julian’s or Skylar’s room, or Chloe’s, though I had no idea who Chloe was. But I didn’t really need to understand—it was the growing excitement emanating off my brother that was awesome. He had a future, family, and now the perfect home to look forward to. I was happy for him.

And extremely jealous.

I kind of didn’t want to go back to my apartment after that, and I didn’t have to work that evening. There was no band practice. It was as if I had nothing.

After Pick dropped me off and I jogged down the steps into my basement, I texted Remy to see if he wanted to grab something to eat with me. It was nearing the noon hour and I’d skipped breakfast. My stomach was growling. It sounded like the perfect plan to me.

But he wrote back, saying he had to work, so I called him a loser, and tossed my phone onto my coffee table. Slumping onto my sofa, I stared at my television, not really in the mood to watch anything. I didn’t even want to play Call of Duty, because it’d been more fun when I’d done that with Sticks.

Ugh. I needed a life. Dropping my head back, I stared up at the ceiling as my stomach growled again. I wasn’t in the mood to prepare my own food so I decided now was as good a time as any to check out that family restaurant of Remy’s. Castañeda’s or whatever it was called.

Slugging back to me feet, I gathered my phone, wallet, and keys and was out the door.

“Elisa!”

Tío Alonso’s voice jarred me from the daydream I was having. Hands buried in a bowl of floury dough, I spun around.

“Lo siento,” I immediately apologized before he could even scold me for whatever he was going to scold me for this time. “I’ll have these in the oven in five minutes.”

I’d been distracted ever since getting the call from Asher. He’d sounded lonely. I had no idea how I could tell that from one little text, but I still felt guilty about having to tell him no. I felt guilty about turning down his offer to hang out longer last night, too, and I felt guilty about lying to him, and falling for him and—God, I was just really extremely guilt ridden, okay?

But it would’ve made everything worse if I’d followed him home from the diner last night. I needed space from Asher. I was growing too many feelings, and it was only making things harder for me to handle.

“That’s not what I needed,” my uncle said, waving me forward. “I mean, yes, we need them, but you’re required out front now.”

When I only frowned in confusion, he sighed. “Juan and Diego couldn’t make it in today.”

I nodded, then scrunched up my eyebrows because I still wasn’t sure how this related to me. My mother’s two younger brothers Diego and Juan only came in once a week on Wednesdays to play with Big T and Luis—Diego’s son—in their special live mariachi music band. They liked to move from table to table to serenade the customers. While Tío Diego and Big T played guitars, Tío Juan strummed a harp, and Luis shook maracas.

Clapping his hands at me impatiently, Tío Alonso waved me to follow him. “Come on. We need some live entertainment. It’s Wednesday. The people are expecting music.”

I gasped with excitement, totally not expecting him to ask me. “And you want me to play the extra guitar? Or the harp?” Because, really, I could do either.

But my uncle scowled. “No, no. You sing. You have a beautiful voice. Tomás can accompany you on his guitar.”

My shoulders slumped. Of course he’d want me to sing...and probably something like “Ave Maria” or “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina,” too, something all soulful and depressing. He never let me play an instrument. The man was so freaking old school, he didn’t believe in females being in a mariachi band to play instruments. They could only sing.

Blah.

Not that I hated singing. I just despised his outlook on life sometimes.

“Come.” He clapped his hands as if beckoning a dog.

I sighed and turned back to my dough. “But what about my sopapillas?”

He scowled at my project for a second before waving me forward again. “Bring it with you. You can finish preparing them on the big worktable out front. Put on a cooking show while you sing.”

Heaving out another sigh, I picked up the bowl, then grabbed a baking sheet, a few other things I’d need, and followed him out the door with my flour-speckled apron and hairnet still on.

The dining room was crowded and loud, and no one paid me or my uncle any attention as I followed him to the large wooden worktable, where he took off a vase of flowers and began to clean the surface before I could use it. Standing just behind him and clutching my cooking supplies to my chest, I waited like a good girl until someone moved up behind me and murmured into my ear.

“I knew he’d talk you into singing.”

I sent a glare over my shoulder and told Big T, “Cállate,” as I lightly rammed my elbow back into his gut. Only the sound of his lightly pained grunt made my lips quiver into a mini smile.

“Prima, you are mean.”

My smile grew a bit larger.

“So what’re we performing?” he asked. “‘Cielito Lindo’?”

I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, thinking about it. “No...something different.”

In my back pocket, my phone buzzed, letting me know I had a new text. I pulled it free out of habit and saw that it was from Asher.

Holy shit. I found her.

Scowling, because I had no idea what he was talking about, I began to ask him who he’d found. But another text from him came through.

What’s the name of the girl who—

“Elisa!” Tío Alonso boomed, making me jump out of my skin and look up before I could finish reading Asher’s question. He splayed out his hand, letting me know he was ready for me to begin. I stuffed my phone away just as it buzzed again with a third text.

Drawing in a big breath, I concentrated on laying out my supplies, while Big T positioned himself behind and a little to the left of me. As I worked, a couple patrons glanced my way as they kept eating and talking, probably realizing I was about to do something to entertain them.

Just as I got everything set out where I needed it, my phone buzzed against my butt for a fourth time. Big T leaned forward, murmuring, “¿Prima?” wanting to know what I was going to sing so he’d know what to play.

I knew Tío Alonso expected something purely Spanish, but I decided to do a little mix of both English and Spanish. And besides, Doris Day was one of my mother’s favorite singers before she went crazy. So I murmured, “Que Sera Sera,” over my shoulder.

A couple seconds later, the guitar started to strum the melody. Some tables of people stopped eating to watch us. But not until the introduction was over and I began to sing did we really gain the attention of everyone.

I ignored everyone and acted as if I was self-involved in my menial task of peppering the table with a cupful of flour. Once I had a fine layer covering the wooden slab, I plopped down my ball of dough and began to iron it into a flat circle with the rolling pin I’d brought in. Flour sprayed everywhere.

More people stopped their conversations to watch me work. I kept up the oblivious act, purposely smearing a trail of flour across my cheek when I brushed at a stray hair that had come down from my hairnet.

It wasn’t until I picked up the rolling pin and began to roll the dough flat that I hit the chorus and really lifted my voice.

I swear, everyone in the joint stopped what they were doing just to listen to me.

It felt almost electric. Yes, drumming was my heart and soul, but in that moment, I could see why Asher loved to sing the really powerful songs where you had to put your everything into it. Because this right here felt good.

Centering my focus on a place deep inside me, I let the guitar’s melody pour through my hands and my diaphragm until the twang in my voice rose to a crescendo and my last note echoed into the silent parlor. I finished the last line and then...applause.

At all the whistling, clapping, and cheering, I blinked and smiled at my audience. But my attention landed on one pair of green eyes watching me from a corner booth with intense scrutiny.

Oh, shit.

Asher was
here
.

Frozen, I could only gape at him as he rose from the booth where he was sitting alone.

He stepped toward me, and my heart leapt into my stomach. Dios, he was coming over to talk to me.

What the hell was I supposed to do?

“Bien hecho, Elisa,” Tío Alonso said, patting me on the shoulder as he passed by.

His praise jolted me from my rigor mortis and I swung around to blink up at him. Then he motioned to my worktable and told me to get the cut sopapillas back to my second cousin Frida at the fryer.

I told my uncle I’d get right to it as I glanced toward Asher. He was still coming my way, so I picked up the sheet to flee. When he just kind of froze in his step as if not sure what to do, I whirled away and rushed back into the kitchen.

But as soon as I was behind the swinging door, I stole a glance out one of the round windows. He was still standing where he’d stopped in his tracks, watching the place where I’d disappeared. But as soon as he saw me peeking back out at him, a smile spread across his face and he waved.

Dios. That smile. That smug, I-know-you-see-me-and-remember-me smile did things to me.

If this man caught me in girl-mode again, I wasn’t sure if I could resist him...and I really needed to resist him. Lying to him and pretending to be a guy was bad enough. But actually falling into bed with him while I was still lying and pretending to be a guy at other times would be the ultimate deception.

Whatever happened, I could
not
ever run into him as a girl again. Not unless he knew the truth.

So I was able to avoid running into Asher at the restaurant. I dawdled long enough at the fryer that he was gone by the time my uncle called me back to the dining room for another song, and I dragged myself in front of the customers again.

But he knew where I worked now, so this could be bad.

I was going to have to do some serious damage control to keep him away from girl-me.

By the time I finished my shift, I’d forgotten that he’d text-bombed me right before I sang. So when I started to call him, I was surprised to see all his old messages awaiting me. They went a little something like:

1. Holy shit! I found her.

2. What’s the name of the girl who works at your family’s restaurant? The one with the purple streaks in her hair?

3. Never mind. I just learned it.

I frowned, trying to recall anyone calling me Remy, but then I remembered... Tío Alonso had called me Elisa. A few times.

4. Call me as soon as you get off work.

Blowing out a breath, I dialed him, not sure what to say but determined to throw him off the scent of…well,
me
.

Yeah, I couldn’t believe I was going to do that, either.

“Hey,” he answered, and I swear, the cheer and smile in his voice lit me up from the inside.

“Hey,” I murmured right back, still not sure what to tell him because I knew he was going to ask about her... I mean, me.

He was going to ask about me.

“So...” And here it came. “I know someone you can set me up with.”

“Hmm?” My throat went immediately dry. I played dumb. “What?”

“That girl at Castañeda’s, your family’s Mexican restaurant. Elisa, right?”

Oh...hell. He really thought my name was Elisa. “Elisa?” I said slowly.

But seriously.
Me
? He wanted me to set him up with
me
? For a split second, I envisioned it. I could use my slutty señorita voice, pretend I was someone named Elisa, and I could finally get my hands on Asher Hart, the way I’d been craving.

But then reality set in.

No, I couldn’t do that to him. I absolutely could not. I just...I wouldn’t.

“You’ll never believe this. But she’s shower girl. From
Chicago
.”

Words failed me. What the hell did I say now? Finally, I stuttered, “No shit?”

“Yeah, and she’s related to you, right? You said everyone who worked there was related. What is she, a cousin or something?”

“Sure,” I said, not knowing how else to answer.

He gave a laugh. “You don’t sound too certain of that.”

I shrugged and flailed out my hand. “Well, you know...complicated Mexican family trees and all that.”

“Ahh,” he murmured as if he understood but was honestly more confused than ever. “So, you really don’t know what she was doing in Chicago? In our
hotel
room?”