The Right Words (8 page)

“Where to?” I asked as I pulled out of the parking space.

Michael looked over at me with a crooked smile as he placed his sunglasses back over his nose. My breath hitched slightly at his transformation from handsome but distant to downright beautiful.

“I think you said something about peeling linoleum being unsafe. I guess we better look at flooring. But do me a favor….”

“What’s that?”

“Can you try not to make best friends with the salesperson? If I have to hear one more story about someone’s grandkids or where they bought their fabulous bracelets or how smart their haircut is, I’m gonna go fucking crazy. You don’t have to be so… nice.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I do! Customer service is everything!”

“Well, I’m the customer and I say cut the bullshit. Let’s get in and out of the next store in fifteen minutes. What do you say?”

“Bullshit? You… that is… horrible! You may be the customer but if you act like an asshole, don’t be surprised if—”

“Did you just call me an asshole? Again? You know, Luke… I don’t think that’s good customer service,” he taunted me playfully.

I stopped at a red light and looked at Michael’s handsome profile. He caught my stare and flashed a megawatt beautiful grin that took my breath away. I forgot what our banter had been about until he chuckled and asked me what color traffic light I was waiting for.

“You
are
an asshole.”

Michael laughed again. This time it was unfettered and musical. I hid a small smile as I maneuvered the car toward our next destination.

N
ATURALLY
,
THE
freeway was a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. We visited two more showrooms and were finally headed back to his house by midafternoon. I adjusted the radio and hummed along to “Like a Prayer” as I tried to jockey for lane position behind a semitruck.

“You like this song?”

“Of course! Don’t tell me you don’t like Madonna.” I gave him a quick sideways stare over the top of my sunglasses. “Don’t,” I warned.

“‘Don’t’ as in you’ll kick my ugly ass out of your car if I dare say a word against the queen of pop?” His tone was laced with amusement.

“I wouldn’t say you’re ugly but yeah, if I had a place to drop you off in this godforsaken mess of freeway, I might be tempted. So watch it, buddy.”

“Wow. You’re kinda fierce. Is she your favorite, or do I have to be careful about what I say about Cher too?”

“Are you musically stereotyping me? Luke’s gay so he must like Cher, Madonna, and Christina?” I switched lanes, conscientiously keeping my gaze on the congested road although I was dying to see Michael’s expression.

“Well do you?”

“Yes, of course, but—

Michael laughed out loud. I waited a minute, letting him enjoy himself at my expense.

“Are you finished? Plenty of straight men like them too, you know.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he singsonged.

“Oh shut up. I’m not switching my tunes. My car, my music. But because I’m polite I’ll ask for the sake of conversation. What kind of music do you like?”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way. You should have asked me that question when I first got in the car and then insisted on playing traditional mariachi music because I love it.” His voice was full of mocking righteous indignation. He was obviously enjoying himself.

“Sorry. Client privileges only extend so far. Not to in-car entertainment. And as far as mariachi music is concerned, you better make damn sure you’re offering tequila shots to go along with that sh—um… music.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath and from the corner of my eye saw Michael turn as much as possible in his seat to face me with his arms folded across his chest. His dark glasses covered his eyes, but it didn’t take a genius to know his glare was scornful.

“Sh—? Please don’t tell me you were going to say
shit
and insult my heritage and my family honor.”

I bit my bottom lip in an effort to keep from chuckling at his act. There was nothing more attractive to me than a guy with a good sense of humor. At least I hoped he was joking. I took a quick peek in his direction to find him still holding his pose and staring me down evilly.

“I would never impugn your proud heritage. How dare you even suggest such a thing? I think you’re trying to take attention from your earlier show of disrespect toward the fine female songstresses I’ve been playing for you today. I’ll have none of that.” I weaved my head back and forth in a way I’d seen Brandon do with flair countless times. My attempts at a sassy head bob usually made Bran roll his eyes, so I was certain I looked goofy rather than intimidating.

Michael agreed if his shout of laughter was any judge.

“Right. Well, what kind of music do you like, then? Mariachi and what else?”

“I was kidding about mariachi, although I do like it. I just wouldn’t listen to it while I’m trying to relax… or even drive for that matter. It’s celebration music in my culture. But since you’re from LA, you probably already knew that.”

“So you’re full-blooded Mexican?” I asked conversationally.

“What tipped you off?” came his sarcastic reply.

“It was a rhetorical question. I’m attempting a polite repartee. You said before you were Mexican but you didn’t say… oh never mind.”

“Ohhhh.
A repartee
. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Are you always this charming, or am I getting special treatment?”

Michael gave a chagrinned chuckle. “Sorry. You’re a good sport. I like messin’ with you. And yes, I’m full-blooded Mexican. What about you?”

“Not a drop.”

“No shit. Your California blond hair and golden tan give you away, hotshot. So what are you?”

“Who knows? According to Mara, I’m English, Irish, Swedish, German, and French. Personally I have my doubts about being French. I think she liked the idea and added it to the list.” I chuckled lightly.

“Who’s Mara?”

“My mom.”

“You call your mother by her first name? Man, my mom would smack me upside the head.” He shook his head mournfully. “Kids these days.”

“Well trust me, Mara isn’t like most moms. I’m sure she’s nothing like yours.”

Michael didn’t respond. I took the quiet to be a normal lull.

“Where did you say you were from?”

I’d been momentarily lost in thought and found myself shifting gears to refocus. “The San Fernando Valley.”

“Me too. Does your family still live there?”

I quickly glanced over before answering. “No, my mom got married and moved to Brentwood after I left for college. What about your family? Do you have any siblings?”

“Two older brothers, a younger brother, and two sisters, one older, one younger. They all live in or around the same neighborhood we grew up in. My folks still live in the same three-bedroom house where they raised six kids. Not much changes with the Martinez clan. Tradition, you know?”

“No, I wouldn’t know. I was an only child of a single parent. I never knew my father. It was always just me and my mom. I know next to nothing about what ‘normal’ families are like.” I did a one-handed quotation and used my other hand to turn right on Michael’s street, signaling an end to a very long day.

“Fuck. Sometimes I’d give anything to know what that’s like.” He sounded wistful and completely sincere.

“Why? I’m the opposite. I wish I had more stability in my life. And less… crazy.”

“Human nature. We always want what we don’t have,” Michael sagely observed as I pulled the car to a stop in front of his house.

I grabbed the bags of samples and followed as Michael navigated the overgrown pathway leading to his front door on crutches.

“Are you willing to paint the outside? I know we’ve concentrated on simple interior changes so far, but this color is….” I stopped talking when I realized I was speaking a little too honestly. I was generally more tactful. I knew how to finesse my language to not insult my client. Usually. It had been a long day.

“Yes? What were you going to say? Not to your liking? In need of a fresh coat? Or outdated?” Michael modulated his voice at the end so he sounded like a snobby, well… interior designer.

I bit my cheek and offered a sheepish grin. “Butt-ugly.”

I was rewarded with his full hearty laugh as I opened the door. I hid my smile and set the bags inside the foyer. We would tackle material selection next week. As much as I dreaded the very thought, I was going to have to get back on the road. I was about to say good-bye when Michael’s cell rang. He saw my intention, but stopped me when he saw the caller ID.

“This will just take a sec. Hang on.”

I meandered down the hall and lingered near the doorway to the living area while Michael took his call.

“Hi. Sure. I just got home, so come by anytime. Oh. Yeah that works. See ya.”

He smiled as he maneuvered his crutches toward me. “My massage therapist. The perks of my infirmity… Jovan makes house calls.”

“Lucky you.” I peeled myself from the doorjamb. I was tired, but rest wasn’t an option for at least a couple more hours. “I should get a move on. Have a great weekend, boss. I’ll see you Monday. Is ten thirty okay?”

Michael spared me a comical, incredulous look and shook his head at the folly of my suggestion. “You can’t seriously be thinking of getting on the road now. You could ride a bike faster to the city at this time of day. Just hang tight and enjoy the sunset. Damn, kid!” He cocked his head to the side and asked if I’d given any thought to using the studio above the garage.

“I have. And yes, I’d love to. I was going to ask if I could stay Monday. I don’t have anything with me today. But, there is no point in pretending the commute isn’t a headache. I can find someplace nearby when I….” I let my voice trail off tiredly.

“No need for that.” His tone was decisive and maybe even a little irritated that I’d suggested another option. “In fact, you’re welcome to stay tonight if you feel like it. I’ll even offer you a glass of wine to make up for my earlier crappy mood. You can relax, watch TV. Whatever. Up to you, but if you ask me, it sounds better than listening to lousy radio music for another couple of hours. Just sayin’.” Michael winked and offered a wry grin.

I chuckled lightly and mulled over his proposition. Sit in traffic and go back to Bran’s to do what? Tag along with Trev and him to a bar or dance club? I’d been busy all day and had no idea what their plans were tonight. And the truth was, I was exhausted. Mentally and physically done.

“Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”

This time his smile was wide and triumphant, inviting me to laugh out loud at his exaggerated show of arrogant confidence.

“Good! You can keep me company ’til Jovan gets here. Wine or beer?”

“Wine. I’ll get it.”

“Thanks. The kitchen is pretty well stocked. I had someone come by with groceries yesterday. Bring out something to snack on too. I’ll go outside. We shouldn’t waste the view while the weather holds, right?”

Strangely, he seemed glad to have my company even though we’d spent the entire day together. I watched him for a second before heading to gather our supplies for a sunset snack. I’d need my sunglasses if we were going to sit outside, I mused. I made a detour for the front door, remembering at the last minute that I’d left them in the car. I passed the mailbox on my way back to the house and noticed a white envelope sticking out. I stopped to bring in the mail, thinking I’d save Michael a trip on his crutches. I left the stack of letters in the kitchen and brought out a bottle of pinot noir and some cheese and crackers for a snack.

The sunset was glorious that evening, spreading a pink-and-purple glow across the sky. I sipped my wine slowly, thinking
I could happily get used to this life.
But this wasn’t my reality. This was a job. I made an offhand comment about the age of some of his kitchen appliances to satisfy my guilt at basking in a glorious setting with a hunky man drinking pinot while collecting a paycheck. Michael put his fingers in his ears and sang a childish chorus of “lalalalalala.”

“You’re off the clock, Luke. No more talking about kitchens, materials, or any remodel bullshit at all. Deal?”

“All right. What do you want to talk about, then?” I picked up my glass and felt a sudden wave of anxiousness. I didn’t have a clue what to talk about. Soccer? No. Remodel? No.

Michael glanced sideways at me and reached for a piece of Tuscan cheese on the platter between us. He sat back in his chaise lounge with his right leg elevated on an outdoor pillow. He looked as though he were pondering the perfect topic, which struck me as sweet and silly. I chuckled softly and took another sip of wine.

“What’s so funny?”

I gave him an innocent grin and studied his handsome profile as he watched a pod of pelicans glide across the placid water below. His features were strong and masculine. A straight nose that hooked almost imperceptibly, high cheekbones, and a full mouth. Gay or straight, anyone would agree he was fine. I set my wineglass down as I recognized my thoughts might loosen my lips if I wasn’t careful.

“Just tell me about yourself. Where did you go to college? What did you study? Um… what size shoe do you wear? I don’t care. Just talk.”

“Ha! Shoe size?” I giggled and shifted slightly in my chair in an effort to get a little more comfortable. “That’s an interesting array of topic choices. Where shall I begin?”

“Shoe size,” he said dryly.

“Size ten. I’m five foot nine, so I suppose that’s all average, you know?”

Michael pursed his lips but didn’t say a word. I had a good idea where his mind had gone and was tempted to call him out. Alcohol always encouraged me to loosen my inhibitions, but thankfully some semblance of good judgment kept me from talking about endowments versus shoe size and assuring him the size of my dick should rightfully qualify me for a larger shoe size.

I hid my embarrassment, fussing with the pillow behind my back before turning back to answer him. “Let’s see. I went to San Francisco State University and believe it or not, I studied English and literature.”

“Did you want to be a writer?”