The Right Words (15 page)

“Sorry. You’re cute.”

He rolled his eyes at the compliment as he stood with the aid of his cane. “You’re beautiful. Eres un hombre hermoso.” He leaned over to kiss me good-bye. “You’re a beautiful man.”

“Gracias.”

His grin was instant. “De nada.” He walked to the door and stopped suddenly. “I forgot. Will you come with me to LA next week? I told Tonio I’d come by Tuesday afternoon to see if we can… I don’t know, think of something. Try to do some damage control if Jamie follows through with the threats.”

“Why do you want me there?”

“Tonio asked to meet you. Are you okay with that? I think he wants to see why I think you’re trustworthy.”

“Uh, okay. I guess.” Sounded weird to me, but I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. The plumber would be busy here for the week or so, and he certainly wouldn’t need me hanging over his shoulder.

“Good. I’ve got a couple meetings tomorrow, and I won’t be around much this weekend. I’ll see you Tuesday, pretty boy.”

I closed the door and leaned against it, hard. What was going on here? Sure, I got my repeat of “that kiss,” but at what cost?

One day at a time, I reminded myself.

“I
FEEL
like we’re going to see a mob boss. Even his name sounds like a character from some old mobster movie, you know?” I glanced over at Michael’s noble profile. “Tonio.”

Michael rolled his eyes as he checked his rearview mirror before changing lanes. We were northbound on the 405 freeway in the early afternoon. Traffic was mercifully light and we seemed to be making good time. It didn’t hurt that he was a bit of a lead foot. He’d been cleared to drive the week before and insisted on taking his BMW. He made a disparaging comment about the reason being my choice in music, but I knew it was about control. It might have been a minor step, but he looked happy to be behind the wheel. Plus this car was a hell of a lot nicer than Brandon’s old beater.

“You’re loco and your brain works too hard. Relax, Luke. Tonio is… he’s a good man.”

“Then why isn’t he insisting you take these photos and the letter to the police?”

I couldn’t let it go. I hated that Jamie was getting away with this. It wasn’t right.

“He’s old school. My parents’ generation. I know you don’t understand. Just be patient. We can go grab something to eat after.”

What was there to say really? I didn’t get it. “Okay. Where is his office?”

“On Santa Monica Boulevard.”

I instantly brightened and sat up a little taller in my seat. West Hollywood was literally down the street, give or take a few miles. I had all kinds of ideas of places we might go after our meeting with Tonio, the mob man. I decided to keep them to myself for now.

“What are you smiling at?”

I gave Michael a baffled look, which made him chuckle. I scowled and asked what was so amusing.

“You. You have the most expressive face. It’s easy to tell when you’re up to something.”

“I’m not ‘up to’ anything. I’m just happy we’re not driving too far. That’s all.” I shrugged and looked out the car window to take in the bland scenery along the freeway.

“Right” came the sarcastic reply. Michael adjusted the volume of a Jay-Z song and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat. It always cracked me up to see people playing air drums in their cars. I sang along to all of my favorite songs, but I never played phantom instruments. It seemed like a safe topic change, so I asked Michael his thoughts on car-singing etiquette.

He laughed and turned the sound down just as Jay-Z began another round of offensive lyrics heavy with “mofuckin’fuck.” Michael glanced sideways at me, taking in my prim posture and crossed arms.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like Jay-Z.” He lowered his dark lenses and tossed a stern look my way. “Don’t.”

I giggled and turned in my seat. Being his passenger gave me the perfect opportunity to study him. Michael had a face with a view. Mine might give my thoughts away, but his never would. He was alternately warm and inviting, then cool and aloof. I detected a fierce quality in him, particularly when he spoke of his family or his team. How amazing it would be to be the object of that kind of passion and intensity. Or perhaps it would be too much. I started when he caught me staring and blushed as my eyes met his for a moment before he turned his attention back to the road.

“Did you hear my question?”

“No. Sorry.”

“No big deal. I asked if you were an air-guitar player, an air drummer, or both.”

“As if! None of the above. I’m a singer. Can’t you tell? In the car and in the shower, I shine. I’m telling you, I’d have a record contract if any producer heard me.”

“Oh really? Why don’t you record your voice and send it in, hotshot?”

“It doesn’t work as well when recorded. Maybe it’s the background traffic noise or the running water?” Michael scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. “Mock me all you want, but it’s true.”

“Bring it on, then,” he challenged.

“What do you mean?”

“Sing for me. We’ve got twenty more minutes ’til we get to Tonio’s office. Entertain me. How does this work? Do I get to choose the song?”

“No! It’s a personal thing. I can’t sing for you!”

“Then how will I ever know if you’re the hot young talent you claim to be? Don’t be shy, honey.”

I wanted to enjoy being called honey, but I hated being dared to do something. Anything. My palms felt sweaty suddenly, even though I knew the conversation was in jest. Michael didn’t want to hear me sing; he was teasing. I took a cleansing breath and looked out the window again.

“What’s wrong? I’ll listen to anything. Even Madonna. Come on.”

“No. I’m not a singer.”

“But you said you were.”

“I was kidding.” My tone was low and no doubt sounded distant as I kept my gaze trained on the cars speeding to the right of us.

“Fine. I’ll start.” Michael cleared his throat dramatically and began a painfully pitchy but perfectly endearing rendition of the Madonna classic “Like a Prayer.” The same song we’d heard weeks before on our tile shopping adventure.

My eyes widened in surprise. I squealed in delight and clapped my hands like a five-year-old before continuing the song where he left off. I knew all the lyrics of course and finished the entire melody before giving myself an enthusiastic round of applause. Michael burst out laughing, and I couldn’t help but join in. I was grinning from ear to ear as I asked what he thought of my fine performance.

He set his right hand on his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully before giving a surprisingly realistic Simon Cowell impression complete with a faux British accent.

“A little pitchy at the start, I’m afraid, but you made it your own. I’m going to say yes.”

I burst out in another round of giggles and thanked my critic.

“You do a nice British accent, by the way.”

“Thanks. My Spanish one is much better,” he said with a wink. “Since we’re almost there, I’ll warn you that Tonio’s is pretty thick. And it’s the real deal. He’s from Mexico originally, and even though he’s lived in the States for years, he isn’t always easy to understand.”

I sobered immediately as Michael exited the freeway and turned right onto Santa Monica. I tried to discreetly wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans when he pulled into a nearby parking garage. I wasn’t sure what constituted appropriate attire for meeting the manager of a soccer player, so I played it safe with a pair of designer jeans and a more traditional style light blue collared shirt. Michael was dressed almost exactly the same, which I took as a good sign.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?” I licked my lips and reached for the door handle.

“This isn’t a big deal. Don’t be nervous. You’re doing me a favor, and I appreciate it.” Michael leaned across the arm divide and held my chin in place to gently kiss my lips. It was brief, but it worked like a charm. I smiled and nodded as I opened the door.

T
HE
OFFICE
building was nice. It wasn’t opulent or super modern, but the grand lobby with cool marble and shiny surfaces made it clear this was a place of respectable business. We took the elevator to the twentieth floor and stepped onto a ghostly quiet corridor. Michael briefly caught hold of my hand and held it discreetly for a moment before opening the door to Tonio’s outer office.

Michael greeted the motherly, middle-aged receptionist warmly. She announced our arrival by intercom while I perused the gallery of photos and mementos lining every square inch of the wall space in the waiting area. Every picture had something to do with soccer. Whether it was a signed jersey or a magazine cover, it was clear one sport reigned here. I listened to the soft-spoken Spanish nearby as Michael chatted with the receptionist. It was like background music, and I paid no real attention until Michael called my name. He gave me another reassuring grin as we stepped into Tonio’s office.

I wasn’t alone in conjuring a vision of someone’s expected appearance. Nor was I alone in admitting I rarely guessed correctly. This whole episode with Jamie had me thinking about gangsters and bad guys, but Tonio looked like… well, a short, plump, gray-haired, mostly balding grandfather. His eyes twinkled in delight when he saw Michael. He sprang to his feet with surprising agility and immediately wrapped Michael in a bear hug, kissing his cheek affectionately before patting him on the back. I’d almost decided I liked the guy and had been guilty of letting my imagination run wild, when he turned to give me a suspicious once-over. I offered my hand to the now less-than-jovial grandpa, who paused long enough to be considered rude before briefly shaking it and gesturing for us to sit in the leather chairs across from his large desk. I amended “kindly grandfather” to “disagreeable toad” in my head and said a quick prayer this would be a short meeting.

Whatever conversation passed between them was entirely in Spanish. I caught the basic cadence that accompanied most introductory dialogue. I could safely guess a “how are you?”, “how was the drive?”, maybe even “get any more creepy letters?”. The tone was pleasant and inquisitive. I listened without understanding, but I was left wondering why I was there in the first place. I couldn’t see what I could possibly add to their discussion on how to deal with Jamie, and certainly not in Spanish. I fidgeted in my chair and made an effort to try to translate some of their words. They spoke too quickly for me to really catch on. Whatever I knew was remedial at best anyway.

I was about to tune out completely when I heard one word I knew well. Too well.

My skin flushed and I became uncomfortably warm. I swallowed hard, instantly aggravated in a sick, familiar way I hadn’t felt in years.

I spoke one language. English. But as a literature buff, I was familiar with many words or phrases from other languages. There were a few words that connoted love and joy whether or not one was a native speaker. Conversely, there were words that expressed hate, malice, and alienation. Some of those words became recognizable through repetition and circumstance. For example, as a kid I wondered what the word
gay
meant. My mother loved that word.
“It means happy and beautiful, darling!”
However, she hated the word
fag
. She said it was one of those strange words that told you more about the person who said it aloud than the person it was aimed at. I didn’t understand what she meant until I was older, but once I did, I thought her logic was flawless.

There was a Spanish word I heard quite a bit when I was younger.
Maricón
. I had no idea as a fourth or fifth grade kid what it meant. There were enough Spanish speakers in school to give basic lessons for everyday words and phrases.
Hola
means
hello
,
adiós
means
good-bye
, but I didn’t feel confident enough to ask about the
M
word. By the time I’d reached the horrors of middle school, curiosity got the better of me, and I finally muscled the courage to ask a fellow seventh grader what
maricón
meant. Jeff Gomez kindly informed me it was what I was, a fag. I’d been called a faggot more times than I could count by then, but it never failed to cut me down to size. How could one word do that? In two languages, no less?

Fast-forward sixteen years. I was at a loss to find myself thrown back in time. Once again I was being labeled and judged by someone who didn’t know the first thing about me. I was an adult now, but so was the toad spewing hateful words. More than ever, my mother’s words rang true. I didn’t care that Tonio was older than my mother. Michael might have a history and feelings of respect toward the man, but I owed him nothing. No one had the power to hurt or belittle you unless you gave it to them. I’d given Neil that kind of power, but I would not make the same mistake again. Ever.

You think you’ve got me all figured out? Well, here you go.

I cleared my throat noisily and fluttered my eyelashes at Michael before addressing him in the saccharine-infused voice Brandon did so damn well.

“Sugar, my Spanish is more than a teensy rusty. Do you mind switching to English?” I set my hand on Michael’s arm as though I couldn’t bear to not be in contact with him and then turned to Tonio and flashed him my brightest, widest plastic grin.