For my sisters, Elena and Loretta,
who never embarrassed me.
Usually, it was the other way around!
(Not that I’m apologizing…)
Oh, and, Elena? The pink Izod was MINE, all mine.
“So, here’s an interesting question for you,” Lola said as she set the timer for the second pan of white chocolate-cranberry scones she’d just put in the oven. The room was redolent with the warm, sweet aroma of the first batch, now cooling on the countertop.
Cristy Avila hooked the heels of her Dansko clogs on the rung of the bar stool and wrapped her hands around her thick mug, fully savoring her caffeine moment. She needed to check stock and get ready for the day’s customers, but there was something almost sacrilegious about rushing through a cup of Chef Lola Martinez’s award-winning java blend. Besides, she worked for herself. If she wanted to linger over coffee, she damn well would. It was sort of the point of being your own boss, wasn’t it? “Whip it on me.”
Lola rinsed her hands, then turned back toward Cristy, wiping them on her apron. “What is the one deepest, darkest secret that you’d never cop to in public?”
“Whoa.” Cristy widened her eyes and leaned back, one hand holding the edge of the table edge. “Trying out the whole tabloid journalism shtick, are we?”
“Not exactly.” Lola bustled about the café area, filling sugar and sweetener dispensers and stocking the antique bakery case with her incomparable breads and pastries. “Your sister and Wyatt were talking about it yesterday on their show.”
Cristy blurted an inelegant little snort. “Speaking of tabloid journalism. I should’ve known.”
“Anyway, they talked up this website—you’d love it. People send in handmade, anonymous postcards on which they’ve written their deepest, darkest secrets. The website guy scans and posts them for the whole world to read.”
“Wow!”
“Yeah. I had to check it out, and it’s amazing. There are so many levels of anonymity, people feel comfortable confessing things that would blow your mind.”
“Like what?”
“Well, last night I read one where the woman admitted she’d sent money to the Red Cross during the last natural disaster, and now that she’s broke, she regrets it. Scone?” Lola held one out, still hot from the oven.
“Thanks. Yum.” She took a bite. “The Red Cross thing is pretty harsh. I mean, who’d admit that?”
“And yet, how cathartic for her to be able to unburden herself without fear of retribution. Another woman admitted that her first child was fathered by her husband’s brother, but neither of them knew about it.”
“That’s horrid!”
“Wonderfully, deliciously, addictively horrid.” Lola grinned. “I swear, it’s my new guilty pleasure. So, back to the original question.” She waggled her eyebrows. “What’s your deepest, darkest postcard secret?”
“Hmmm.” Cristy tapped her fingers on her chin. Deepest darkest secret? Or deepest darkest secret she’d utter out loud? Because, let’s face it, there was a big difference. Lola wasn’t just her employee, she was her closest friend, and still, there were things Cristy wouldn’t tell her or anyone. “I guess my deep dark secret is…I love Monday mornings.” Especially since she’d opened the doors of her very own dream business. Now, the start of each work week felt like the gift that kept on giving.
In this era of congested highways and gun-toting, road-raging drivers, her daily “commute” down the stairs from her upper level living quarters set her heart pounding, too, but with anticipation rather than anger. Honestly, each morning her little oasis awed her as much if not more than it had on opening day. From the antique shelves, handmade baskets, and colorful bowls overflowing with yarn and needles, to the state of the art kitchen and café tables and comfy couches in the main room. The whole place just felt like her.
“Monday mornings?” Lola asked, incredulous. “That’s your big secret? Geez, could you be any more lame?”
“What’s lame about it? Do you know how many people would want to gun me down if I came out all bluebirds-on-my-shoulderish and admitted I can’t wait for the start of the work week?”
Lola pursed her lips. “I suppose that’s true.” She glanced around at their cozy working environment. “And then again, with this place, I can’t blame you.” She sighed.
Indeed. Nestled into the nooks and crannies of a beautifully restored Queen Anne–style Victorian in northwest Denver, Cristy’s entrepreneurial brainchild—called Simplicity, ironically—defied simple description. It was more than your run-of-the-mill coffee shop, although it had received “Denver’s Best Cuppa Joe” award that year from The Westword, thanks to Lola’s blend. And despite Simplicity’s number one ranking in The Traveling Knitter’s “Top Ten Not to Be Missed List,” it didn’t qualify as the typical yarn shop, either.
To herself, Cristy referred to Simplicity as a “serenity salon,” but that was a little too high on the woo-woo scale for the shop’s more pragmatic customers to wrap their brains around. And when it came right down to it, people could describe Simplicity however the heck they wanted to, as long as they kept showing up in droves.
A peek at her watch lit a fire under her butt. “I need to get a move on.” She drained the last of her coffee and pushed back from the table. “What’s your big bad secret, Lo?”
“Let me think about it for a minute.”
“Okay. But don’t think you’re off the hook.” Cristy walked through each area snapping on lights and straightening displays, just as she did every morning—a routine that felt more like meditation than work. Whoever had coined the phrase “Do what you love and the money will follow” was a stone-cold genius, and she was living proof. Less than a year had passed since the grand opening, and Simplicity was already operating well in the black. The house was paid off, and she’d even had to turn the food and beverage service completely over to Lola so she could focus on the rest.
Her long-standing fantasy of owning a hip little haven—a gathering place for twenty-first–century knitters and other women of all ages who needed a respite from Real Life—had manifested far beyond her wildest dreams.
Realistically, though, who would’ve thought a quirky niche business like Simplicity would become West Highlands newest version of a hot spot? And yet, that’s exactly what had happened, thanks in part to her sister, Marisol, talking up the place during her number-one-rated morning show on KHOT radio. For once, Cristy thought grudgingly, Mari’s big mouth had brought about positive results in her life. Her sister’s incessant blather had created a buzz, which snowballed into splashy profiles in the Denver Post, the Rocky Mountain News, Westword, and 5280 Magazine. And the rest—as they say—was history.
Knitting was the new yoga, after all.
“And I’m the new Martha Stewart,” Cristy whispered to herself with a laugh. She kicked off her clogs and padded into the back room wearing the socks she’d knit with the self-striping yarn featured in this month’s sales flyer. “Minus the prison stint, of course.”
Best of all, Simplicity was her escape. As an introvert who’d somehow been born into a family of over-the-top extroverts, she needed it. But she didn’t want to think about her family or her ill fit within the fold. Like the good daughter she was, she spent every Sunday smothered by the lot of them, and it took at least two full days to recover. Plus, it was Monday—the best day of her week. She wanted nothing more than to fondle new yarn stock in the quiet safety of her back room and ignore the twisted roots of her family tree, at least for a little while.
Plus, she still had to hear Lola’s deep dark secret.
Cristy stretched her neck up to scan the week’s shipments, stacked around the room in cardboard boxes. In the background, the vague mumble of Lola’s small kitchen radio mingled with the birdsong carrying in through the open windows. Nudging past a large box of Addi turbo needles and other notions, Cristy bent to lug up another crate she hoped was from—she quickly scanned the customs label—yes! Her coveted yarn from Japan. Finally.
As was her habit, she wound her long hair into a messy knot on top of her head and stuck a knitting needle through to hold it out of her way. And then she tore into the box and sighed with pleasure. Really, was there anything better than a brand new pile of Noro yarn?
She’d purposely scheduled all her deliveries to arrive late on Saturday afternoons so she could anticipate opening them first thing each Monday. Which was why, contrary to the norm in the industrialized world, she leapt out of bed early every Monday, excited to dash downstairs and go to work.
It all came down to tricking the brain.
And that was a good deep dark secret, no matter what Lola thought about it.
She was elbow deep in variegated strands of wool, and totally blissed out on solitude, when she heard the oven timer ding. Out of habit, Cristy glanced up at the retro wall clock, then smiled toward the archway leading to the kitchen. That timer went off each morning at the exact same time, which made her giddy. She so totally loved ritual and routine. Maybe that could be another deep dark secret. Spontaneity was overrated. “Lola?”
“Be there in a sec.”
“Have you come up with your deepest darkest?”
“I think so.”
Cristy stood up, squishing a multicolored skein of Kureyon in her palm. “Wait until you see what we got from Japan.”
“Okay,” Lola called. “Let me get a pot of ‘What’s the friggin’ point?’ going.”
“Yeah, we call that decaf. Many people enjoy it.”
“Whatever. It’s an insult to coffee the world over.”
Cristy laughed. Lola was a culinary school graduate who had come to Simplicity on the heels of a prestigious personal chef position. Her former boss? The second wealthiest pro-athlete-turned-business-mogul in Denver, behind John Elway, of course. Unfortunately, the guy was also a morally devoid, misogynistic prick—Lola’s exact description. After he’d crossed one too many of Lola’s lines, she’d “turned in her resignation,” Lola style.
Rather than typing out a letter he would no doubt have ignored, she baked the man an elaborate ten-layer cake, then decorated it in her trademark exquisite fashion—right down to the phrase, “Go Fuck Yourself, Pin-dick,” written out in perfect, forty-eight-point, butter-cream script. For maximum effect, Lola had the cake delivered to the man’s office during his most important meeting of year.
Some people might have counted the cake deal as a red flag during the hiring process. Not Cristy. The fact that Lola had willingly divulged details of the comeuppance had pretty much guaranteed her the job at Simplicity. If there was one thing Cristy could appreciate, it was honesty. Not to mention a memorable parting shot. Great exit lines only popped into her mind after the opportunity to dole them out had passed. Lola had guts and one hell of a résumé, so she’d hired her—simple as that—and trusting her instincts had paid off. Lola fit so seamlessly into Simplicity, Cristy had a hard time remembering how things had been before she’d arrived. Plus, having an actual chef in charge of all the food and beverages had more than quadrupled sales and accounted for a large percentage of their return customer base. Denver loved Lola’s baked goods, and Cristy paid her well for the privilege of being the sole supplier.
“Quick, turn on the radio,” Lola said breathlessly as she blew into the room like a zephyr. She wore the standard chef’s black-checked pants and white jacket, but her long red dreadlocks bounced against her shoulders as if in defiance of tradition. She handed Cristy a fresh mug of coffee and set a plate of scones on one of the shipping boxes. In the background, the brewing decaf gurgled, its rich smell permeating the whole place. “Hurry. I don’t want to miss any of the show.”
The show.
Cristy sighed. Okay, so Lola had one fault: she was addicted to Marisol’s morning radio show.
“Not this morning, Lo. Please? I’m so enjoying the peace and quiet, which disappears instantly whenever my big sister’s voice invades my space.” She crossed her arms over her middle. “Besides, I’m pissed at her.”
“Why this time?” Lola bit into a scone.
“Yesterday at brunch she leaned across the table and announced—loudly—that I needed some hard-core tweezer time, because my overgrown eyebrows were starting to make me look like Frida Kahlo.”
Lola bit back a laugh, then scrutinized Cristy’s face.
“Well?”
Lola nodded, lips pursed. “Don’t sweat it. The unibrow looks fine to me.”
“Shut up!” Cristy slapped a palm to her browline. Okay, okay, so she’d pluck. Sheesh.
“I’m only kidding. Everyone knows how your sister is.” Lola’s lips quivered and she cleared her throat. “Plus, you have to admit, it’s kind of funny.”
Cristy bugged her eyes and reached for the second scone she probably shouldn’t eat. “Funny? That’s it, woman. No radio for you.”
“Come on, please? She and Wyatt are in rare form today.”
“Now, there’s a shocker,” Cristy muttered around a mouthful of scone.
“No. I mean, worse than usual. I’d be surprised if they don’t wind up in a fistfight. They’re courting fines from the FCC, big-time.”
Cristy swallowed, then studied her friend as though she were psychotic. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It’s damned entertaining radio, I’ll say that much.” Lola picked up a skein of the Japanese wool. “Great colors.” She held them to her cheek. “A good match for my skin tone. You should knit me something.”
Cristy brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “Knit it yourself. I taught you how.” She splayed a palm on her stomach. “God, your scones are pure evil.”
“I know,” Lola said with a wink. “And creating them is both a science and an art, which is why I have no time to knit. So, if you won’t knit me something, at least show me your appreciation by—”
“Turning on the radio,” they said in unison.
“Exactly,” Lola added with a nod.
“Fine.” Cristy rolled her eyes, then ambled toward the stereo. Truthfully? She usually gave in. Marisol and Wily Wyatt often discussed topics that were better left alone, if you wanted her opinion. But she’d been enjoying the show much more since she forbade Marisol from mentioning her at all. Her business? Yes. But after one embarrassment too many, her personal life was now one-hundred-percent, no exceptions, off limits. That was the new rule.
Surprisingly, Marisol had agreed to it.
At least now she didn’t have to listen to the show with bated breath, just waiting for her sister to whip their family skeletons out of the closet and parade them around for complete strangers to ridicule.
“First tell me your secret, Lo.”
“Oh.” Lola shrugged. “It’s probably the cake thing.”
“That’s not a secret. Cheater.” She switched on the sound system, then spun toward Lola, who was gleefully pawing through the Noro shipment. “If I must suffer through their nonsense, catch me up. What are they arguing about today?”
“Sex workers.”
“Jesus,” Cristy muttered, closing her eyes for a moment. “My poor mother. Never mind, don’t tell me.”
“It’s interesting stuff. Besides, your mother loves Marisol’s radio ’tude. Where do you think Mar got it from?”
“Good point. More’s the pity.”
Lola drew out a skein of magenta alpaca and sniffed it reverently. “It all started with a debate about that strip club ban the right wingers are trying to get on the ballot.”
“Politics. Great,” Cristy scoffed. “Glad they’re avoiding the incendiary topics.”
“Yeah, well, Wyatt is on his ‘once a slut, always a slut’ soap-box, and your sister is defending the rights of women who choose such employment. And doing a bang-up job, I might add. No pun intended.”
“Swell. My sister—great defender of fallen women.” She rubbed the headache points on her temples. “Why couldn’t I have been an orphan?”
“Shhh!” Lola said, pointing toward the speakers.
“Listen,” came Marisol’s clear, loud voice over the airwaves, “say what you will about sex workers, but it’s not all about female degradation or a way for junkies to get their next fix. I know a lot of doctors and lawyers—businesswomen, too—who used money from sex work for grad school.”
“Prostitute lawyers? That’s brilliant. And fitting! I mean, usually when you hire a lawyer, you end up getting screwed anyway.” Wyatt cracked up at his own joke.
Marisol laughed, too, but quickly straightened up. “Sex work and prostitution aren’t synonymous, Wyatt. There’s stripping, online modeling. Even, I don’t know, phone sex.”
“Like those are any better?” Wyatt laughed.
“Hey, postgraduate work is expensive. These women can earn a lot more money stripping their way to an MBA than waiting tables at some chain restaurant for crappy tips. If it helps them to become highly productive members of society, I’m all for it.”
Cristy’s inner alarm started to ping at about what seemed, ohhh, wind chime volume. Just a niggling nudge for her to listen closely. Not to worry, though, because Marisol had promised….
“That’s bull! Name one professional who has done it.”
“It’s not my place to name names. You know that.”
He laughed. “That’s because you don’t have names to name. I can smell an Avila bluff a mile away.”
“I’m not bluffing!”
“Riiiiiight.” Wily Wyatt’s voice dripped with überskepticism. He knew precisely how to prod Marisol into a verbal battle with his arrogant banter—one of the reasons they were so popular with listeners. “Then answer this, yes or no. You’d honestly trust a lawyer or doctor if you knew she’d table-danced her way through college?”
“Darn right I would. In fact—” Marisol cut herself off—a wholly uncharacteristic move.
Cristy could almost hear her sister weighing her pros and cons, and in that split second her internal alarm volume cranked up to air raid siren level. She stood immobile, trans-fixed with the voices emanating from her sound system. Blood began to pound in her ears. Her sisterly psychic connection warned her to brace for the impending verbal train wreck before she even heard the whistle. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” asked Lola.
“Nothing.” Her sister never hesitated before a blurt. Never. There had to be a reason, and logic said…
But, no. It couldn’t be, because Marisol had promised—
“Give it up,” said Wyatt.
“Well…” said Marisol.
“No. I’m begging,” Cristy whispered, moving closer to the speaker on wobbly legs. “Don’t give anything up.”
“What?”
“Shhh!” She flapped her hand in Lola’s direction.
“Come on,” Wyatt prompted in his well-honed cocky tone.
“Never mind,” Marisol said.
Cristy exhaled in relief.
But Wyatt wouldn’t let it drop. “You can’t defend it, can you? I win this round. Just admit it, Avila. You’re wrong. I’m right. Ha! No one would trust a professional if they knew she’d tramped her way through school.”
“Not only am I offended by your use of the word ‘tramped,’ but I happen to know you’re dead wrong,” was Marisol’s sharp retort. “And I have a great example.”
Cristy inhaled sharply and braced herself.
“Well, don’t keep Denver waiting.”
“Yes! Keep them waiting!” Cristy shouted.
Marisol released an audible breath. “Okay, so—”
“No!”
“—my sister won’t be thrilled that I broke a promise to her, but it’s for a noble cause.”
“Damnit!” Cristy covered her face with hands that had gone morgue slab cold. “No, no, no, no!”
“What the hell am I missing here?” Lola asked.
Cristy heard the bewilderment in Lola’s question, but knew she didn’t have to answer. Lola, and the whole freakin’ world, would know her true deepest, darkest secret soon enough. She raised her eyes heavenward. “God? I know you’re swamped, but please be listening,” she said in a rush of words she knew were wasted. “I will never ask for anything again if you somehow stop Marisol from saying—”
“My baby sister, Cristy—”
“Shit!” She stomped.
“—the highly successful owner of Simplicity in West Highlands—”
“Shit, shit!”
“—worked as a phone sex girl during grad school.”
“What?” Wyatt blurted in half astonishment, half laughter.
Marisol raised her voice and kept talking. “You asked, and I’m providing you with concrete proof that I am right and you are dead wrong. There is no question Cristy is a self-made business mogul, right?”
“Right, but—”
“But nothing. My kid sister is neither a tramp nor a slut. Hell, she barely dates, but that’s a whole different topic. And yet she launched that business of hers with well-earned phone sex money, and I’m damn proud of her for doing so. What do you think of that?”
“Is that true?” Lola gasped just as Cristy yelled, “You bitch!” at the stereo speaker.
“Is it? Is it true?”
In the background Wyatt was hollering, “Bombshell! Bombshell! Bombshell! Folks, the phone lines are blowing up in the studio. Give us a call if you have a comment about today’s topic. Little Cristy Avila, one of Denver’s most successful up-and-coming business owners, was a phone sex girl. Now that’s the way to spice up your Monday morning commute. Cristy, if you’re out there, how about calling in and giving the listeners a little sample: 303–555-HOTT. Bucka-wow!”
“I am going to kill her.” Cristy sank to the floor cross-legged. Her body thrummed with the kind of prickly adrenaline surge brought about by pure shock. “I can’t believe she did this! Again! She promised she wouldn’t ever tell a soul, Lo.” Cristy peered up at her friend with wide, round eyes. “How could she throw me under the bus like that?”
“Shit on rye,” Lola said in a reverent tone as her lips spread into a smile. “It is true.”
“She swore on her wardrobe that she wouldn’t discuss my life on her show anymore! And you know how the Material Girl loves her damn designer clothes.” Marisol was Blahnik to her Birkenstock. Couture vs. Comfort. Lhuillier as opposed to Levi’s. One day, Marisol called, all excited because she’d gotten a great deal on a new pair of “Choos.” Confused, Cristy’d thought her sister was saying “shoes” with some weird fake Spanish accent. No lie. That she and Marisol were even related boggled the mind. “It was a rule!”
Lola cringed. “This might be stating the obvious, but your sister doesn’t strike me as much of a rule follower.”
“I hate her.”
“No, you don’t.
“Yes, I do. I really, really do.” At least, she wanted to. The ramifications of Marisol’s blurt raced through Cristy’s head. She felt violated. She felt outed. She felt naked and ass up in front of the whole world. She could just imagine the fallout—
A sick realization clutched her throat and shot ice down her spine. She jammed her spread fingers into the front of her hair. “Holy mother of—oh my God.”
“What? What now?”
“My parents. They know nothing about the phone sex job. I never told them. Obviously.”
“Oops.”
Cristy flopped back onto the floor and stared unseeing at the ceiling. “I’m fucked.”
The hardwood floor creaked as Lola moved closer to peer down at her with a sympathetic grimace. “No, you aren’t. You’re a grown woman. Your parents can’t punish you for…damn, Cris. Sorry, but…phone sex? That’s what I’d call a secret worthy of a handmade postcard. How much does a gig like that pay?”
Cristy pierced her with a droll stare. “Lola.”
Lola held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, no questions. Not yet, at least. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, your parents. They’ll just have to understand.”
“That’s not it. I was always the good daughter! I liked being the good daughter. I never wanted them to know.”
Lola shrugged. “If you didn’t want them to know, you never should’ve told that sister of yours.”
“It was an accident!”
“Make your peace, honey. The cat’s out of the bag, what’s done is done, and every other cliché that means you can’t change what already happened. Besides, it doesn’t cancel out your ‘good daughter’ status anyway.”
“It’s not like I loved the stupid job. But it paid great, and I could work from home while I studied.” She groaned, bonking the back of her head on the floor. The knitting needle securing her topknot poked her in the skull, so she yanked it out and threw it. “How else was I supposed to afford this place? Did they want me living in their basement like some social mutant until I saved up enough?”
“Exactly.” Lola spread her arms wide. “See?”
As if that were a decent argument. All she could see was her life swirling down the toilet.
“Chin up, Cris. It’ll blow over.” She held her hand out to help Cristy up from the floor.
Cristy accepted it, scrambling to her feet. “I’m so disowning her this time. Screw the free publicity. We don’t need it. Business is booming here. We couldn’t drive the customers away if we wanted to.” She froze.
“What?”
“Hurry, lock the back door.”
“Why?”
Cristy dashed to the front door and threw the dead bolt. She flipped the window sign to CLOSED, then yanked the curtains together behind it. “It’s Monday. You know the Mondragon sisters always come early on Mondays because their kids are in play group.”
“Yeah. So, what does that have to do with the back—”
“Just do it, Lola. Please.” Cristy stomped around the room snapping roman shades down over the tall windows. “We have an hour before we have to open, and I’m not up for earlybirds. Not today.” She needed sixty full minutes to somehow pull herself together.
Once she’d battened down all the hatches, she sank into the bay window seat with a pained groan. “I’ll knock her on her ass next time I see her, I swear. This is war, Lola. It’s gonna get ugly as hell.”
Lola’s eyes went round. “Right. How about I…um…go fix you a nice cup of tea,” Lola said as she reversed it out of the room. “Something calming. Chamomile, I think.”
“Screw calm. Steep some arsenic tea,” Cristy hollered after her. “I’ll offer my sister a cup.”
“Lord almighty,” she heard Lola mumble.
Geez. Cristy jammed her arms crossed. Ranting wasn’t generally her style, but Marisol always brought out the worst in her. She could hardly blame Lola for wanting to bail. Releasing a sound midway between a sigh and a sob, she rested her head against the back cushion that nestled the side of the window seat. Why had she ever let down her guard with Marisol? Hadn’t she been burned enough already? The betrayal was crushing.
Breathe, Cristy, she told herself. In…out. In…out.
It wasn’t as though this was the first time Hurricane Marisol had stormed through her life, leaving a wide swath of devastation in her wake. One would think she’d be immune to it by now. In…out.
But, really, who wouldn’t be embarrassed by the phone sex job announcement? What sane woman could become immune to having her private life exploited in front of the entire metro area, all for the sake of f-ing ratings? In…out.
Okay, so maybe exploitation was too strong of a word. After all, according to their mother, Marisol meant well. Whatever. The entire blabbermouth Avila clan meant well, but big freakin’ whoop. They just didn’t get it, not a single one of them. Over the years, her boisterous, boundary-challenged familia’s good intentions had done a piss-poor job of making her feel any less mortified by their antics. Or less exposed when they shoved her into the spotlight she dreaded with every fiber of her being. Kind of like now.
Inoutinoutinoutinoutinout.
The flood of emotions carried her straight back to seventh grade, when Marisol had thrown the socially crippling, surprise “Welcome to Womanhood” party to celebrate Cristy’s first menstrual period. Oh yes, the festivities came complete with blood red balloons, a cake decorated like a big-ass Midol tablet, and boys from school on the guest list. Boys.
That one had nearly killed her.
Of course, Marisol was so out of touch, she’d never dreamed the WtW party would hurt or embarrass her. She’d been genuinely excited by this evidence that her hermanita was growing up, and figured Cristy would be, too. In other words, Marisol had meant well. The tragedy was that she’d felt the need to share.
That horrific night had always ranked number one, by a wide margin, on her Most Humiliating Moments list. Until today.
Screw deep breathing. She buried her face in her hands.
Look, she’d long since accepted that she’d been dropped, tragically, into the wrong gene pool by some crack-smoking, half-blind stork. Obviously—because she was the only Avila who’d come equipped with the standard embarrassment gene. Which is why, at the ripe old age of five, she’d decided that her goal in life was to fade quietly into the background. God, how she’d tried. With Simplicity, she’d come thisdamnclose to succeeding.
Freakin’ Marisol.
Enough. She needed to face facts. Fading was impossible unless she extricated herself from the tell-all talons of her relatives, once and for all. Problem was…she couldn’t do it. No matter how much she wished she could right then.
Because—damn it all—she loved them.
All of them, even her big-mouthed, hag bitch of a sister.
Despite the traumas of her adolescence, despite every embarrassing thing they’d ever done, despite the fact that she didn’t even date because the thought of bringing a guy to meet the Avilas gave her hives, she really did love her family. She’d tried to hate Marisol. Really, she had.
It just hadn’t worked.
With a long, morose sigh, all her fight melted into something gooey and useless, like defeat. Resignation. Loss of will. And sitting here wasn’t going to change a damned thing. Cristy stood. She might as well bury herself in work and denial, Just like usual. She scuffed her way into the back room as Lola emerged from the kitchen holding a steaming mug.
Unshed tears stung Cristy’s eyes. “I can’t believe she outed me like that, Lola.”
For a moment the two women stood across from each other just staring. “It might not be as bad as you think,” Lola finally said in an uncertain tone, but beneath her zillion freckles, her face had gone ghostly white.
“Hello, former phone sex girl?” Cristy aimed both thumbs at herself.
“Well…but…yeah. Okay, I guess it’s sort of bad. But…she didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sure.”
“She never means to upset me. That’s not the point. People will look at me differently, Lo. My parents, customers.”
“I don’t look at you any differently. Frankly, I think it’s an interesting facet of your past that I wish I knew more about. A lot more.” Her money-green eyes widened and she held the mug out toward Cristy.
Ignoring Lola’s not-so-subtle hint, Cristy waved away the mug. “I don’t want to be interesting. I’d rather be invisible.”
“I know, hon. I know.” With a sigh, Lola set the steaming tea on an unopened box. “Look,” she said. “Marisol loves you.”
Cristy barked out a pained laugh. “Yeah. She loves me her way. She has no concept of what love would mean to me.” She clenched her fists. “She might just love me to death if she doesn’t stop humiliating me in public.”
“No one has ever died of embarrassment.”
“Great. I’ll be the first mortification death on record. More fame—just my luck.” Cristy reared back and punched her fist through the tape line of another box of yarn.
Lola yelped. “Cut it out, before you break your wrist.”
“It’s just yarn.” Unfazed, she tore the box flaps up. “You know, on second thought, a coffin sounds pretty good. At least I’d be away from it all, surrounded by peace and quiet.”
“Stop talking like that. It’s just her job,” Lola said, starting in on a box of her own, albeit with less violence.
“Yeah, well her job sucks.”
“It might suck, but she’s damn good at it. Besides, people get it. They do. Listeners probably won’t even believe what she said is true. And, if they do, well…I’m sure you’re not the first sibling of a DJ who has been embarrassed in public.”
“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” Cristy hurled a skein of variegated red mohair. It hit Lola’s shoulder and deflected left, but she caught it.
“I guess it’s just supposed to be the truth.” Lola tossed the yarn in the air and palmed it again.
Cristy lifted the tea and sipped, considering her friend’s words. Lola was right, of course. But the truth did not set her free. Marisol, with her big mouth and no shame, was the quintessential radio shock jock, which is why she and Wily Wyatt dominated the Denver radio market. Thanks to the Godzilla-sized photos of the pair decorating billboards, buses, and bar walls, Mari couldn’t even go to Wal-Mart without someone recognizing her. That sounded like pure, undiluted hell to Cristy, but her sister ate it up.
The stupid radio show was popular because people loved to revel in the misfortunes of others, to squirm over someone else’s embarrassment, and the evil duo served that shit up like homemade cherry pie. But why did it always have to be her freakin’ pie?
Like a snap, her anger reignited. She pounded the side of her fist against her thigh. “That bitch! Maybe I’ll sue her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s your sister.”
“All the more reason. A big dollar lawsuit might be just what it takes to shake her into realizing I mean it when I say my private life doesn’t belong on her radio show.”
“It might turn out to be nothing. I mean, not everyone listens to the Marisol and Wily Wyatt show.”
As if to directly dispute Lola’s words, the wall phone started ringing, as did her cell from inside her purse. Cristy hesitated a moment, then silently chastised herself. She had a business to run, for God’s sake. Lifting the shop’s handset, she infused as much enthusiasm into her tone as possible. “Simplicity, this is Cristy.”
“Hot damn,” came the strange man’s oily words. “It is you.”
Her knuckles whitened on the receiver. “Who is this?”
“Come on now, Crystal. I used to call you all the time. Don’t you remember? I’d recognize your voice anywhere.”
She swayed, light-headed with alarm, and grabbed the wall to steady herself. “You must be mistaken.”
“Not at all,” he said with a low chuckle. “So…what are you wearing?”
“Don’t call here again.”
“Not gonna tell me? Bet I could find out for myself.”
Cristy slammed the phone down, but not before she heard the guy’s taunting laughter. Pulse racing in her neck, she spun to pick up her bag, wrestled her cell phone out and turned it off. She dropped it and her purse to the hardwood floor. Who the hell cared if the mirror in her compact shattered? What was another seven years bad luck?
“Cristy?” Lola asked, worry sharpening her tone.
Shaken, Cristy leaned her back against the wall and slid down to the floor. With her elbows on her knees, she dropped her forehead into her hands.
“Wh-Who was that?”
Cristy remained silent for a few long moments, then slid her hands away and met Lola’s concerned gaze. “Some pervert who called me Crystal,” she said in a monotone.
Lola looked confused.
“My phone sex name,” Cristy explained. “And he wanted to know what I’m wearing.”
“Oh my God. Sick bastard.”
Cristy listlessly flung her arm toward the front room. “And I’m sure it won’t take long before he walks through that door to get my fashion details for himself. He intimated as much. Maybe he was just toying with me, but who knows?”
“Dios mio.” Lola rubbed away the goose bumps that rose on her upper arms. “I never even thought of that.”
Cristy managed a brittle smile. “Yeah, so how exactly are we going to run a business if we have to worry about some creep walking in? And how many people know I live upstairs? I can’t even feel safe in my own home.” Tension stretched between them as they pondered the frightening possibilities.
“You’ll stay with me until this blows over.”
“If it blows over. And actually, you’ll have to stay here with me. I can’t leave the shop vulnerable.”
“Right. Of course not. Okay.” Lola bit her bottom lip, her eyes wide and troubled.
“Marisol’s innocent, well-meaning broadcast doesn’t seem quite so harmless now, does it?”
The business line rang again. And again.
Neither Cristy nor Lola moved.
On the third ring, Lola bent forward and yanked the cord from the jack.
Cristy closed her eyes and exhaled into the silence. “I swear to God, my sister will make this nightmare go away and give me back my incognito life. No matter what it takes.”
Damn it! She’d screwed up again!
According to Mom, her baby sis was on a rampage, threatening to disown her or kill her—whichever Cristy found the simplest and most satisfying at the time.
Marisol threw her gearshift into overdrive and merged into the steady stream of commuter traffic onto westbound I-70. Her insides were revving out of control, but her BMW handled the acceleration calmly. Just like her sister, Cris. Always infuriatingly composed and serene. Throughout their lives, Cristy had this weird talent for being able to anticipate consequences before she took actions so she could always make the best choice. The phrase “spur of the moment” didn’t exist for Cristy. Marisol envied her that ability, but, truth be told, she also found it just a tad bit annoying.
She smacked the heel of her hand against the leather steering wheel. She hated being on her sister’s shit list. Not that Cris would believe her—or even give her a chance to explain—but she truly hadn’t meant to embarrass her. Couldn’t Cris see that? How many ways would she have to show her love and respect for her sister before Cristy truly trusted her?
The whole groveling her way back into Cristy’s good graces plan was a long shot, at best. She knew that. But what was the alternative? Over the years, she’d found it virtually impossible to discern what would or wouldn’t send her sister flying off the handle. Shit, she’d given Cristy a simple shout out that morning for her determination and entrepreneurial ingenuity. Cristy’s past had been the positive example of the show. A compliment. Hello! She figured Cristy would be proud of the resourcefulness that allowed her to launch her business at the tender age of twenty-six. But, no.
Okay, there was that teensy detail about not discussing her private life. But, still, it never ceased to amaze her how shy and private her sister could be. So she had one little phone sex job on her résumé. Big deal! That fact shouldn’t be embarrassing to someone as successful as Cristy. But it was.
Why? No. Seriously. Why?
Someone needed to fill her in, because she just didn’t get it. And yet, she knew Mom hadn’t exaggerated her sister’s anger. Mom said Cristy was more torqued off than she’d ever been, even angrier than she’d been after the Welcome to Womanhood party (which really had been intended as a thoughtful gesture). This time, Cristy didn’t just want to disappear. She wanted Marisol’s head on a stake. Of that, she had no doubt.
They might have landed on opposite ends of the personality spectrum, but she and Cristy were connected in some weird psychic way. All day long she’d felt Cristy’s anger boiling over inside her own chest—like a wicked bout of acid reflux. They needed to talk this out, and yet Cristy stubbornly refused to answer her cell. She had left messages, urgent pages, text—nada. She’d pleaded with Cristy via voice mail, to no avail. She even faxed over a note asking Cristy to pretty-please-with-chocolate-on-top call.
Still zippo.
The stony silence from Cristy freaked her out more than anything, so she had no choice but to track her down and force the issue. She’d push her over and sit on her if that’s what it took to make her listen to reason. That tactic had always worked well when they were kids.
Whatever it took to elicit a response from Cristy, she’d do it. Even if she had to instigate a screaming match or a fistfight. Food fight, pillow fight, arm wrestling—at this point, anything was better than her baby sister’s silence.
She adored Cristy, and nothing she had ever done or would ever do was intended to hurt her. Period. Before this fiasco was over, Cris was going to know that, once and for all.
So much for Simplicity being her peaceful little oasis. After the phone creep scare, Cristy and Lola decided to keep the doors locked and only open them to regulars. They’d hoped doing so would lend a bit of normalcy to the day while keeping them safe from any deviants who might be skulking in the alley.
Talk about wishful thinking.
News traveled way too fast. Instead of the typical Monday stitch-and-bitch session, interspersed with brisk sales of both yarn and yummies, her family of regulars ignored their needles and peppered her with embarrassingly frank questions instead.
What did she say to the guys?
Would she demonstrate her phone sex voice?
Did it turn her on, too? (Please.)
Had she ever masturbated while on a call?
Ugh! As if! Were they out of their minds? They were as intrigued by her alleged racy past as Lola had been. Consequently, she spent most of her day feeling like she’d landed in some jacked-up Jerry Springer episode. After the supertraumatizing masturbation question (shudder), she excused herself and hid out in the back room going through the rest of the blissfully silent boxes.
When Lola popped in to tell her that crews from two local TV stations had just pulled up in their vans, Cristy apologized to the customers and closed the place altogether. She hoped Marisol was satisfied. Not only had her sister violated her trust in the worst possible way, but she’d screwed her out of practically a whole day’s profits, too.
After the last customer left, Cristy double-checked the lock, then peeked out the wavy glass of the front window at the news crews setting up their equipment. One crew even unloaded a cooler and chairs. Did they plan to camp out? Unfreakin’-believable that she would merit this kind of attention. Talk about a slow news day.
She shook her head at the absurdity of it all, then joined Lola, who was cleaning up the kitchen. “I wonder how long they’ll stay out there,” she said over the whoosh of the overhead mounted sprayer.
Lola wiped some water from her face with the crook of her elbow. “You know the media. They’re like a dog on a bone.”
Cristy slid onto a tall stool next to the wide worktable she’d picked up especially for Lola at an antique shop on Broadway. The thick wooden piece had come from Denver’s historic Pasquini’s Bakery. Cristy knew it would be the perfect thank-you gift after the first time Lola’s baked goods had doubled Simplicity’s profits. “Need any help?”
Lola smiled at her from the stainless steel sink, one hand aiming the industrial-sized sprayer she used to clean the pans and dishes. “Nah, there’s not that much. But I’ll take the company.” She lifted her chin toward the vintage glass bakery case—another antique shop find. “Might as well have another scone. We have a lot of leftovers.”
“Yeah, thanks to my hag of a sister.” Cristy reached into the case and plucked out a doughy morsel. The clock tick-tocked on the wall, and the lemony scent of the dishwashing liquid wafted in the air. Everything seemed normal, and yet it wasn’t.
“You talked to her yet?”
Cristy broke off a chunk of white chocolate and popped it into her mouth. “How could I talk to her? She’s dead to me. We’d have to hold a séance.”
Lola rolled her eyes. “You need to talk to her, girl. Tell her about that sicko who called, at the very least. She’s a local celebrity. She’ll know what to do about it.”
“I know. I’ll talk to her as soon as the urge to pound her face in subsides.” Cristy scrunched up her nose. “She’s been trying to get ahold of me all day. She even faxed.”
“Call her back!”
“No need.”
“Huh?” Lola shook water droplets off a large baking sheet and set it upright in the prongs of the drainer.
“Trust me. Marisol doesn’t like being ignored and—” She glanced up at the clock. “—she got off work twenty minutes ago. Ten bucks says she’s on her way here right now, just as fast as her broom will carry her.”
Lola laughed as she dried her hands on the green apron she always wore while cleaning up, then she lifted it over her head and hung it on one of the antique glass doorknobs they’d fashioned into wall hooks.
Right on cue, they heard pounding on the back door. Marisol never entered through the front door, for some unknown reason—another annoying aspect of her personality.
“Cristy! Open up!”
“Speaking of Satan,” Cristy said in a droll tone.
“Hurry!” Marisol said in a stage whisper. “Before the news crews see me.” The sound of Marisol sliding a credit card into the door’s lock mechanism carried into the kitchen.
Cristy quirked one eyebrow at Lola. “Should I call the cops on her? Have her arrested for attempted burglary? I’m sure Mom and Dad would bond her out, but probably not before she suffered through an invasive cavity search at the jail. That would definitely cheer me up.”
Lola clucked her tongue and aimed one pointer finger at Cristy. “Stay here. I’ll get the door.” She started toward the sounds of Marisol breaking and entering, then hesitated and turned back. With a wan smile, she snatched up her knife block and moved it to the other side of the room, as far from Cristy’s reach as she could.
Indignant, Cristy rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. I’m not the Lorena Bobbit type, you know.”
“Sorry. I prefer to err on the side of caution. Can’t have my good knives confiscated as evidence, after all.” Lola shrugged, then disappeared into the creaky back hallway.
Cristy used the moment alone to take several deep breaths. She knew what her sister would say, and she knew it would piss her off even more. Same shit, different fiasco. Her blood began to boil. On second thought, maybe it was a good thing Lola had moved those knives after all.
Moments later Marisol click-clacked into the kitchen on her pricey five-inch heels. Inside, Cristy scoffed. Only her sister would dress up for a job in radio, for God’s sake. She couldn’t get enough of being the center of attention, right down to her freakin’ impractical footwear.
Cristy’s spine stiffened and she clamped her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking. Her eyes narrowed.
Lola followed Marisol in, wagging her finger at Cristy in a silent warning against the commission of murder, or something, Cristy thought. Whatever. If it came to that, Lola knew damn well it was justified.
“Have a scone,” Lola said to Marisol in a false cheery voice. But her gaze never left Cristy’s face.
Neither did Marisol’s. She froze in the middle of the kitchen, her Tods bag clutched to her abdomen. She didn’t acknowledge Lola. Instead, she gulped, then said, “Cristy?”
Stare-down.
Marisol’s throat tightened, telegraphing her fear. Good. She should be afraid.
“Aren’t you going to…throw something? Or yell?”
“Eat…a…goddamned…scone,” Cristy demanded in her most evil voice. “And apologize to Lola while you’re at it.”
Marisol’s uncertain gaze darted from Cristy, to the scones, to Lola, and back to Cristy. She edged over to the display and extracted a scone. “Wh-What for?”
“What for? In case you hadn’t noticed, we usually sell out of Lola’s baked goods. But thanks to your big mouth, today we have a shitload that will go to waste.”
Marisol blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”
“Shut up!” Cristy lunged to her feet, fists clamped at her sides. “God! I pegged that one. That is the last thing I want to hear come out of your mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to,’” Cristy mocked. “You never mean to, Mar, do you?” She paused long enough for her sister to shake her head. “Too bad, because this time you crossed a line.”
“But Cristy—”
“But nothing! Shut your hole! It’s my turn to talk.” She jabbed her arm toward the front of the house. “The worst part, Mar, isn’t that we had the crappiest business day so far this month, even though we did. Or that Lola did all that baking for nothing. Not even that the news vans are parked outside waiting to pry into my personal life, which you know I despise—”
“Cris—”
“I’m not finished.” She snatched up a long wooden spoon and pointed it at her sister. “You want to know what the worst part is? Give it a guess. You’re a smart woman.”
She swallowed thickly. “That I embarrassed you in public?”
“Strike one!” Cristy swung the spoon as if going for a home run. “Try again.”
Marisol flinched. “That Mom and Dad know?”
“Strike two! Although I may never forgive you for that, come to think of it.” She smacked the spoon on the table. Hard. “Dare to take a final stab at it? Be careful now. You’ve already got two strikes.”
Marisol’s hand fluttered up to her neckline and she took a half step back. “That I…um…broke a promise?”
“Strike three, Marisol, even though you do totally suck for that. Maybe you should look that word up, promise, because you don’t have a clue what it means.” Cristy spiked the spoon onto the floor so hard that the handle snapped off. “Three strikes, and you’re out. Out of touch, that is. But don’t worry. I’ll tell you the worst part.”
Shaky, Marisol slumped onto the edge of a stool. She hadn’t touched her scone. For some reason, that fueled Cristy’s anger like a squirt of gasoline on a flame.
“The worst part,” Cristy said, stalking back and forth in front of her sister, “is that—thanks to you—I’ve been dodging calls from strange men who claim they used to call me on the stupid phone sex line. Of course, that was back when I was anonymous. Now they know exactly how and where to find me.”
“What?” Marisol’s eyes went wide.
“You heard me. Thanks to you, my anonymity is gone. Every pervert in the metro area now knows where I work and live.”
Marisol’s face drained of color.
“You seem surprised. Are you surprised?”
“Cris—”
“Because you shouldn’t be. If you had taken a moment—just one damn moment—to think before you opened your big mouth, you might have considered the consequences.” Cristy bent and swept the broken spoon parts off the floor. This time she spiked them into the empty metal trash can, watching her sister startle when they clanged on the bottom. “It’s not enough for you to ruin my business and embarrass me, but now you have to place me in actual physical danger? I hope you’re happy!”
“Oh, God, Cris. Do you actually think you’re in danger?”
“Gee, what do you think, Einstein?”
Marisol dropped her scone to the tabletop and crossed to her sister. She grasped her upper arms and didn’t let go, even when Cristy tried to wrench away. “You have to believe I never meant for that to happen.”
Cristy twisted violently a couple of times, trying to get loose of her clutches. When that didn’t work, she hiked one knee—hard—into the center of Marisol’s left thigh.
Marisol yelped and staggered backward, rubbing her leg.
Cristy advanced on her until they stood nose-to-nose. Marisol’s eyes welled with tears. “See, the thing is, you never mean for bad things to happen, and yet they do. Because you never think.” Cristy rapped a knuckle on her own temple. “And I’m sick of it! You have no boundaries, and you have no respect for anyone’s privacy. This time,” she aimed a finger at her sister’s chest, jabbing her just under the clavicle with each word, “you…just…went…too…far.” And then she shoved her.
Marisol stumbled backward on her stupid fuck-me heels, but Lola caught her before she fell flat on her ass. Too bad.
“Settle down, Cristy,” Lola said in a soft chastising tone.
“God, I’m so sorry.” Marisol wailed, covering her face with her hands. “I’m scared, too. God! What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to fix it,” Cristy snapped. “All of it.”
“How?”
“Jesus, Mar!” Cristy raked her sister with a scathing up and down glance. “For once in your life figure it out for yourself. I’m not picking up the pieces this time, and I will have my life back. Fix it.”
“Okay. I will. I promise.”
Cristy barked out a laugh. “As if your promises mean anything to me. Just…go. Get out. And don’t come back until you have a solution.”
Marisol cast a pleading glance at Lola, who patted her hand sympathetically.
“Go!”
Marisol jolted to attention, then nodded and turned toward the back door. She swiped at her tears with the backs of her hands as she scurried off.
“Take the damned scone!” Cristy yelled.
Her sister lunged for the table and snatched up the scone, then made a beeline for the exit.
Cristy listened until she heard the old door creak open, then slam shut. And then she exhaled. Closed her eyes.
After a moment she opened them and calmly smoothed down her sleeves—one, and then the other. “Well,” she said to Lola, “That went well, I think.”
Lola’s brows shot up. “Girl, Lord almighty.” She made the sign of the cross over her body with one hand, finishing with a kiss on her knuckles. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Marisol leaned against her BMW and waited for her blood pressure to drop into the “safe to drive” zone. With shaky hands she wrestled the emergency pack of cigarettes from the zipper pouch inside her purse, then fumbled for her lighter. It took her three flicks to get a flame, and then she hacked out the first lungful of smoke like some amateur. She’d lost her touch. But that was okay since she didn’t smoke anymore. Not really. People were right—it was a nasty habit. These were exigent circumstances, however, and exigent circumstances called for rules to be bent, nasty habit or not.
By the time she’d sucked the second cigarette down to the filter, the nicotine had sufficiently chilled her out. She dropped the butt onto the asphalt next to the first one, then smashed them both with the sole of her black Blahniks. After waving away the lingering smoke, she climbed into her car, eased into gear with deliberately calm motions, then crept slowly down the alley in the opposite direction from the news vans.
Damn. She needed a martini.
She’d irritated her shy hermanita before, but she’d never, ever seen her so ice-cold furious. It scared the crap out of her. What scared her more, though, was the thought of a bunch of creepy guys lurking around Simplicity. God! She raked one hand through the side of her hair, the other gripped tightly on the wheel. She’d have to concoct an ingenious way of atoning for this accidental sin on the show. That could wait, though. First priority was keeping her sister safe until things died down.
But how? Cristy was the planner in the family, not her.
Marisol weighed her options as she headed for the highway, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth. She would have suggested that Cristy close the shop for a week or two and move in with her, but could just imagine the response to that idea. She wouldn’t even broach the subject of Cristy bunking at the parents’ place, especially now that they knew the Big Secret. Oops. She’d forgotten that they hadn’t known.
So Cristy had to be safe at her own place somehow.
Hmmm…Wait! What about a dog?
Relieved to have come up with a reasonable idea, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and speed-dialed Cristy. It rang once, twice, then—
“What?”
“How do you feel about Dobermans?”
Click.
Marisol lifted the phone from her ear and stared at it a moment, then flipped it closed and tossed it on the passenger seat. Okay, so Fido was out. Argh!
If she could kick her own ass, she would. Never, for a single second, had she imagined that her fun, lighthearted radio show would place her baby sister in danger. But it had, and now she had to figure a way out of its path. She didn’t doubt her sister would disown her if she failed.
But what to do?
Maybe Wyatt would know. She retrieved her cell and speed-dialed his house. His wife Suzie answered, complimented her on that morning’s show, then passed the phone to her husband.
“What’s up, kid?”
In a rushed waterfall of words she clued him in.
He gave a long, low whistle. “What are you going to do?”
“No clue. That’s why I called you.”
She heard his familiar sigh and could just picture him rubbing his palm in a circular motion over his bald head while he pondered. “Look, you can’t recant what you said. It either wouldn’t make a difference or it would make things worse. Not to mention, you wouldn’t really want to because our ratings are amazing. Can you believe, several of the other stations were actually discussing our show?”
“Shit. That’s just what I need.” The ratings and buzz weren’t worth it this time. Not at this cost. “Seriously, I need to come up with some sort of plan, Wyatt.”
“I don’t think you have to do anything. You know how fickle listeners are. The whole thing will blow over in a few days.”
“Maybe for the listeners, but not for Cristy. Trust me. Besides, I’m more worried about all the perverts.”
“That part’s a little trickier.” He paused, obviously thinking. “You could…I don’t know. I guess hire some goon to hang around Cristy’s place for a week or so, maybe.”
“You think I should go that far?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“True. Okay.” A goon. But where did someone find a goon? Goons ’R’ Us? It’s not like she networked with goons on a day-to-day basis. Wait just a second. Marisol smiled as the fog cleared in her brain and a perfect solution presented itself. She actually did know a goon—a professional goon—and she also happened to know he was a great guy. Hell, she’d even met his mother way back when.
“I’ve got it.”
“What?”
“A plan. That’s why I keep you around, Wy. Brainstorms.”
“I had a brainstorm? Really? What was it?”
“I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” Marisol pushed the End button, then steered the Beemer onto the shoulder and engaged her emergency flashers. Vehicles whipped along the highway, rocking her car as they passed. She dug through her purse until she found the pressed paper bar coaster onto which her old buddy from high school, Diego Mora, had scribbled his phone number.
Running into him last weekend had been a pleasant surprise. He’d just moved back to Denver after a decade living in L.A. They’d spent a few moments catching each other up on their lives, then exchanged numbers so they could keep in touch. But honestly? She hadn’t intended to call. Why would she? Their lives had gone off in vastly different directions. Pleasant or not, he was really just a blast from her past. Right now, though, the blast felt more like divine intervention.
Edging her curtain aside, Cristy peered down on the big black Hummer hogging up curb space on her street. It had been there since a little before dawn. Worry had left her restless and unable to sleep, and she’d just happened to glance out her bedroom window at the precise moment when the ostentatious gas guzzler had turned onto her street then immediately doused its headlights. If that weren’t suspicious enough, the driver pulled the car to the curb one house down from hers then cut the engine, but no one had ever stepped out of the car.
Yeah, like she was really going to fall asleep after witnessing that. What was she, stupid? She watched the forensic dramas at night like the rest of the freakin’ country. She’d quickly brewed some coffee and then returned to her window seat to stand guard, and as she watched, she couldn’t help but wonder if the driver of the Hummer would call her Crystal. The thought made her skin crawl.
Several cups of coffee later the sun blazed rose-orange in the eastern sky. Lola was still asleep in the guest room, and Cristy didn’t want to wake her. But the more time she spent watching the Hummer, the more pissed off she’d become. She was no expert, but common sense said mixing pissed with exhaustion was probably a bad idea.
And yet, anger had long since ousted fear in her sleep-deprived brain, so right about now the idea of confronting this jackass sounded great. Did he think she’d play the prisoner role in her own home? Her sanctuary? That she’d run scared from him? Not damn likely, boy. Besides, if he wanted to break in, he would’ve done it under the cover of darkness. Right?
Stiff-backed with righteous indignation, she stomped down the stairs from her living quarters into the shop. At the door, she suffered one small twinge of don’t-be-a-dumbass doubt. If her life were a horror flick, she knew this would be the ubiquitous scene where people yell “Don’t do it!” at the screen as the too-stupid-to-live heroine runs into the dark forest wearing high heels. After all, once she unlocked the dead bolt and approached the Hummer, she was fair game.
Sure, she could do the allegedly smart thing and call the cops, but what could she say? “Send the police! There’s a Hummer parked on my street doing nothing”?
Riiiiight, psycho. She’d been embarrassed enough for one week, thank you very much. Her only choices were (1) to go out there and confront the idiot herself, or (2) sit in her house waiting for something to happen, like some hapless, helpless victim. Yeah, she wasn’t up for the victim role.
Bring on the confrontation.
But…maybe a weapon would be helpful.
She glanced around her pretty little shop, as always loving the way the soft morning light angled in through the east facing windows and cast a glow on the furnishings and yarn. Glow aside, however, the place was seriously lacking in the whole weapons department. She didn’t dare take one of Lola’s precious, not to mention expensive, knives. After all, knives were to a chef what needles were to a knitter. Wait—needles. That was an idea.
She settled on a long, stainless steel pair, testing their weight—or lack thereof—in her hands. Not the most threatening choice, but it was the best she could do in a pinch. Surely they could at least jab an eyeball out or skewer a testicle if need be, right? Ick.
Needles in hand, Cristy peeked out the front window to make sure the guy still sat in the Hummer. Satisfied, she crept to the back door and eased herself out. The crisp morning air energized her as she stepped onto the grass, still moist with dew. She shivered. Careful to scurry from shrub to tree, she picked her way through her backyard, then her neighbors’. She skulked up the side of her neighbors’ house to the front corner, then leaned her back against the cool brick wall. After a few deep breaths she shot a quick glance around the corner.
Still there, except now the Hummer was in front of her rather than behind her. Just where she wanted it.
She shivered again, this time from an unexpected rush of excitement. There was something very empowering about getting the drop on someone who was trying to get the drop on you. She’d have to remember the feeling and use it to outdiss her sister next time. If there was a next time, which there damn well better not be. But she couldn’t think about that right now, because it was “go time” in Operation Hummer.
She felt a shot of gratitude that her Victorian was in a neighborhood that boasted huge cottonwood trees arching over the street in a rich canopy of green. She’d loved the location from the moment she saw it, but right then she loved it even more. All those trees—not to mention her neighbors’ elaborate topiaries—would afford her plenty of cover as she approached the perv in the vehicle.
Crouched as low as she could manage while still being able to run, she dashed from boxwood bunny to topiary tiger, and finally to the oversized rear bumper of the obnoxious vehicle.
She stopped. Listened.
No change to indicate he suspected anything.
But if he had heard a noise, she thought, employing her best Nancy Drew deductive powers, he’d be most likely to check his driver’s side mirror or rearview mirror. Her best approach, then, would be on the passenger side.
Hunched so low she was practically crawling, she stealthed her way up the side, around the front grill, and stopped just in front of his rearview mirror. She’d gotten a quick glimpse of his profile as she rounded the vehicle, and just as she suspected, his gaze rested firmly on her house.
Her anger flared. How dare he?
Again she stopped. Listened.
Still no change.
She could hardly believe she’d slipped in without him noticing. Sheesh! Not only did she have a stalker, but he sucked at his chosen crime. Exactly the kind of guy who’d drive a small-penis-equalizer vehicle and go in for the whole phone sex thing. He probably lived in his mother’s basement.
His driver’s side window stood open and the scent of coffee wafted out. He also had the radio on—low. She strained forward to hear it. One moment…two…and—Bastard!
The creep was listening to KHOT—Marisol’s station. Of course it was Marisol’s station, and gee, her stupid show was about to start. That did it.
Cristy counted out a one…two…three in her head, then lunged forward and up like an Olympic jouster, jabbing the tips of her knitting needles against the front of the stalker’s muscular neck.
He froze, lifting his hands ever so slowly from the steering wheel. Above the needles, his Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Easy now,” he said.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” she growled.
His eyes darted toward her, then registered surprise. “Cristy?” His gaze swept over her. “Little Cristy Avila?”
Shock drained all the adrenaline out of her. She blinked a couple of times, trying to place him. He looked familiar, but—
“Damn, girl.” He grinned, visibly calmer. “Last time I saw you, you were all bony knees and braces.”
“Wha..?” Holy crap, it couldn’t be! “D-Diego?” She would hardly have recognized her sister’s high school friend without the knees and braces crack. She squeezed her eyes closed briefly, then looked again. Yup, it really was him. Her heart clenched. “Diego Mora?”
“In the flesh.”
He would have to put it that way. Diego Mora had been the object of all her earliest sexual fantasies. He’d been the hottest senior during her freshman year, but nowhere near as hot as his incarnation at age—she did the math—thirty.
But wait. Buzz kill image: Diego Mora as one of Crystal’s customers. Ew. She swallowed tightly, praying it wasn’t true. But she had to know. “Wh-What are you doing here?”
His right hand wrapped around the needles at his throat. “Do you mind?” He slowly moved the “weapons” away from him, then glanced down. He chuckled. And when his eyes met hers, her traitorous tummy did that telltale lust flop.
“No way did you just attack me with knitting needles.”
She hiked her chin, grasping for bravado. “It was all I had. Answer my question, what are you doing here?”
“Sorry.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “The needles threw me. Your sister hired me to keep an eye on you.”
She blinked, taking in his words.
Marisol. Hired Diego Mora.
Which meant he knew about the creeps calling her.
Which logically meant he knew about her phone sex past.
Which meant she wanted to vaporize right this minute and disappear beneath the earth’s crust. Damn! What were the odds? Her freakin’ obtuse sister had hired the sole object of her earliest teenage fantasies as her bodyguard? If that didn’t just take the cake.
Cake. Ugh. The word immediately threw her back to the abhorrent Welcome to Womanhood party, which led her to thoughts of the boys who’d shown up just to stuff their faces with Midol cake and snicker at her plight.
Diego had been one of those boys—the only sophomore. He hadn’t eaten any cake, and he hadn’t snickered like the snot-nosed seventh graders, but so what? If she remembered correctly, he’d looked at her with something crawly that felt a whole lot like pity. Kind of like the way he was looking at her now. And somehow, as she stood next to Diego Mora’s big, hideous testosterone-mobile brandishing her size ten and a half, stainless steel knitting needles, pity felt a million times worse than ridicule.
“Jesus, it never ends.” Cristy spun away from the Hummer and stomped back toward the safety—such as it was—of Simplicity.
So, she wasn’t thrilled to see him, Diego mused as he headed around the side of the house, returning to the Hummer. Not such a huge surprise. Clearly Cristy was embarrassed by the situation, and he couldn’t blame her. He had no interest in exacerbating that fact with his unwanted presence reminding her of what the entire metro area now knew, thanks to her sister. No sweat. He still had a job to do, but he could easily watch the place from outside. He’d set up the surveillance camera behind the house, which afforded him visuals of the alley, backyard, and back door on his laptop monitor. Gotta love technology.
Poor Cristy. He shook his head. Marisol had been a blast to hang out with back in the day, and he still thought she was one cool chick. But he could see how being her sister might suck. Especially since Cristy didn’t have the same bold, gregarious nature as Marisol. The woman said and did whatever came to her mind. Nothing embarrassed her.
Not so for little sis. He still remembered Cristy walking into the house all those years ago and coming face-to-face with that whacked party Marisol had put together. Surprise! they’d all yelled, and shy little Cristy had turned from mottled red to ashy gray as the realization seeped through her shock. Damn.
He’d only gone over to help Marisol decorate the basement, but he still felt awful for even being there. In fact, he felt a little guilty for recalling it now. After that, he’d spent the rest of that year feeling secretly protective of Cristy. Those pissant seventh grade boys Marisol had invited tormented Cristy mercilessly. He’d even had to whoop ass on the worst of the little cockroaches—Kevin O’Kane—after the kid refused to let up. That pencil-necked prick had been a bully since elementary school, and although Diego preferred to use force only as a last resort these days, hearing O’Kane cry like a buckle-shoed baby girl as he took the smackdown had been one of Diego’s more satisfying revenge moments.
Cristy didn’t know about any of it—him watching her back, thrashing the little eunuch on her behalf, nada. In fact, after her party, Diego couldn’t remember a single time when Cristy had actually made eye contact with him at school or anywhere else. She’d stayed safely inside her protective shell ever since.
Of course, a couple of years later, he and Marisol had graduated, leaving Cristy to brave the mean halls alone for three long years. How had the rest of high school turned out for her? Pretty rough, probably. Teenagers—especially good-for-nothing shitheels like Kevin O’Kane—could be cruel as hell.
Diego had lost contact with the Avila sisters after that, but the whole incident had steered him toward his eventual career path as a private investigator and personal bodyguard. He’d liked owning his own business. Problem was, guarding celebrities, although lucrative, hadn’t provided the same satisfaction as watching little Cristy Avila’s back had. Which was why he’d left L.A. Not specifically because of the Avila girls, but because he’d grown tired of the artificial and competitive atmosphere in the City of Angels. He yearned for more satisfying work, not that he knew what that entailed yet. How ironic, though, that his first freelance assignment in Denver was guarding little Cristy Avila. Again.
Talk about coming full circle.
He eased sideways in the Hummer’s roomy leather seat and propped his knee against the steering wheel. The familiar tormented emotions on Cristy’s expression earlier had kicked him square in the gut. Her feelings had always shown plainly on her face—since she was a kid, pobrecita, like a neon marquee.
But, man. She definitely wasn’t a kid anymore.
An image of her undulated through his mind, and he whistled low through his teeth. In the years he’d been away, Cristy Avila had transformed from Marisol’s quiet kid sister into an absolute, off-the-chain knockout. She was the kind of hot where she probably didn’t realize she was hot. Sexy, real, and unassuming. More gorgeous by far than any of the celebrities he’d worked for, as a matter of fact. They always turned out to be far too high maintenance and brittle, going heavy on the makeup and designer clothes just to cover up their insecurity. Not that it worked.
Cristy? Opposite end of the spectrum, big-time. She’d confronted him outside wearing old sweatpants and a holey Herman’s Hideaway T-shirt, wide brown eyes flashing fire. Her long dark hair stuck out all over the place, like she’d just tumbled out of bed, and yet, she hadn’t given it a thought. Man, that hair had done dangerous things to his blood pressure.
Three words to describe the grown up Cristy Avila? Hot, hot, and hot. Scorching hot. And yet she’d maintained that endearing sense of sincerity and vulnerability that had tripped his protective instincts when they were high school kids.
His mouth spread into a grin and he chuckled softly.
He couldn’t believe she’d been brandishing, of all things, knitting needles. Proudly, as though she were Xena, freakin’ Warrior Princess. That sense of the unexpected added to her appeal. He liked a woman who kept him guessing.
Yup—Cristy Avila had grown up, and damned if he didn’t love what he saw. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t explain why or how, but even after all this time, he knew her. If he gave one indication of his interest, she’d write it off merely as a result of the phone sex revelation. And, okay, in the interest of full disclosure, the image of her on the phone talking dirty did fire his pistons. He was a man. Cut him some slack.
But that wasn’t why he found her sexy, not in the least.
Not that she’d believe him.
Bottom line, he’d been hired to protect her, not to put the moves on her, no matter how appealing the thought. More than anything, he wanted her to come away from this trauma knowing that not all guys were dirtbags, and that Diego Mora always had, and always would have, her back.
The news vans had returned.
Not just the ones from yesterday, either. There were more, lined up on the street like vultures on Wild Kingdom, drawn by the scent of road kill. Ironic, because after her stressful, sleepless night, she felt like road kill. The news vans’ mere presence stirred up a cauldron of defeat, desperation, and deep-seated resentment inside her. Sheesh, wasn’t there a murder to cover? Some sort of illegal police chase or sexual harassment claim in the fire department to follow up on? At the very least, they could certainly report on yet another stupid decision or comment made by the President. Those issues were news fodder.
Her life was not.
And yet, she had to play by their stupid rules regardless of how it hindered her business, because they’d somehow decided she was the flavor of the week. Idiots. If she didn’t lock the place down like a prison cell, she had no doubt they’d barge right in with their cameramen, shove mics in her face, and then take every word she said out of context. Consequently, for the second day in a row, the phones were unplugged, her shop was locked, curtains drawn, and a sign on her front door read, BY INVITATION ONLY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Her regulars were invited—no one else.
The whole thing cranked her off and freaked her out. And even though she’d stomped away from him that morning, she had to admit, knowing Diego Mora was outside watching the place eased a lot of her fear. At least she didn’t have to worry about some freak spanking the monkey as he stared into one of her windows.
She’d have to apologize to Diego. He’d always tried to be nice to her when they were kids. She hadn’t meant to be so rude earlier, but embarrassment had launched her fight or flight response, and judging from his sculpted physique, fighting would’ve been useless. Flight had been her only logical option. But, still. He probably thought she was a total wing nut, not to mention a tramp and a shrew. And that, combined with the growing pressure from the media, left her nerves wound tighter than a sleeve caught in a meat grinder.
For now, though, she needed to concentrate on business. On the surface, this was just another workday. A few of the shop’s regulars gathered around the large table, stitching and bitching, just like always. But instead of joining them as she usually did, Cristy prowled the main gathering room straightening yarn displays and pretending she was fine, just fine, thank you very much for asking. What a load of crap.
Oh, she put on a decent enough act. She shared in the laughter of her customers, pausing to ooh and aah over their various projects now and then, but her head wasn’t all there. And everyone knew it. Bottom line, she pretended her life wasn’t in shambles, and her regulars—God bless them—played along with the charade. At least, for a while.
After she had piled, unpiled, and repiled the new display of sherbet-colored eyelash yarn twice, Lisa Mondragon, the twenty-three-year-old, ultra-hip mother of twin toddlers, blew out a big sigh and set her aluminum needles down with that familiar tink-tink.
“Cristy, stop straightening those shelves and come knit with us. You know knitting is a cure-all.”
Cristy turned from the wall of displayed yarn toward the familiar circle of knitters and clasped her hands behind her. “I’m sorry. Am I distracting you?” She forced a smile.
Lisa’s sister, Racquel, beckoned her over. “You’re not distracting us, but you’re distracted. I know we’re all pretending not to notice that giant purple elephant standing in the corner, but it’s there.”
“I—I’m not sure what you mean,” she lied.
Racquel sighed. “We know the media’s outside. We know you want to kill your sister. We understand why you’re stressed out, okay? We’re your friends.”
“I…I know.” Cristy dropped the act and ran her fingers through her hair. “And I appreciate it.”
“So don’t give them the satisfaction of rattling you, Cris.”
She huffed. “Too late, I’m afraid.”
“Sit.” Racquel indicated the empty chair with her chin. “We won’t ask you any more uncomfortable questions.”
Cristy narrowed her eyes playfully. “Promise?”
“For now.” Racquel winked. “Aren’t you still working on that round-the-bend sweater?”
Sweater? Knitting? Huh? Oh yeah, that. Her normal routines had gone woefully awry. “I am,” Cristy said with zero enthusiasm. She walked over and claimed the chair next to Racquel. “Eternally, because it scares the bejeebers out of me, that pattern.”
“It scares everybody. You just have to go for it.”
“I know. But it takes too much concentration.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m going to leave it alone until I get through this fiasco. I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Nonsense,” said Alma Perea, a Simplicity icon who’d started training for marathons at age sixty. Now, at sixty-eight, she had the body of a thirty-five-year-old athlete and the confidence of a twenty-five-year-old rock star. Not to mention, she could knit anything in the world, probably with her eyes closed. She’d begun knitting as a way to pass the time after her husband died, and found she had a knack for it. “It’s the concentration that eases the mind, mija. Get the sweater. I’ll help you if you get stuck.”
“Okay. You’re right.” Cristy grabbed her bag from the window seat, then sat again, between Racquel and Alma. “Thanks.” A lump rose in her throat as she looked around at her friends. “You don’t know what it means to me that you’re all here.”
Alma blinked at her a couple of times. “Well, where else would we be? We’re here every Tuesday, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
“What makes you think today would be any different?”
“I love you guys.” She gave Alma a quick hug, then shook her head as she pulled out her work-in-progress. “What would I do without my Simplicity family?”
“Luckily, you’ll never have to find out.” Alma patted Cristy’s knee, then leaned over to inspect her work.
“You, too, Lola,” Racquel yelled toward the kitchen. “Get out here.”
Lola appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a flour sack towel. “You ladies need something?”
“Yes. You,” said Allegra Morrison, a gangly eighteen-year-old who took all kinds of crap at school because “her parents had named her after a drug.” At least, that’s what the other kids claimed. In actuality, she was named after her paternal grandmother, who’d spun her own yarn and had taught Allegra to crochet when she was three. Yarn work came to her in her bloodline; she’d already whipped through several complicated knitting projects like they were nothing, and had begun spinning and hand dyeing.
“Come sit with us, Lo,” Cristy told her, releasing the last vestiges of her resistance. “There’s no need for you to slave in the kitchen when we’re basically closed.”
“Except to the A-list,” Allegra said, smiling shyly at Cristy before turning back to her project—a fitted halter top out of red, hand-dyed hemp.
“That’s right. The A-list is always welcome.” Cristy had felt an immediate kinship with Allegra when they’d met in Simplicity’s first-ever beginning knitting class. The teen had started out quiet, painfully shy. Eventually, she grew more comfortable, and during their last session, she confided in the rest of them about how much she hated school and why. Cristy knew all too well what it felt like to be an outsider. After everyone besides Allegra had left, she had encouraged the girl to think of Simplicity as her oasis, too. She was pleased Allegra felt comfortable enough to do so.
“Okay,” Lola said. “Let me get some treats together first. You all can be my guinea pigs. I just baked something new.”
“Yum. What?” Lisa asked.
“I call them butter knit-knots.” She grinned. “They’re a bit like shortbread, but wait until you see them. They look like little sweaters in stockinette stitch.”
“I can guarantee you they’re probably too gorgeous to eat,” Alma said once Lola was out of the room.
“No way,” Allegra said. “I’ll eat anything she bakes, pretty or not. It’s easy. You just have to close your eyes and open your mouth.”
Everyone laughed. Taking her first deep, relaxing breath of the day, Cristy pulled her pattern from the felted knapsack she’d whipped up last winter for precisely that purpose. It was her project bag, and like any good knitter, she never left home without it. Then again, thanks to Mar, she might never leave home again. If she turned into one of those creepy old hermits with thirty cats and newspapers stacked five feet high, it would be Marisol’s fault.
Lola presented the knit-knots, to much adulation, on a big orange tray from the local imports store. Despite Lola’s insistence, everyone refused to eat the masterpieces after they found out Lola had carved the design into each one individually.
Lola pouted. “How would you feel if I wouldn’t wear one of your sweaters because I knew how much work had gone into it?”
Cristy arched one eyebrow. Her mouth watered, and the rest of the women looked just as ravenous. “She’s got a point.”
“Here.” Allegra pulled out her camera phone. “I’ll take a picture for posterity, and then we can eat. Deal?”
“Deal,” they said simultaneously. With a permanent digital record of the cookies in hand, they dug in. Pure, buttery bliss.
“Lo, these are your yummiest creations yet,” Cristy said.
“Thanks. Maybe I should take a few out for Diego. I’m sure he’s getting hungry,” Lola suggested, glancing toward the curtain-covered front window.
Cristy eyed her sharply.
“Or…I could just set some aside? Never mind,” Lola said.
“Huh? Who’s Diego?” Allegra asked.
Lola said, “He’s—”
“No one,” Cristy said, casting a “thanks a lot” glare at Lola. “Just an old friend of the family.” She stared straight down at her knitting, watching her stitches get tighter and tighter. Swear to God, if she had to rip out these rows, she was going to bitch-slap her sister clear to California. This pattern was difficult enough without the added annoyance of having to redo any part of it.
“Actually, he’s a professional bodyguard,” Lola said quickly, holding her chin high as she faced Cristy head on.
“Lola!”
“Marisol hired him to watch the place because Cris has been getting some scary phone calls since the radio show.” She spread her arms wide and shrugged. “They’re familia, Cris. They have a right to know. You don’t have to carry the burden alone just to maintain some sort of image in front of them.”
“She’s right,” Lisa said softly. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I don’t know. It’s embarrassing!”
“You know, we’ve all been publicly humiliated at one point or another. Maybe none of us has ever worked as a phone sex girl, but we really do get what you’re going through.”
Cristy’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. It’s just so infuriating. My sister always puts me in awkward situations. The former job isn’t something I’m proud of.”
“Why not?” Racquel waved her arms around at Simplicity. “Look what it got you.”
“Well, there’s that. Sure. But no one really needed to know the details, did they?”
Racquel smacked her sister in the arm with the back of her hand, smirking. “Tell her about that time with Mom in the Safeway parking lot. Talk about embarrassing.”
“Ugh!” Lisa fluttered her eyes closed for a minute, then held up her index finger. “This goes nowhere, ladies.”
“Of course not. Fess up,” said Alma, eyes gleaming with anticipation of some juicy girl gossip.
“Well, I had a crush on this particular guy in high school. Popular, athlete, the whole nine yards, and we’d been doing the mutual flirt thing for a while. I was sure he’d ask me out soon. So my mom, Racquel, and I were walking through the parking lot toward Safeway one day when he pulled up in his Camaro.”
“Lisa was laying on the whole cute act,” Racquel said, “trying to be cool and stuff as they chatted at his window.”
“Yeah, of course I was.” She grinned at her sister. “And the whole time I was praying that you and Mom would just go into the store without me so I could get my full flirt on.”
“But, no,” said Racquel.
“Nope. No such luck. Instead, Mom actually walked up to me as I was talking to him, lifted my arm by the wrist and sniffed, then said—”
“We need to get you stronger deodorant, mija. You smell like fried potatoes with onions,” said Racquel, imitating their mom’s accented speech.
“And that’s verbatim, people,” Lisa added.
“Oh, my God!” Cristy exclaimed as the rest of the group gasped, laughed, and chattered. Cristy covered her mouth. “I can’t believe she fronted you like that! What did you do?”
“You mean, other than wish for an instant death?”
“Been there,” Cristy said.
Lisa rolled her eyes. “I skipped school for three days and then never spoke to him again. Lance—” She smacked her palm on the table. “—that was his name. I’d blocked it out. Ugh, I haven’t thought about that in a few years.” She scowled playfully at Racquel. “Thanks for the memories, sis.”
“That’s beyond awful, Lisa,” Cristy said, feeling less alone for the first time. “Really.”
Lisa brushed away the sympathy and started knitting again. “For the most part, I’m over it. I still have a B.O. complex, though. I think I’ve tried every antiperspirant on the market at least once. No lie.”
“I’ve told you a million times, you don’t stink, sis. That was just some adolescent hormone thing.”
Lisa smiled gratefully at her sister.
“Something awful like that happened to me once, too,” Lola said, her face turning red.
Cristy couldn’t imagine anything rattling Lola. “Do tell.”
“Well, I was a senior. This is weird, but I’m going to tell you anyway, because I know you’ll all understand.” She paused for a deep breath. “I’d worn my favorite pair of underwear to school one day. You know—” She flipped her hand. “—the kind you hunt for forever, that don’t give you VPL or crawl up your crack or anything?”
“What’s VPL?” Alma asked.
“Visible panty lines,” the others intoned, in stereo.
“Ah.” Alma nodded with understanding. The lingo might change, but finding comfy drawers was a universal female quest, regardless of age or generation.
“So naturally my period started that day.”
“Of course,” said Alma, with a wise laugh. “Murphy’s Law.”
Lola nodded at her. “Yeah. I didn’t have any tampons with me, and I’ll leave out the ugliest details, but that afternoon, I’d asked my mom for advice on how to get the stains out.”
“Ay, pobrecita,” Alma said.
“Yeah. But, I’m talking, my favorite pair. I know it’s gross, but I had to save them if I could.” Lola paused to grab a knit-knot and crunch into it.
“Waste not, want not,” Alma said.
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Allegra added.
Lola swallowed. “So, instead of explaining how to clean them, Mom said she’d give it a try herself.”
“Uh-oh, I’m getting scared.” Cristy grimaced.
“You should be scared.” Lola bugged her eyes. “That night, I was on the phone with my boyfriend. Mom picked up the extension to tell me it was time to say good-bye, because it was a school night. I said okay, and she started to hang up. But then something possessed the woman to say, ‘Oh, before I forget. I tried to get the stains out of your underwear, but the bleach ate holes in the crotch panel. I’m sorry, honey.’ On the phone! With my boyfriend on the other end listening to every word.”
“Oh my God.” Allegra’s eyes went round with horror and her hands stilled in mid-purl. “I would have run away.”
“I thought about it. I think I died a thousand deaths as she spoke the words.” She shuddered. “It was really awful.”
“Did you and the guy break up?”
“Eventually, but not directly because of the underwear debacle. I think I was probably weird around him after that, though. It was the beginning of the end. I’ve always wondered who he told about it, if anyone.”
“Be glad he wasn’t like Marisol,” Cristy lamented, leaning forward for another cookie. “She would’ve thrown a funeral for your underwear and invited the whole school to mourn with you.”
“Funny how a lot of our most embarrassing moments have to do with undergarments or bodily functions,” Alma said, laughing softly. “I dropped my bloomers on the road once while walking back from the swimming hole near my house. My brother and his friends came driving up in my dad’s old Studebaker, honking and waving them out the window. The wind caught them, and they looked huge, like a big, white, holey balloon. I like to thought I’d died right about then.” She peered around at them with a smile. “My story might not seem as bad, mind you, but this was in the 1940s. Nice girls didn’t run about showing their underthings to boys.”
“Wow,” Cristy said, shaking her head as she looked at each woman in turn. “Thanks, you guys. I had no idea. I thought my evil sister had cornered the market on embarrassment.”
“Yeah, right,” Allegra said with a little huff. “Just being a teenager is embarrassing these days. Especially if you’re named after a drug.” She sucked in one side of her cheek, thinking. “Although I guess I should be grateful my mom chose Allegra, though, and not Viagra.”
The women howled with laughter.
“Being a teenager sucked back in the day, too, kiddo,” Lola added, patting Allegra’s knee. “Best time of our lives, my ass. It’s the big lie everyone tells you, and you have to grow up and figure out for yourself that it’s bull.”
Allegra finished a row and aimed her empty needle at Cristy. “So, moral of the story, we’ve all been there in one way or another and we don’t care about your past. We’re on your side.”
Cristy smiled at her friends, feeling teary. “Thanks, ladies. Really. It means a lot.”
“Okay, back to the really interesting issue—this bodyguard guy,” Lisa said. “Where is he, anyway? Outside?”
Before Cristy could answer, the back door banged open with a splintering noise followed by the sounds of two men in a violent scuffle in the kitchen. Startled, the women jumped up and ran to the archway, Cristy at the head of the pack. Diego, dressed in all black with some sort of handgun strapped to his muscular thigh, was in the middle of handcuffing a dumpy little bald guy sprawled, facedown, on the floor underneath him.
“What in the hell is going on?” Cristy craned her neck and peered down the back hallway. “Oh, no! You cracked my door.”
Diego looked up. Both men were breathing heavily. “I saw him trying to get in. It’s okay. Under control. Go back to whatever you were doing.”
“It’s original to the house,” Cristy said, ignoring the strange man on her floor. She loved that door. Plus, it was easier to focus on that minor detail than on the intruder.
“I’m sorry,” Diego said, wiping sweat off his forehead with the crook of one arm. “I’ll have it fixed. Or restored. Whatever you do to antique doors. I have to take care of this yokel first, though.”
“Get off me,” came the other guy’s muffled words. “Marisol told me to sneak in the back way so the news cameras wouldn’t see me. I’m one of the good guys.”
“Wait a minute.” The familiar voice yanked Cristy’s attention from her damaged door. She squatted down. “Wily Wyatt? Is that you?” She should’ve recognized him immediately, but it always caught her off guard that the sexy Marlboro Man radio voice came out of the squatty Muffin Man–looking guy.
“It’s me. Call off the behemoth.”
Cristy waved Diego back, offering Wyatt help up. “What are you doing here?”
“Bleeding. Glad to see the goon is working out well.” He scowled in Diego’s direction. “But if it’s okay with him, I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Wyatt hoisted his pants up around his chunky middle. “We figured out the perfect way to clear up this problem.”
Cristy made introductions all around while Lola grabbed a bag of frozen blueberries out of the Sub-Zero for Wyatt’s busted and rapidly swelling lip.
“Sorry for the misunderstanding, man.” Diego extended his hand, which Wyatt shook. Grudgingly.
Meanwhile, all the women had abandoned their knitting projects for the kitchen, so they could stare, slack-jawed at Diego. Cristy couldn’t blame them. She had to admit, he looked übersexy in his secret agent man getup.
Not to mention totally out of place inside Simplicity.
While everyone caught their breath, Diego and Wyatt set about scarfing a plate of Lola’s delectable knit-knots, heaping praise on her between bites. As for Cristy, breathing easy wasn’t an option. Her tension had returned, full force.
She fought to recapture the calmness she’d found, thanks to her friends, by playing mind games with herself. “At least it was only Wyatt and not some pervert,” she said. “Maybe the crank phone calls were harmless after all, and I’m over-reacting.”
Diego cast her an apologetic half smile.
“What?” she asked as dread coiled inside her tummy.
“I’ve already run off four guys and threatened two reporters who wouldn’t get out of my face.”
Cristy’s jaw dropped.
“You’re kidding!” Lola said.
“Were they all looking for Crystal?” Cristy asked.
Lisa, Racquel, Alma, and Allegra huddled closer to one another, awaiting the answer.
“A couple of them just wanted to ask you out, since, apparently, you don’t date?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
He shrugged. “Mostly, they were fueled by curiosity.”
“That’s because the interest is heating up,” Wyatt said, his tone pleading. “Which is why I’m here. I’m sorry this whole thing ever happened, Cris. I didn’t know Marisol had promised not to talk about your personal life anymore.”
“It should be common sense,” Cristy said in a snarky tone.
Wyatt ignored her. “But what’s done is done. And right now, your lack of response is feeding the fire.”
“Oh, really? Well, that’s too damn bad,” Cristy said, scissoring her hands in front of her. “If you came to tell me I’m obligated to talk to those bloodsuckers out there, Wyatt, I’m sorry, but it was a wasted trip.”
“That’s not exactly it.” He lifted the frozen berry bag away from his lip. “Marisol and I have a better idea. She thought you might be more receptive if I explained it.”
“That means I’m going to hate it.”
“Actually, no.” He offered a tentative smile. “It means you’ve got her running scared.”
“Good.” Cristy leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her middle. “So, fine, lay it on me. What’s the brilliant plan this time?”
“Well, interest probably won’t wane until you satisfy the public’s curiosity. So, she—we—think you should come on the show. As a guest. We’ll have call-ins for an hour or so. Give the people what they want and then return to your regularly scheduled life.”
“Have you both lost your freakin’ minds? What is this, sweeps week?”
Wyatt cleared his throat. “That’s television.”
“Whatever!” Cristy shot up out of her chair to loom over him. Lola grabbed her wrist, but she jerked loose. “Just as a refresher for you and my hell-spawn sister, my regularly scheduled life doesn’t include making a public spectacle of myself in order to boost your show’s ratings. I don’t want notoriety.”
“You already have notoriety, like it or not. We’re trying to put a new spin on it. Make things better.” Wyatt held up both hands, palms forward. “Listen. That’s all I ask. Okay?”
After several long moments of glaring, Cristy slumped back down in her chair, clenched her jaw and said nothing.
“Mar and I have been doing radio for a long time. We know how this kind of situation works.”
“It’s a wonder you guys have any family or friends still speaking to you.”
He inclined his head. “I admit, we go too far sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Cristy said, with a snort of unamused laughter. “But only on days that end with a Y.”
“Be that as it may, I promise they’ll leave you alone as soon as you appear. Trust me.”
“Says the shark to the clown fish.”
“I mean it. Once people get their fix of you, you’ll be old news just like—” He snapped his fingers. “—that.”
“Sure I will.”
“Think about it, Cris. In this day and age, the simple fact that you worked on a sex line isn’t that big a deal. Everything has snowballed because of who you are—a local celebrity’s sister—and the fact that you haven’t said a word. It’s how listeners are. Bloodthirsty on one hand, fickle on the other.”
Cristy chewed on that one for a second, because damn it all, it seemed logical. All the knitters stared at her, waiting for her reply. Logic aside, she just couldn’t. It was the principle of the matter. How could she possibly talk about a time in her life that she’d vowed to put behind her forever?
“You two would end up embarrassing me, so it’s not worth it. Forget it. I’ve fallen into Marisol’s nefarious traps before, Wyatt. Believe me, she started humiliating me a long time ago.”
Unable to stop herself, she shot a quick glance at Diego. Did he remember the party from hell? Her skin started to sizzle with shame, so she refocused on Wyatt.
He tilted his baby Huey head beseechingly, then reached out and held her hand. His radio voice lowered to lullaby level. “The last thing your sister wants to do is make things worse with you, Cristy. She knows she did a stupid thing.”
That was something, at least. “Still…” She shook her head. “Mar betrayed me. Why should I do her any favors?”
“It’s not a favor for her. It’s about you. You could do an interview with one of the news stations camped outside your house instead and achieve the same effect. But keep in mind, on our show, we’d give you full control.”
“Riiiight.”
“I mean it. We’ll tape the whole thing on a two-minute delay, so we can cut anything you don’t approve of. And we won’t let questionable callers through. We owe you that much.” He shrugged. “I can’t say another reporter would do the same.”
The room fell silent, but it pulsed with anticipation.
Cristy crossed her arms. Bit her lip.
“Maybe you should do it,” Lola said.
Diego nodded. “Wyatt’s got a point.”
Cristy bestowed evil death glares on both of them. Traitors. “I can’t believe you’d want me to appear my sister’s show. Don’t you see? It’s just another opportunity for her to jam my whole life into the shredder.” No one said anything. “Even if I agreed to it, I’d probably be so petrified, I wouldn’t be able to utter a peep. Remember, I’m not a big-mouthed, spotlight hog like Mar.” She grimaced. “The whole radio thing is just not me.”
“We all get that, Cris,” Lola said. “But the phone sex girl image isn’t you, either, which is what you need to tell them, because otherwise that is the image that will linger. This is your chance to speak your side of it.”
Everyone stilled, waiting for Cristy’s final answer. She looked from her knitters to Lola, to Diego, and then to Wyatt. Why did it feel as if she were disappointing them? She twisted her mouth to the side and shook her head. “I know you’re all trying to help, but I just can’t face that. Sorry.”
“I think you’re making a mistake, honey,” Wyatt said.
“Maybe. But it’s my mistake to make, okay?”
He nodded, stood, then leaned forward and laid his palm on her shoulder. “You don’t have to decide right away—”
“I already did.”
“—so just think about it,” he said, pretending she hadn’t spoken at all.
Lola said, “She will.”
“Lola!”
The chef rolled her eyes. “You’ll think about it. That’s all I promised.”
“And there’s no harm or commitment in considering it.” Wyatt stood and handed the makeshift ice pack to Lola with a grateful smile. “I need to get home.”
“Thanks for trying, Wyatt,” Cristy muttered.
“Please know your sister honestly wants to make it right.”
Cristy sighed bitterly.
Wyatt turned to Diego and made a circle in front of his face with one hand. “Remember this mug, okay, bub? I’d appreciate it if I didn’t wind up licking floorboards again.”
“No hard feelings,” Diego said. He held out a fist. “I didn’t recognize you. Radio, you know? Can’t be too careful with Cristy’s well-being at stake. I’m sure you agree.”
After a moment Wyatt knocked knuckles with him. “Of course,” he said, between clenched teeth, before nodding at the ladies then heading out the broken back door.
Odd, Cristy thought. Diego’s apology seemed perfectly sincere. But she was sure she’d caught a glint of mischief in his eyes. The man might have been hired by the enemy, but maybe—just maybe—he was on her side after all. The mere thought made her smile.
The day had begun to cool off as the sun dipped behind the front range mountains. Even the news vans had decided to call it quits for the evening, which was a relief. Diego, however, was in it for the long haul. He was sitting in the Hummer with his knees cramping and his ass falling asleep, wishing Cristy would come out and talk to him, when all of a sudden she peered out the door—as if the two of them were telepathically connected.
He raised one hand in a wave, then waited as she scoped the area. Blatant relief transformed her face at the exact moment she realized the coast was clear. She sent a brief smile his way, squared her shoulders, tightened her hot pink sweater around her body, and strode purposefully in his direction.
Little Cristy Avila kept surprising him. She might be a private person, but she wasn’t the shy, knock-kneed little girl he remembered from their teenage years. She’d stood up to Wyatt without shrinking at all, exuding more confidence than he’d ever seen in her. But beneath her older, more sophisticated veneer, Diego caught the occasional glimpse of the girl who’d hugged her textbooks to her chest and stared at the black and white linoleum tile as she moved through the school like a ghost.
The dichotomy made for an interesting package, and damn if he didn’t love the wrapping.
She stopped outside his open window. For a moment they just stared at each other. Then Cristy tucked her hair behind her ears and cleared her throat. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“You promise to tell the truth?”
He drew an imaginary X over the left side of his chest. “What is it we used to say? Cross my heart, hope to die? Or I’m sure you’ll stick a knitting needle in my eye.”
She gave him a look. “Ha ha. Bodyguard and comedian. I guess you’re the total package then, huh?”
“I do my best.” He leaned his forearm on the window frame. “So, what’s your question?”
She narrowed her eyes and turned her head, scrutinizing him with a sidelong glance. “Did you really not recognize Wyatt? I mean, I know he doesn’t look like he sounds, but his face is plastered everywhere.”
“Oh. That.” Diego grinned. “You think he bought it?”
She laughed then, her eyes wide. “You did recognize him. I knew it.” She smacked him lightly on the forearm, leaving his skin tingling where she’d touched him. “I can’t believe you trounced him like that.”
“All in a day’s work.” He shrugged. “The only thing I am sorry about is your door, although the restoration guy said he could make it look perfect.”
“It’s okay.” She crossed her arms and looked straight into his eyes. “Why’d you do it?”
“Crack the door? It was an accident.”
“Not that. Why’d you beat Wyatt down?”
He held up his index finger. “First of all, I didn’t beat him down. I just gave him a little face-to-floor counseling. There’s a difference.”
“Semantics, but okay. So, why?”
“Karma.” He shrugged. “Your sister didn’t embarrass you by herself. I figure Wyatt’s just as much to blame.”
“They do feed off each other, like parasitic twins.”
“Exactly. Which is why he got a little face time with the hardwood. For good measure.” He arched, stretching his stiff lower back as best he could. Sitting in the vehicle all day had tweaked his spine, and that dog pile entrance into Simplicity’s kitchen hadn’t helped. “I didn’t mean to bust his lip, but—” He shrugged again. “—ol’ Wyatt deserved to take one for the team.”
“Wow. I never thought I’d be so touched by an act of violent revenge,” she teased, laying her hand on his forearm again, “but thank you. That was so awesome.”
“My pleasure.” He studied her face. “I’m really sorry they embarrassed you. Your sister seems to have a knack for that, if memory serves.”
“So you do remember. Ugh!” She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Forget I said anything.”
“Hang on. Give me a minute to erase my brain.”
This time he reached out. He ran the back of his finger down her cheek until she opened her eyes. “I’ll never mention it again. It’s okay. You didn’t deserve it then, and you don’t deserve it now.” He held her gaze until she looked away.
Taking an almost imperceptible step back, Cristy cleared her throat. “Well,” she said in a breathless tone, “Marisol’s a pain in the ass, but she means well.” A shocked pause ensued. “Holy—” Her eyes went round and she shook her head with horror. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Don’t worry.” He grinned. “I won’t tell her.”
She slid both of her hands into her back pockets, palms facing out, and rocked on the soles of her sandals. “So, everyone’s gone?”
“For now.”
“Except you. What’s your plan?”
He gestured to the interior of his Hummer. “More of the same. I’ll be here all night, so you can rest easy. Although I’d be obliged if I could use your bathroom now and then.”
A worry line bisected her forehead. “You can’t stay out here all night long.”
“That’s what I was hired to do.” God knows, he didn’t want to. He’d much rather be inside the house kicking back on one of the chairs, but that was all up to her.
“Yeah, but—” Her expression went from conflicted to decisive in a flash. “You know what? Come inside. Lola is staying in the guest room, but you’re welcome to the couch.”
“I don’t want to make you two uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable? You’re doing us a favor watching out for Simplicity. And…for me.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Don’t forget I’m getting paid. And I’m not cheap.”
“I know. But I don’t think I could sleep knowing you were stuck out here in this monstrosi—” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oops,” she mumbled through her fingers. “Totally rude. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
He laughed. “You’re not fond of the Hummer?”
Her face turned bright red, all the way to the tips of her cute little ears. “Oh. Well. It’s just a bit…large. And, you know, an environmental nightmare. Very ‘red state,’ if you want the whole truth. But other than that, it’s fine,” she added, in an overly chipper tone.
“Good thing it’s only a rental.” He teased her with a fake grimace. “How could I live with myself if I’d actually shelled out for the thing?”
Her expression brightened immeasurably. “A rental? Oh, that’s…that’s a relief. I mean…no offense.”
“None taken.”
She looked up and down the massive vehicle and crinkled her nose. “Good. I’ll shut up now. It’s just that it’s such an in-your-face vehicle. The whole Hummer attitude is more Marisol’s style than mine.”
“Agreed,” he said, in as serious a tone as he could muster. “This would definitely be the wrong choice of vehicles for a knitting needle ninja.”
“Very funny.” She crossed her arms. “Laugh all you want, but if you’ll recall, my needles and I got the drop on you, Mr. Not Cheap Bodyguard.”
“Touché. I might just start carrying the things myself.”
“Right.” She angled her head toward the house. “So, are you coming, or what?”
He raised one eyebrow. “Any of those cookies left?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“Say no more. I’m in. Those cookies are magic,” he said, as though they had been the determining factor. But really? He’d go just about anywhere Cristy Avila told him to go at this point, baked goods or no. She intrigued the hell out of him.
The last thing on his mind since he’d come back to Denver was women. His life had too many loose ends yet. And he especially couldn’t think of this woman, at this point in time, as anything other than a client. But the fantasy sure warmed him up. He grabbed his duffel bag from the passenger seat and jumped out, not wanting to give her a chance to change her mind. “I’m all yours. Show me to your cookie jar.”
“Geez, Mora.” She spun and headed toward the house. “You may not be cheap, but you sure are damn easy.”
With the bag slung over his shoulder using one finger as a hook, he looked down into her eyes. “Easy? Maybe so,” he said in a teasing tone, “but I always leave ’em smiling.”
“I just bet you do,” she said, almost too quietly for him to hear. Almost.
Grinning, he followed right at her heels, happier and calmer than he’d felt in a long time. Right up until the sound of breaking glass and Lola screaming knocked them out of fantasy land and straight back into reality.
They burst into the kitchen and found Lola standing frozen—and splattered in cake batter—behind the Pasquini’s worktable. With a spatula death-gripped in one raised hand, she looked like some freaky, childlike, papiermâché version of the Statue of Liberty. The large mixing bowl in front of her contained what was left of the batter along with shards of broken glass and a piece of paper tied to a baseball with green jute.
Cristy skidded to a stop in the archway and her extremities went cold. Diego kept moving, systematically checking the rooms on the main floor.
A lump rose in Cristy’s throat. “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“Sh-Shit on r-rye,” Lola said in a shaky whisper. A large dollop of batter dripped off the end of one of her dreadlocks and hit the hardwood with a splat. “What a godawful mess!”
Spurred into action, Cristy yanked a towel off the rack adjacent to the sink and rushed to her friend’s side. She pried the spatula away, set it on the table, then began mopping up the batter dripping off of Lola’s clothes and shoes.
“Talk to me, Lola. Are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“God, no. I’m battered but not broken. Get it?”
Relief rained over Cristy. She smiled. “Ah. You’re still a smartass. That’s a good sign.”
“It startled me is all. Here, let me.” Lola took the towel and finished up, a scowl on her face. “Asshole ruined my cake batter. It’s a complicated recipe, too, that needs to sit overnight. I so wanted to surprise the ladies with it tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. You can start over with it, but I know that’s not the point. Did anyone get in the house?”
“I don’t think so. They just hurled that.” She pointed, and they both peered into the bowl. “Lucky shot, too. Had to be someone with one heck of an arm.”
“I’ll say.” The note was completely coated in batter, and hence unreadable. Someone needed to clean it off.
Diego stuck his head through the archway and pointed toward the mixing bowl, as if he could read their minds. “Don’t touch that,” he said. “Wait until I get back.”
“You’re the boss,” Lola said, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.
Cristy followed Diego’s grim gaze up to the baseball’s point of entry: a small, arc-shaped, stained-glass window. Shattered. Some of the leading hung from the frame like broken bones, but other than that, it was a total loss.
Her heart squeezed, and part of her wanted to sit on the floor and cry. First the door, now this. She’d have to check with an historic salvage house to replace that piece, if it was even possible. Fury licked at her gut. This fiasco was costing her more than just her pride and reputation. Then again, she’d send Marisol the bill since all of this was her fault. Hell, maybe she’d tie it to a dirty brick and chuck it through the pristine windshield of Mar’s BMW.
“The house is clear,” Diego said as he strode through the kitchen toward the back door. At the hallway entrance, he drew his gun, holding it close to his thigh. “I’m sure whoever did this is long gone, but you never know. Stay here, both of you. I’ll be right back.”
“As if we’d go anywhere,” Lola said as he headed outside. They heard the door snick shut and released their breath simultaneously. “Gosh, I’m glad he’s here.”
“Me, too,” Cristy reluctantly admitted.
“Not that I wouldn’t have cracked open a can of whoop ass on any of those perverts who came knocking, mind you,” Lola said with a sniff. “They don’t scare me.”
“Of course they don’t.” Cristy bit back the smile that wanted to appear and pulled out a chair. “Come on. Sit down.”
Lola wobbled to the chair and fell into it. Her shoulders sagged on another exhale. “God. Okay, I lied. The truth is, that scared the living crap out of me. I thought I’d been shot.”
“Don’t even say that.”
Lola held out her hands. “Look at me. I’m shaking like a junkie in detox. Speaking of detox, do I ever need a drink.”
“Say no more.” Cristy tried not to think of the damage to her wood floors as she crunched carefully through the broken stained glass and retrieved her best bottle of tequila from the cabinet. She snatched a lime from the fridge, hacked off a few wedges, then arranged them along with a salt shaker, the bottle, and two shot glasses on the end of the table in front of her friend. She waved a hand over the accoutrements. “Have at it.”
Lola eyed the spread. “I guess I don’t have to invite you to join me.”
“Hardly.” Cristy pulled up a chair, then grabbed one of the glasses and clanked it on the table. “Fill ’er up.” She eyed Lola’s hands. “Actually, allow me.”
After the shots had been poured, the women went through the lick-salt-lick-slam-lime routine once and then again. Cristy uttered a little moan of pleasure as the tequila burned its way down her esophagus. Her lips already felt numb and tingly. She couldn’t wait for her mind to follow suit.
Lola plucked the lime peel out of her mouth. “So, if you decide to go through with that plan to kick your sister’s butt, can I lay the boot to her a few times?”
Cristy removed her own lime, setting it on the table. “Yep. You’ve more than earned the privilege.” She stared at the disaster that was normally her clean, orderly kitchen. Chaos. It was just so Marisol. She couldn’t live with that. “I have to do something, Lo, before things get worse. This is nuts.”
“I agree.”
Cristy braced herself. “What do you think I should do?”
Lola repositioned herself in the chair. “Truthfully?”
“Of course. Your opinion means a lot to me.”
Lola twisted her mouth apologetically. “I think you should do the show. Decide on the rules and parameters, make your sister and that Teletubby partner of hers agree to each and every one of them in writing. But do the show.”
Cristy groaned, hanging her head back. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because you’re a bright woman. You know, like it or not, that it’s the best solution to a really crappy situation you didn’t deserve.” She bit the rest of the lime out of the rind.
Cristy rolled her empty shot glass back and forth on the table with her fingers. “Part of me feels like going on the radio show will mean Marisol wins. I hate that.”
“You’re looking at it from the wrong perspective.” Lola hiked one shoulder. “You can’t change what she did, so face it head on. That way, you win.”
Cristy absentmindedly ran her finger through a puddle of batter, then licked it. It tasted of vanilla and almonds. “What if it just makes things a million times worse?”
“It won’t, and here’s how I know. We’ll call it the Dick Cheney Rule. In a nutshell, if you accidentally bust a cap in your friend’s ass while hunting, it’s best to just admit it. And the sooner, the better, too.”
Cristy nibbled nervously on a cuticle. “Good point.”
“It is. Remember how that whole thing worked out? We’re talking around-the-clock coverage on CNN and MSNBC, etcetera, until his advisors, or whoever the hell, convinced him to nut up and come clean about it. Once he talked, everyone else stopped.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, his bonehead mistake was out of the headlines and into the history books.”
“I really, really hate that you’re right.”
Lola leaned closer. “Then consider this. Your sister has had an open platform to discuss your life all these years, and you’ve just had to sit back and silently take it.”
Cristy scoffed. “More like bend over and silently take it.”
“I was trying to be polite,” Lola said in a wry tone. “Anyway, maybe one of your rules for appearing should be that you can reveal anything you want about her, and she can’t reciprocate. Paybacks are a bitch, you know? Diss the hell out of her. Make stuff up if you have to.”
Cristy chuckled. “Okay, that would be fun.”
“So, do it.” Lola shrugged, then reached out and grabbed a fingerful of the batter for herself. “Hmm, too much salt.”
“Tasted good to me.”
“That’s because you haven’t tasted it when it’s perfect.” Lola wiped at the table with the batter-soaked towel. “Wyatt said Marisol’s running scared. I bet she’d agree to absolutely anything you demanded, just to get her baby sister back.”
“Well, I’m not promising that.”
Lola smiled knowingly. “You know that’s how it’ll work out, though. You’re family. Forgive and forget is required. And even if it wasn’t, you’d forgive her eventually because that’s the kind of person you are.”
“I suck.”
“No, you don’t. Not in the least.”
“What about the perverts, Lola? How will going on the show put an end to all that?”
Lola crossed her arms, thinking. “I don’t know yet. But surely we can figure out a way to exterminate them.”
Diego walked into the kitchen and thigh-holstered his weapon. “It’s all clear. No one lurking around.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Lola said, slopping a bit more tequila into her glass.
Diego looked at Cristy. “I called the cops, and a board-up service for that window. Everyone should be here soon.”
“Thanks. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead,” Cristy admitted.
He pressed his lips into a solemn line and smacked his fist into the other palm. “Damnit. Lola, I can’t apologize enough. That should not have happened on my watch. Are you okay?”
She slammed her shot, then held up the glass in silent salute. “Feeling no pain at this point, actually. Besides, it’s not your fault. Care to join us?”
He shook his head. “Thanks. Not while I’m working.”
“Oh, yeah. Diego’s going to stay on the couch tonight,” Cristy told Lola. The words felt thick on her tongue.
“That’s great. Maybe we’ll actually be able to sleep now. There’s only one problem.”
“What’s that?” Cristy asked.
Lola bit her bottom lip and flailed a hand in Diego’s direction “Dude is way to big for the couch.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I won’t be sleeping much anyway.”
“Nonsense. You have to get some rest so you can protect us tomorrow. Listen,” Lola said, “I’ll bunk down with Cristy and you can have the guest room.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Unless, of course, you want to bunk down with Cristy.”
“Lola!” Cristy blanched, her mortified gaze ping-ponging from Lola to Diego before she looked away. “What the hell?”
“Shoot, did I say that out loud?” Lola laughed, then raised a finger. “That, my friends, was the tequila talking.”
Cristy moved the bottle away from Lola’s reach. “Yeah, well it sounded like Marisol talking. Cut it out.”
Diego’s gaze narrowed with suspicion. “I wasn’t outside very long. How much have you two had to drink?”
“Too much. Obviously.” Cristy burned stink eye at Lola.
Diego’s lips spread into a slow, wolfish smile. “Looks like you’re the preferred bunkmate, Lola, much to my chagrin.”
Cristy’s palms began to sweat. She couldn’t hack the sexy banter at this point in her life. Or—who was she kidding?—ever. Especially not with Diego.
“But I will take you up on the guest room,” he added. “If that’s all right with you, Cristy.”
“Of course. Can we read the note now?” Cristy managed in a strangely tight slur. “It’s been a long day, and before that a miserable, sleepless night. If it’s all the same to you both, I’d like to head up early and let Calgon take me away.”
Diego crossed the room in two long strides. He studied the projectile floating in the batter bowl from a few angles, then muttered something and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was hoping we might get fingerprints off of it, but with all the glop on it, I doubt it.”
“Glop?” Lola repeated.
“Just open it, then,” Cristy said, ignoring the chef’s mock outrage. “Fingerprints won’t do us any good if we don’t have a suspect to compare them with anyway.”
Diego peered up at her curiously.
She shrugged. “I watch all the cop shows, too.”
“Ah. Another armchair detective, thanks to the magic of television,” Diego said wryly. “God bless America.” He removed the baseball using his thumb and index finger, then pulled a folding knife out of his pocket and snapped it open. Carefully, he sliced through the jute until the ball rolled free of the paper, then he read. “Christ,” he muttered with disgust.
“What does it say?”
“Looks like we don’t need fingerprints after all, Detective Avila.” He shook his head. “It’s a note from some ballsy field reporter for the local Fox affiliate. Seems he wants to pay you for an exclusive.”
“You better believe he’s going to pay me. For replacing a priceless leaded-glass window, pain and suffering, and anything else I can come up with. Jesus! It’s like everyone in the world has been infected by my sister. Marisolmonella.”
“I hear there’s an ointment for that,” Lola added, half slur, half snicker.
“If Fox wanted me to talk to their guy, they might’ve thought twice before letting him destroy my property. Freakin’ imbeciles.” Cristy snatched the bottle and poured herself another slug of tequila. She knocked it back, coughed, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She aimed her finger at Diego. “And they can shove their exclusive. If I talk to anyone, it’ll be Wyatt and the Wicked Witch.”
Diego raised his eyebrows. “You’re gonna do the show?”
She pouted. “I’m still thinking about it.”
The doorbell rang, and Cristy and Lola jumped and grabbed onto each other. Diego pointed toward the window. “Calmaté. The board-up service,” he reminded them. “Or the cops. Either way, I’ll take care of it. Go on up, Cristy. Lola, they’ll probably want a quick word with you.”
She sighed. “I figured as much.”
Cristy swayed to her feet, then steadied herself with the table edge for a moment before attempting to actually walk. When she’d found her center of balance, she zigged toward the stairs. Diego headed for the door, with Lola zagging at his heels.
“Lo, I’ll move your stuff into my room,” Cristy said. “Just show Diego where the guest room is, then come on in whenever you’re ready.”
“You got it.”
Cristy paused halfway up the stairs. “Oh, and be sure to get a bill so I can send it to Fox. And my evil sister.”
“Will do,” Diego said. “Anything else?” The doorbell rang again, followed by a quick knock.
“Yeah. Don’t forget to lock up. The way my luck’s going, who the hell knows what might go bump in the night.”
Lola placed a hand on her abdomen and looked ill. “Ugh. Yeah, that whole sleeping easy thing I said earlier? Kiss that notion good-bye.”
“So, who is this Diego guy, really?” Lola asked later, as they lay side by side in Cristy’s antique sleigh bed.
“What do you mean?” Cristy glanced over. Her heart thudded. “He’s an old friend of my sister’s. I told you that.”
“I mean, who is he to you?”
Cristy stared up at the ceiling saying nothing. Finally, she murmured, “No one. Really.” She waited for Lola to acknowledge that, and when she didn’t, Cristy sighed. “Okay, he was the hottest senior at our school when I was a freshman.”
“Not hard to believe. And?”
“And what? Nothing.”
“Liar. And?”
“What is this, truth or dare?”
“No, it’s your friend asking you a straightforward question and expecting a straightforward answer.”
“Fine. I used to have a big gnarly crush on him. The kind where you sit in class writing versions of your name with his into the margins of your spiral notebook. ‘Cristy Mora. Mrs. Cristy Mora. Diego and Cristy Mora’—that kind of crap. Complete with heart doodles. Yes, I fantasized about being his blushing bride. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Depends.” Lola shrugged. “Is it the truth?”
A short pause ensued. “It’s the truth. Stupid, huh?”
“Honey, if you hadn’t crushed on that man, then the word stupid would apply. He’s divine.”
Understatement. “Well, keep my admission to yourself, please. It’s one secret my sister never knew about.”
“Did Diego ever find out?”
“Hell no! After he helped my sister decorate for that hideous party, I never looked at him again.” She groaned. “I just couldn’t. Talk about a buzz kill. I couldn’t get it out of my head that every time he saw me, he probably thought ‘maxi pad.’”
Lola laughed. “He doesn’t strike me as that kind of a guy.”
“I know. I mean, he tried to be nice to me afterward, but it just creeped me out.” She hadn’t thought about the rest of that school year in a long time. She might have avoided Diego, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of his presence whenever he entered her air space. And, looking back on it, he sure seemed to have been around a lot. How had she forgotten that?
She rolled to her side, facing Lola, and propped herself up on one elbow. “You know, I had this weird idea that he was the one who put a stop to the constant harassment I suffered after the party. But I never found any proof. It’s just a feeling I had.” She sighed. “Probably wishful thinking.”
“What gave you the feeling?”
“I’m not sure.” She pulled the covers up tighter around her. “For months after the party, this small group of guys gave me shit daily. I’m not exaggerating. I did my best to ignore them, but one day it all just got to be too much, and I started crying in the lunchroom, like an idiot.”
“That’s so wrong,” Lola murmured.
“I remember every detail…it was lasagna day, and my tears kept hitting the congealed cheese on top. Splat. Splat. Splat. I still can’t eat lasagna to this day.”
“Ruining you for lasagna is a crime.”
Cristy nodded. “Diego must’ve seen them bothering me, because he walked up and asked me what had happened. I was so mortified. It was bad enough that I sat at a table by myself, like some loser. But for him to see me crying into my pasta? He was only trying to help, and I yelled at him to leave me alone, then ran off to hide in the girls locker room.”
“God! You poor thing.”
“The next day, the bullies’ little ringleader came to school sporting a big-ass shiner and a busted tooth, along with various scrapes and bruises. He never hassled me again. Not once.”
“That’s so romantic.”
Cristy scoffed and settled down on her back again. “Oh, please. The kid probably wiped out on his BMX. He never did seem very coordinated in gym class. I’m sure I concocted the whole Diego knight-in-shining-armor fantasy in my head.”
“I wouldn’t write him off so easily, my friend,” Lola said in a smug tone. “The chemistry between you two is utterly combustible. That doesn’t happen in just one day, which means it had to have carried over from before.”
Cristy groaned. “Lo? I know this feels like a slumber party, but let’s not fall too far into the junior high rabbit hole, shall we? I wasn’t some waifish, ethereal heartbreaker in seventh grade, believe me. I was nothing more than outgoing, popular Marisol’s dorky, bookworm kid sister. I had a mouth full of metal braces, a unibrow, and a nine-dollar hairstyle from Supercuts. Not to mention, legs so godawful skinny, my knees looked like knots in a couple of ropes.”
Lola laughed. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Besides, after they graduated, I never saw or spoke to Diego again.”
“Never?”
“Nope. Not until all this happened.”
“Hmm.” Lola flipped onto her side, with her back facing Cristy. She punched her pillow, then snapped off her bedside lamp. “It sure sounds like fate to me,” she murmured as she settled in. “G’night.”
Cristy didn’t reply, but only because her mind had begun to race. She reached over and snapped off her own bedside lamp, then stared up into the darkness, wide-awake.
Fate? She wasn’t even sure she believed in it.
But sometimes you just had to wonder….
He couldn’t sleep.
The muffled sounds of conversation drifting through the wall from Cristy’s room had long since ceased. The guest room had sufficiently darkened once the moon moved past his window. The mattress was firm, and the crisp white sheets felt cool against his skin. A soft, lulling breeze even drifted in from the open window, and to top things off, he was exhausted. And yet he just couldn’t seem to shut off his brain and slip into oblivion, no matter how hard he tried. Screw it.
Diego threw the covers back with a sigh and stepped onto the cool wood floor. He raked both hands through his hair in frustration. He couldn’t very well prowl the house naked, so he pulled on a pair of jeans, but decided against a shirt. Too hot. At the last moment he grabbed his gun and threw a T-shirt over his shoulder, just in case. He eased open his door, then listened to make sure he hadn’t awakened the women. Silence. He slid into the shadowy hallway and headed for the stairs.
Maybe he was hungry. He never had been able to sleep well on an empty stomach. In any case, a few of those almost-better-than-sex cookies should hook him up. And if hunger wasn’t to blame for his insomnia, hey, the cookies sure couldn’t hurt.
At the bottom of the stairs he turned toward the kitchen, but a light coming from the main room caught his eye. He froze. Listened. Did he hear something? Yes.
Hand resting on the gun’s grip, he glided silently along the wall. He paused for a split second at the corner to listen, readied himself, then spun into the room and drew his gun in one smooth motion.
Cristy. “Shit!” He lowered his gun.
She glanced up and yelped, dropping the knitting into her lap and covering her mouth with both hands.
“Sorry about that.” He blew out a long breath and relaxed. He took in the picture of her, long hair loose and shiny, wearing pink pajama pants and a curve-hugging tank top that—holy hell—should come with a heart attack warning label. Her legs were twisted into a position that made his muscles scream just thinking about sitting that way, but she looked perfectly comfortable, awash in the lamplight, knitting. Of course.
“You scared me.”
She huffed nervously, pressing her palm against her chest. “I scared you? You almost gave me a stroke.” She frowned down at the jade-colored wool piled in her lap. “I even dropped a couple of stitches. Dang it.”
“What are you doing up?” He ambled toward her, cringing as he got closer. “And how can you sit that way?”
“Huh?” She glanced down. “It’s the lotus position.”
“Looks like the pretzel position.”
“Haven’t you ever done yoga?”
“Can’t say that I have, no.”
“It’s comfortable. Centering.” She straightened her back. “This is how you sit to meditate.”
“I knew there was a valid reason I don’t meditate.”
She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake Lola. What are you doing up, besides scaring me to death?”
“Making the rounds.”
“Oh.” She picked up her knitting but didn’t knit. She seemed to be staring intently at his face. Come to think of it, her gaze hadn’t veered below the level of his neck since he’d entered the room. Two red blotches rose to her cheeks.
Then it dawned on him.
“Sorry.” He yanked the shirt resting on his shoulder over his head and punched his arms into the sleeves. It astounded him how pleased her discomfort with his half-dressed state made him feel. “I didn’t think anyone would be up.”
“It’s okay.” She cleared her throat. “You surprised me, is all. It’s not as if I’ve never seen a half-naked man before.”
He raised one eyebrow at her.
She squeezed her eyes shut with a cringe, and when she opened them, her face grew even redder. “Forget I said that.”
Not likely. But he decided to let her off the hook for the time being. “The truth is, I can’t sleep, either.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “I thought maybe a couple of those cookies might help. I’ll leave a few bucks next to the cash register.”
“Keep your money. At night, this is just home.” She angled her chin toward the big round table centered in the room. A plate of the buttery treats sat in the middle. “Besides, I beat you to the cookie idea. Help yourself.”
He secured the gun in his waistband, grabbed a couple of cookies, then swung a chair around next to Cristy and straddled it. He took a bite of a cookie, watching her knit. When he’d swallowed, he asked, “What are you making?”
“Oh.” She held up her work, seeming strangely flustered by the question. “This really difficult sweater pattern I’ve been too intimidated to attempt. It was one of my New Year’s resolutions. I know. Boring, huh?”
“Not at all. It looks like a complicated process.”
“Want me to teach you how?” she said, obviously teasing him.
“I already know how,” he said in a level, casual tone.
She blinked. Then again. “To knit?”
He nodded. “My abuela taught me how when I was a kid. I know my way around a sewing machine, too.” He took another big bite of the cookie.
Her jaw dropped open for a minute, then she shook off the surprise and scoffed. “Very funny. You had me going there for a minute. C’mon. No abuelita I know would teach one of her precious macho grandsons to do all that stuff.”
“You haven’t met my grandma.” He pulled a mock-fear expression. “She made us all play with baby dolls, too, so we wouldn’t burden the women we eventually married.”
“Seriously? She sounds amazing.”
“She was something else, that’s for sure.”
“What was your doll’s name?”
He hesitated. “Thor,” he said, even though it wasn’t true. He couldn’t actually remember the name.
“Who names a baby ‘Thor’?”
“Vikings?” With a shrug, he tossed the rest of the cookie into his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his fingers, then motioned for her to hand him the needles. She narrowed her gaze suspiciously but gave in and passed them over.
It had been a while. Awkwardly at first, he positioned and repositioned the needles in his hands. When he finally got the feel of them down and remembered the rhythm, he started whipping away at the row. He glanced up to find her gaping. “What?”
“I don’t believe it. You know how to knit.”
“I just told you I knew how.”
“Yeah, but I thought you were yanking my chain.”
“Nope. Took me a minute, but it’s just like riding a bike.”
“Wow.” She took her work back and ran her fingers along the ridge of his stitches. “Your tension is perfect.”
He hiked one eyebrow. “You expected anything less?”
She smiled so sweetly at him, it sent a fireball of desire straight to his gut. “Well, who knew? You’re just full of secrets, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s no secret. You just never asked.”
She dipped her head, as if to concede the point, and started back on her project. “So, is knitting something you actually do? Or do you just know how?”
He rubbed his stubbly jawline with the back of his hand. “A little of both. I don’t do it much anymore. But I used to knit to chill out before football games in high school and college.” He aimed a finger at her. “And I’m trusting you to keep that little tidbit to yourself.”
“Who do you think I am, my sister?”
“Oh, no.” He couldn’t help but let his gaze travel over the creamy skin exposed by the tank top. “You’re very much an original, little Cristy Avila.”
For a moment she simply studied him, then her brow dipped. She took a breath, as if preparing to speak, but said nothing. Instead, with a nearly imperceptible shake of her head, she pressed her lips together and refocused on her yarn and needles.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She kept knitting for a few moments, then looked up, bit her lip. “Actually, can I ask you a question?”
“If I get to ask you one back.”
She scowled. “Is it about the phone sex?”
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She paused. “Okay, deal.”
“Ladies first.”
She worked a few stitches, then tossed her hair and met his gaze. “This is probably stupid, but I’m just curious. And if the answer is no, I’m not going to explain why I asked it in the first place.”
“Enough with the disclaimers. Ask the question.”
“Okay.” He watched her take a deep, fortifying breath. “Does the name Kevin O’Kane mean anything to you?”
That he hadn’t expected. “Hmmm.” He crossed his forearms over the chair back and drummed his fingers on the wood. “Kevin O’Kane,” he drew out, as if trying to place it. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Wait. He’s the scrawny bully whose ass I kicked in high school because he wouldn’t leave you alone. Now I remember.” He smiled.
Her luscious, soft lips spread into a huge smile. “You did? I knew it was you.”
“Yeah?”
She lifted one toned shoulder in a half shrug. “Well…I suspected. Thank you, but why’d you do it?”
“That’s two questions, but since I’m in a generous mood.” He brushed off her gratitude. “O’Kane was a hair bag.”
She nodded. “Total waste of DNA.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” They smiled at each other for a few long moments.
“Thanks, Diego,” she said, more vehemently. “I mean it. He really made my life miserable until what you did.”
“De nada. Okay. My turn for a question,” he said.
“Go for it.”
A lock of her long hair slid over her upper arm like a feather against naked flesh. Instantly, all he could think of was that hair of hers draping over his body. Skin against skin. Him above her, beneath her, inside her. Lust sucker-punched him so hard it left him awestruck and speechless. He forgot what they’d been talking about.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She pinned him with a droll look. “Your question?”
“Right.” He shook off the erotic images in his head as best he could. “Okay.” He’d been planning to ask her how her last three years of high school panned out, but a new question popped into his mind. “Here it is. Why don’t you date?”
She crinkled her nose. “That’s your question?”
He shrugged. “I’m just curious.”
“How embarrassing. Let’s see…because I’m a dork?”
He shook his head. “The real reason.”
“Does that mean you don’t think I’m a dork?” she joked.
He tossed her a dry glance. “Cristy.”
“Okay.” Her hands stilled momentarily, then she quirked her mouth to the side. “But I think you wasted your question, because it’s not that difficult to figure out.”
“I’m slow. Spell it out for me.”
She spread her arms. “You’ve met my sister. The rest of my family’s just like her.”
“Yeah? So?”
“If you had to bring your dates home to face that firing squad, believe me, you wouldn’t date much, either.”
“Eh, they’re not so scary.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ha.”
He reached out and tucked the wayward strand of hair over her shoulder, letting his hand rest on her skin. Their eyes met. Hers looked a little wary, a touch too wide, and very, very sexy. He swallowed slowly. “Know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think a smart guy wouldn’t much care what firing squads he needed to face to be with you, as long as he was with you.”
Her bottom lip trembled, and she raked it through her teeth to stop it. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and he could see the pulse pounding in her neck. She swallowed tightly.
He wanted to kiss her.
Was she thinking about kissing him, too?
As if reading his mind, the tip of her tongue flicked out and moistened her lips. He clenched his jaw. Her breath hitched and he felt himself leaning closer. Closer still, until he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. Closer, until he remembered the gun in his waistband and why he was there.
Damnit, what was he doing?
“Shit.” He jolted to his feet, twirling the chair back to its original position.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Shaken, he ran his fingers through his hair, then turned back to her. “Look…” Words failed him. “I better head upstairs. You should try to sleep, too.”
The red blotches were back on her cheeks. She hiked her chin. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course.” He managed a tight smile. “Thanks for the cookies.” Was he imagining it, or did she look as disappointed as he felt?
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t make them.”
She waited.
He stood his ground, even as it shifted beneath his feet.
She released a long breath, and he almost could see her retreating into her shell. “It’s okay. I understand.”
But she didn’t understand. Not at all. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, hold her, but he needed it to happen at the right time and without the undercurrent of doubt she might have about his motives. With Cristy, it had to be perfect. She deserved nothing less.
Then again, the moment had felt pretty damn perfect.
And he hadn’t read a whole helluva lot of doubt in her eyes.
Regret stabbed him. If he could turn back the clock, he’d say to hell with it, and pull her into his arms. He’d kiss her and hold her, and tell her he’d never let anyone hurt her again. But the moment had passed, and they both knew it.
He smoothed a palm down his face, grappling for his composure. No other woman had ever made him feel off balance like this. So much for getting some shut-eye tonight.
“Before you go up,” she said, sounding both resigned and businesslike, “I’d like to be able to open the shop tomorrow. To the public again. But only if we can operate like any normal day, which means I need to be certain no undesirables slip in.”
“Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”
“There is one thing, though.”
He nodded once.
“I need you to try and…fit in.” She moistened her lips, nervously this time. “I hope that’s…okay.”
He cocked his head to the side and frowned, confused. “I don’t understand.”
With a sigh, she grabbed her hair and wound it into a wad, then stuck a knitting needle through it haphazardly. Busy work with her hands. “I know Simplicity’s probably not your kind of place,” she said, in a rush of words, “I mean, well, you knit and everything. So that’s something. But…I guess what I’m saying…” She looked at him guiltily. “If you could just dress more like a regular person and less like a secret agent man…”
He laughed. He never knew what to expect with her, but that sure cut the tension. He held his arms out and glanced down at himself. “Are jeans and a T-shirt normal enough?”
She smiled, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. That came out totally wrong. It’s not that you don’t look normal. But, you just seem very, well—” She rolled one hand. “—authoritative in that all black getup. Sort of…menacing.”
“Good to know.”
“Yes, but people come to Simplicity to relax, chill out. It’s an oasis, and I’ve worked extremely hard to cultivate that atmosphere. I don’t want the customers to feel anxious because we have security. Or to get…distracted.”
“Distracted?”
She nodded. “By you.”
Well, well, well. She found him distracting. He decided he liked holding his hand close to the flame. “And you think I could be a distraction to your customers if I wore my—what was it? Secret agent man uniform?”
Her gaze slid off to the side. “Uh, yeah. I’m pretty positive you would be.”
“Duly noted. Oh, and Cristy? Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He winked.
“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes playfully.
“Good night, dork,” he said.
“’Night, secret agent man.”
He started out of the room, the rhythmic clicking of her knitting needles the only sound in the house. At the bottom of the stairs he turned back, just to watch her. She looked so damn beautiful sitting pretzel-legged in her pajamas within the small cone of warm lamplight, knitting her worries away. Cristy Avila had grown into a strong, centered, capable woman. But that irresistible vulnerability he’d always appreciated about her remained. She felt both familiar and new to him. Exciting and completely comfortable at once. “Cristy?”
She glanced up. “Yeah?”
For a moment he said nothing. Then he smiled. “I’d kick Kevin O’Kane’s ass for you anytime.”
She smiled, her head tilted to one side. “You’re one of the good guys, Diego. Thank you.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips, then blew the kiss toward him.
He reached up and pretended to catch it in his palm. But the truth was, he’d caught it with his heart.
“So, Diego,” Alma said, eyeing him across the table. “Ever thought about dating an older woman?”
The group of regulars laughed.
He grinned. “Not until I met you, Alma darlin’. Now it’s all I can think about.”
Cristy sidled up, drawn by the comfortable laughter at the table. She wanted to knock on wood, throw salt over her shoulder, send a prayer to St. Jude, cross her fingers—all of it—because, so far, her luck seemed to be holding. They’d been open for several hours with no problems. Whatever Diego said to the news crews that morning had worked. Though they all camped out, they’d so far kept their distance. The only men who’d come in were with their wives—purse holders rather than perverts. She didn’t want to hedge her bets, but she was right on the verge of admitting that, perhaps, she’d over-reacted.
Taking a deep cleansing breath, she laid her hands on Alma’s shoulders and gave them an affectionate squeeze. “What’s going on, my friends?”
“Nothing much.” Alma twisted around to glance up at her. “Your bodyguard is putting the moves on me, is all.”
Cristy arched an eyebrow at him.
He feigned innocence. “Hey, you told me to fit in. I just didn’t understand how fun it would be.”
Allegra’s jaw dropped. “You told him to fit in? Cristy! That’s so disturbingly high school!”
Cristy held a finger to her lips. “Not like that.” She glanced furtively at the browsing customers, hoping they were too preoccupied with the gorgeous yarn to pay attention to the center table’s conversation. She leaned in and whispered, “And not for you guys, either. I just didn’t want the other customers to feel weirded out because we have security.”
“Why would that weird anyone out?” Lisa asked.
She bestowed her best duh expression. “Oh, c’mon. When was the last time any of you frequented a coffee or yarn shop that had an armed bouncer?”
“She has a point,” Alma said, just as Lisa turned to Diego, wide-eyed, and exclaimed, “You’re armed?”
“Shhh!” went all the others.
Lisa clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just kind of…hot.”
Diego smiled at her. “Just a precaution.”
“Excuse me.” Cristy turned to find a small, mousy woman just a little older than herself hovering timidly next to her shoulder. “Do you work here?”
Cristy smiled. “I’m the owner. What can I help you with?”
“I’m interested in taking a beginner’s class.” She nudged up her glasses with one knuckle. “Do you have a schedule?”
“Of course. Right over here.”
“Oops, that’s my phone vibrating. Always gives me a jolt.” The woman rummaged in her shoulder bag and pulled out her cell phone, checking the display. She glanced up. “I’m sorry, I can walk and check messages at the same time.”
“We’ve become quite the society of multitaskers, haven’t we?” Cristy said with a wry laugh. “I remember when I’d drop everything to talk on the phone. Now I feel guilty if I don’t combine every phone conversation with some kind of chore.”
“Yeah. My daughter actually studies, talks on the phone, and instant messages all at once.” The woman shook her head. “Makes me tired just thinking about it.”
“Home phones, cell phones, e-mail—it just gets to be too much.” She led the woman to the small writing desk on which she displayed sales flyers, class schedules, and free patterns in decorative felted bowls. “My college roommates and I used to study, watch TV, and talk on the phone all at the same time.”
“Really? How was that?”
“Crazy. I’m glad to be off that roller coaster. It’s one of the reasons I opened Simplicity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Knitting is an activity for which you really have to be present. It’s meditative, and yet it lends itself to socializing and intimate conversation.”
“I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right.”
Cristy pulled their latest class schedule out of the black felted bowl. Checking it over quickly, she asked, “Are you interested just in knitting? We offer crochet classes, too. And felting.” She turned to await the young woman’s answer—Flash!
Cristy jumped and blinked against the sudden stars in her vision. The woman aimed her cell phone toward Cristy’s face. Flash! Flash! Flash!
A dapper, elderly man who’d ambled in moments earlier with his white-haired wife took the opportunity to pop the camera disguised as a handle off his walking stick, hold it up, and snap some photos of his own.
Stunned and half blinded from all the flashes, Cristy held her forearm up to block her face. “Diego?”
She should’ve known—he was right on top of it. In an instant Diego had the camera phone out of the mousy woman’s hands. He held it above her reach as he thumbed through the buttons to find Delete. Everything seemed to happen at once. The elderly man’s wife looked from her husband to the other camera-wielding woman, then threw two skeins of Lamb’s Pride bulky aside. “I told you it’d get us in hot water, Stan,” she said before hightailing it out of Simplicity.
“Roberta!” the man hollered.
Like a seasoned cop, Alma snatched the fake cane handle camera from the elderly guy. “What on earth were you thinking, you old coot?” she hollered, laying into him with an impressive forehand/backhand combo. “Get out of here!”
“I’m just making a buck,” he said, cowering.
“Who do you work for?” Smack! Thwack! “Spit it out.”
Ol’ Stan tried to ward off Alma’s blows with his spindly arms. “No one. I’m retired. But the young man out there from the news offered me five hundred bucks to snap some pictures of that woman.” He aimed a crooked, knotty finger toward Cristy. “Only a fool would pass that up.”
“Only a fool would agree to that without asking a question or two!” Smack!
He rounded on Alma and grabbed her wrists. “Please,” he pleaded. “Do you know how much my Roberta spends on yarn? It’s taking over our whole house. She calls it a stash, like it’s drugs instead of wool. Five hundred bucks is a lot of yarn, I told her. She still didn’t think it was a good idea, but—”
“Next time, listen to your wife!” Alma wrenched her arms away and slapped Stan upside the head, knocking his comb-over to the other side like a barn door swinging open.
For the love of God, her sixty-eight-year-old yarn buddy was beating up a geriatric media spy. Cristy stood frozen as the true meaning of shit hitting a fan manifested before her eyes. This had to be a nightmare. Her brain felt like a pinball. She didn’t know where to look; everyone seemed to be moving at once.
Red-faced, Stan pointed his cane toward the back of the shop, hollering something at Alma that was drowned out by Alma yelling at him. One of the yarn browsers took one look at the cane pointed in her direction, then screamed and crumpled into a faint. Allegra leapt up, knocking her chair over, and slid under the woman just in time to break her fall.
Cristy clutched her fists to her mouth, smothering a scream. “Is she okay? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Allegra fanned the woman’s face. “I think she is, too. Don’t worry. I have it under control.”
Cristy gave a jerky nod, not appeased by Allegra’s words, but thankful she’d paid her insurance premium.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, the drab little reporter jumped and flailed her arms at Diego, trying to grab her phone. “You can’t do that! Stop it. Freedom of speech!”
“This is private property, honey,” Diego told her calmly as he deleted each photo she’d snapped, “and you’re not an invited guest. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops.”
“It’s a business.”
“A business you can be tossed out of.”
“Don’t be an ass.” The woman gestured angrily at Cristy. “Her life became public domain the moment her sister talked about her on the radio. I mean, look at the old guy. Everyone’s trying for a crack at her, not just my magazine.”
“What magazine is that again?” Diego asked as he finished deleting and held out the phone to her.
“None of your business.” She snatched it away and shoved it into her bag, then whirled on Cristy. “This is all your fault!”
Stunned, Cristy stepped back as if she’d been slapped.
The woman’s eyes narrowed into angry little slits. “Who the hell cares if you were a phone whore? Just give me a damn quote and I’ll go.”
“Phone whore?” Racquel said with affront.
“Here’s your quote. Piss off,” said Alma, giving the woman a shove toward the door.
She stumbled, but Diego steadied her, wrapping his hand around her forearm and using her own momentum to propel her over the threshold. He shut the door behind her. The woman stood on the porch, sputtering and fuming about harassment and assault and “the public’s right to know.”
Unfazed, Diego turned from the door brushing his palms together. “You, too, pops. Out the door.”
“Not without that camera,” Stan said, striving for a dignified air as he smoothed down his comb-over with a shaky, liver-spotted hand. “It is to be returned if I want my five hundred dollars.”
“Alma, honey, pass me the camera.” Diego held out his palm and snapped his fingers inward a couple times.
“You greedy old goat.” Alma gave the old man another backhand thwack for good measure. “He’s lucky I don’t boot him in the rear with my foot,” she muttered as she hurried the camera over to Diego. “I think I deleted all of them, but double check. These newfangled cameras. It was a lot easier when you could just yank the film right out of the back.”
Diego checked, found the memory card clear. He turned it off and shook his head. “Really, Stan. Selling out for a measly five hundred bucks? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Stan harrumphed, hoisting his pants higher on his rounded belly. Diego grabbed one of his arms gently and escorted him out. “I ought to sue you!” he rasped toward Alma as he left.
“Knock yourself out, you old sack of bones. No jury would put a frail old woman like myself in jail.”
“Gaaaaahmmm…” The fainter stirred, and everyone’s attention zoomed in on her. Cristy swallowed, then flicked her hand toward the front door. “Diego, lock it. Please.”
Diego did as she asked, then turned and winked at Alma. “Nice work, Starsky. But come on…frail?” He held up a hand, and she gave him a strong high five.
“If there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s a greedy opportunist.” Alma straightened her spine and yanked on the hem of her Nike JUST DO IT shirt. “Forget the dating idea, Diego,” she said, rosy-cheeked with excitement and righteous indignation. “Maybe you should hire me.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
The woman who’d fainted sat up suddenly and glanced around with alarm. “What happened? Why am I on the floor?”
“You’ll be fine,” Allegra told her, smiling. “You just, um, saw a mouse and fainted.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake….”
Just then Racquel bustled into the room carrying a cool cloth and a glass of water. She squatted down next to Allegra, and together they took care of the woman.
“Are you guys filming some kind of, like, reality show?” asked a teenager with bouncy blond pigtails. She wore funky colored fingerless gloves, even though the summer temperatures hovered near ninety degrees. Probably her first knitting project after the ubiquitous scarf, Cristy thought.
“Nothing that exciting, kiddo.” Diego turned and addressed the rest of the customers in Simplicity, most of whom had ceased whatever they were doing to stare open-mouthed at the pandemonium. He proffered a polite smile full of ominous warning. “Now then. Anyone else working for the media here?”
All heads vehemently shook. Mrs. Molina’s eyes looked even bigger than usual behind her magnifying glasses. “You can check my purse if you want,” she said, holding it out with shaky hands.
“Oh, my freakin’ God,” Cristy whispered, laying her palm over her forehead. This was exactly what she hadn’t wanted to happen. She allowed herself a moment to picture her sister dying a thousand painful deaths, then tried to smile.
“Of course we won’t go through your purse,” she assured the owl-eyed octogenarian, rushing to take her by the elbow.
“If you’re sure…”
“Mrs. Molina, I’m so sorry for the disruption. Please, feel free to browse as long as you’d like. Have a coffee. In fact,” Cristy raised her voice so everyone could hear her, “I’ll offer a ten percent discount on anything you might want to purchase. And cappuccinos are on the house.”
When in doubt, offer free stuff. Excited murmurs filled the room as everything slowly returned to normal. Several of the women headed for the kitchen to retrieve their beverages.
As the raucousness died down, Cristy slumped into a chair with a groan. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her forehead against the heels of her hands. “Shit, I need a Valium.” Three hands, each bearing a pill, appeared beneath her face. She glanced up. “I was kidding. Sort of.”
The women each shrugged, putting the pills back in their purses or pockets.
“Whoa.” Allegra shook her head as she watched the woman who’d fainted amble toward the café. “That was whacked.”
“Are you okay?” the Mondragon sisters asked, in stereo.
“No,” said Cristy. “I couldn’t be less okay. Not to worry, though. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Lola emerged from the kitchen looking troubled. “Uh, Cris?”
Cristy struggled to focus. “Yeah?”
Lola gestured over her shoulder and stage whispered, “I’ve got people talking about free cappuccinos and whatnot? Did I miss something? I was outside throwing the trash away.”
“I’ll fill you in later, but yes.” Cristy waved her hand wearily toward the customers congregated in the café section. “Anything they want, Lola, give it to them. Give it all to them. I just don’t care at this point.”
Lola, befuddled, glanced around at the others, then shrugged. “You’re the boss. Free drinks, it is.”
“What can we do, Cristy?” Alma asked.
“Two choices.” She ran her fingers slowly through her hair. “Either someone can kill Marisol, or I need a phone.”
Allegra lobbed her cell over, and Cristy caught it.
“So I guess the contract hit is out? Sucks to be me,” Cristy said as she punched the phone’s keys.
“Who are you calling?” Diego asked.
“Who else? The hell spawn,” Cristy said through clenched teeth. She tossed her hair as she lifted the phone to her ear. “She wins, okay? I’ll do her goddamned show.”
“We’re on in sixty seconds,” Wyatt told Cristy, settling the big, bulky headphones over her ears.
She pulled them off and aimed a pointer finger at her sister. “You remember the rules, Mar?”
“Of course, sweetie. Don’t worry. Do you think I’d do anything else to get on your bad side?”
“Hard to tell with you. Frankly, your track record sucks. Regardless, I swear to you—” She scowled at Wyatt. “—both of you, if you do anything to embarrass me or put me on the spot, I’m out of here. I will provide a vague overview of the whole phone sex thing, but there will be no demonstrations of any kind, understand? And don’t call me Crystal.”
“Of course not,” Marisol said.
“Also, I won’t talk to any questionable guys, nor will I tolerate being lambasted by the religious right for my personal choices, so cut off those callers before they even hit the air.”
“We will,” Wyatt said.
“You’d better, because I don’t give a rat’s ass about balanced reporting. The only person who gets a voice today is me. This is not a debate about morals or politics or—God forbid—some backhanded way to boost ratings for your damn show. I’m not here to defend jack.”
“Kiddo, relax.” Wyatt laughed, sounding both exhausted and amused. “We initialed all your rules and signed the forms saying we agreed to them, didn’t we?” He shook his head. “You’re family. We’re not going to lie to your face.”
A standoff ensued.
“I still don’t trust you. You two would hang your grandmothers’ asses out to dry for higher ratings.”
Wyatt pursed his lips, considering this. “That might be true, but we won’t do that to you. Any more than we already have, that is, however inadvertently.” He held up a hand to ward off any argument. “I know you don’t believe me, so you’ll have to just watch and see, because we don’t have any more time to argue.” Wyatt slid her headphones back on. “Now, take a drink of water. And a deep breath. Not at the same time, of course.”
Cristy gave him a snarky fake smile. She adjusted the headphones then stole a glance out the plate-glass studio window into the private waiting area. Diego gave her a thumbs-up. In reply, she pulled a horrified face, praying he’d bust his way in and rescue her from this hell. He wouldn’t, of course. Just like Lola, Marisol, Wyatt, and even her faithful Simplicity regulars, Diego thought this stupid radio appearance was the best move she could make. Regardless, the simple fact that he had come along for moral support made things a little less horrible.
Emphasis on a little.
She still couldn’t quite see how subjecting herself to an hour of broadcast hell would solve all her problems. Then again, she couldn’t face another disrupted day at Simplicity, which meant she was fresh out of alternatives.
Even if she wanted to back out, it was too late now. KHOT had been running promos for her appearance for two straight days, ever since she’d agreed to it on Wednesday. The advertisers would be furious if she walked. She wanted to teach Marisol a lesson, sure, but she didn’t want the lesson to cost her sister a job. Therein lay the difference between her and her sister: she always considered the ramifications.
Red ON THE AIR lights flashed on above the studio doors, and Cristy’s throat clamped shut. “Ack.”
“You’re okay,” Marisol whispered. “It’s just talking.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Cris.” She smiled. “You’ve got a mouth on you, too.”
“I ask the questions,” Cristy rasped toward her sister.
Marisol laid a finger against her lips and nodded.
“But don’t leave me hanging if I get tongue-tied.”
“I won’t,” Marisol whispered.
“Swear it.”
“I swear. Okay, Cris? Wyatt’s going to start things off, but whenever you feel ready to chime in or take charge, just do it. Don’t think about the listeners. We’re three people talking in a room, and one of them is your big sister who loves you.”
Cristy’s heart squeezed. She actually felt grateful for Marisol’s presence. How freakin’ annoying that she could want to kill Mar and hug her at the same time. The whole whacked-out phenomenon of Sisterhood was overrated.
From the glassed-in control booth the producer gave a countdown of ten with his fingers, then pointed at Wyatt, who immediately cued the familiar lead-in music.
Wait! Her nerves went on red alert. Everything was happening way too fast. She wasn’t ready! The music ended abruptly, and just like that she found herself stuck inside the Marisol and Wily Wyatt show, like a raccoon in a trap. Wyatt set off on his trademark blah blah blather, but she scarcely heard him, much less retained any of his words. Her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears, she was sure others could hear it. And it might’ve been her imagination, but it sounded like a steady rhythm of stupid, stupid, stupid.
Could blood talk? More importantly, could she?
God—what if she couldn’t? Or if she accidentally blurted something horrid, sort of like stress-induced Tourette’s syndrome? Or if she belched, like in the middle of a comment? Or choked on her own spit? All that stuff that made her loathe public speaking in high school? Sure, there was that alleged two-minute delay, but she couldn’t rely on that. Marisol and Wyatt had broken promises before, so she had to keep her guard up, rock solid. No matter what else happened, she simply must chill out enough to think through her words before she cracked open her mouth, even for a yes/no question.
Think…speak. Think…speak. Think…speak.
If she could make any sound at all, that is. Right at the moment, her throat felt tight enough to kill her. Boa constrictor tight. Neck-slammed-in-an-elevator-door tight. And on the other hand, assuming she could talk, what if her voice sounded like Minnie Mouse’s? She never had liked that social climbing rodent. Mickey should’ve kicked her squeaky ass to the curb long ago, but that was a whole different issue.
She knew she hadn’t been blessed with Mar’s silky radio alto, and the stress wasn’t helping matters, either. Cristy’s breathing shallowed until stars floated before her eyes. She gripped the table to keep from falling straight to the floor.
On the outside, she knew she probably looked like a woman sitting calmly, with ugly headphones clamped to her skull. Inside, she was frantic, frazzled, and verging on flat-out psychosis.
What in the holy hell had she gotten herself into? She was an introvert! Introverts didn’t volunteer for this kind of insanity. She wasn’t a radio personality. Hell, she barely had a personality. She didn’t want to talk about her life or anyone else’s life, or anything!
Hyperventilation kicked in, good and hard. Because—oh my God, she should’ve thought of this earlier—but which was worse? Being embarrassed by your sister’s radio show through no fault of your own, or embarrassing yourself on your sister’s radio show? If this went to hell, she’d have no one to blame but herself.
The darkened, equipment-packed room swirled around her head. She felt like she was trapped on that horrific, barfinducing spinning teacup ride at Disneyland. In an instant all she could hear inside her head was that nightmarish “It’s a Small World” song over and over and over.
As though tuned in to her panic, Marisol caught her attention. Never breaking stride with her broadcast banter, she grabbed a pen and scribbled on a sheet of paper, then held it up toward Cristy.
List of names.
Huh? Cristy reread the cryptic note and frowned at Marisol, shaking her head. Like, what the crap was that supposed to mean? Whatever happened to the popular, “You go, girl!” or “Break a leg,” something along those lines? Even a cue card or a jumping off point or a reminder to breathe. But “List of names”? That didn’t cheer her on or spark conversation. It just confused her, and confusion was the last thing she needed on top of her burgeoning hysteria.
It’s a small world after alllllllll—Stop.
Enough with the insanity. She needed to get ahold of herself. Practicing some yoga breathing, she forced herself to be in the moment, hideous as it was. She watched as Marisol and Wyatt chatted back and forth about the weather, celebrity gossip, and last night’s reality television, as though doing so were easy. Come to think of it, it looked easy. Neither of them was ever, like, “Uh, so anyway…I’m at a loss for words.”
It was so weird. She had to admit, her sister’s smooth transition from off-the-air to on-the-air was impressive. Here she sat, shaking in her holey jeans, with her mind racing a million miles a minute. Meanwhile, Marisol never missed a beat, and nothing she uttered ever seemed forced. She grudgingly admitted her quick-witted sister was damned good at her job. No wonder Mar made the big bucks.
Feeling slightly less crazed, Cristy reached out a shaky hand and grabbed her water glass, taking a long drink that she practically had to choke down.
“Now, what we’ve all been waiting for.” Wyatt cued up a taped drumroll that ended with the crash of cymbals. “We’ve got a special guest with us today. Our very own Marisol’s kid sister, Cristy Avila, owner of the ever-popular Simplicity gathering place in West Highlands. Welcome, Cristy. Great to see you again, kiddo.”
D-day. She did not want to sound like an idiot.
“Thanks, Wyatt. Wish I could say the same, but you know. There are only about a million places I’d rather be than here,” she said with saccharine sweetness.
Wyatt and Marisol both laughed, but Cristy felt it was definitely with her and not at her. She stretched her fingers and popped her knuckles beneath the table. Okay, talking to Wyatt just then hadn’t been so hard. No blurted swear words. No unexpected bodily functions. Maybe she could do this.
“It’s true, folks. We kind of railroaded Cristy into being here, because we always strive to bring our listeners what they want,” Wyatt said.
Oh, please. “Suck up,” Cristy fake-coughed behind her hand. Marisol laughed again. You know, this really did feel like three people in a room talking.
“In any case,” Wyatt said, “you’re here, Cristy.”
“I am,” she said ruefully. “It was either that or kill my sister. I didn’t think winding up in prison as Big Bertha’s bitch was worth it.” She flashed a wide-eyed glance at Marisol. “Shit, can I say bitch on the air? Oops, I just said shit, too.”
“Twice. But we’re on the delay,” Marisol said, as amused as Wyatt was. “Don’t sweat it.”
“We’re going to take your questions in a few minutes, folks, but first, Cristy, tell us why you’re here.”
“Duh, Wyatt, you’ve only been running promos for two days straight. Do you think your listeners are dimwits?” This was getting easier by the minute. When in doubt, be a smartass.
“Well, just to be clear—” He raised his eyebrows hopefully at Cristy. “—dare I say it?”
Defeated, Cristy said, “It’s not like the whole universe doesn’t already know, thanks to my sister, the Mouth.”
“For those of you who’ve been living under a rock this past week, Cristy spent her college years—”
“Year, Wyatt. Get it right.” She held up an index finger. “One year. My final year of graduate school.”
“Gotcha. We do want to keep our facts straight.”
“You do? What’s with the sudden change?”
“Very funny. Our comedienne, Cristy, spent one school year working for a phone sex line. Did I get that right?”
“Yep.”
“Which is the bombshell Marisol dropped on all of us during Monday’s broadcast.”
“Tell everyone why you did it, Cristy,” said Marisol.
“Why does anyone accept a crappy job? Money. Plus, it didn’t interfere with my heavy course load, since I only took calls at night. And I could work from home.”
“Wait a minute. Callers had your home phone number?” Wyatt asked, incredulous.
“No, of course not. That would be dangerous.” She gave Marisol the evil eye. “Incoming calls were intercepted by a computerized system, which would then forward them to our home phones. Anonymously, trust me.” She flashed another death glare at her sister. “Anonymity was the key, at least until my sister decided to use me as an example on your show.”
“Guilty as charged,” Marisol said. “For the record, I have apologized.”
“Uh, for the record, it’s not the first time she’s done something like this to me, so her apologies don’t carry much weight. Isn’t that right, Marisol?”
“She’s right.”
“And don’t give any excuses about good intentions, either.”
Marisol gave a dramatic sigh. “The truth is, folks, I do tend to speak first and suffer the consequences later. Or, actually, Cristy suffers the consequences later.” She smiled encouragingly. “I’m sorry, Cristy, truly. I talk about my baby sister because I love her and I’m proud of her, but she’d rather I didn’t talk about her at all.” Then, to Cristy, “And, I maintain, you were the positive example during Monday’s show, not that it matters. This is your chance to set things straight.”
“Okay, enough of the sibling love fest before I puke,” Wyatt cut in. “Tell us how the phone sex thing worked.”
“The guy’s got a one-track mind,” Cristy said, bugging her eyes at Marisol.
“Don’t all guys?” Marisol asked.
“Most, but I wouldn’t say all.” Cristy glanced out at Diego. He winked. “Just as I wouldn’t classify all sex workers as ‘sluts’ or ‘tramps,’ Wyatt.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve already had my hand slapped for that one. By your sister and just about every women’s group out there. Not to mention my lovely wife—”
“The saint?” Cristy said, hiking one eyebrow.
“That she is.” Wyatt rolled his hand. “But about the phone sex…”
She sighed. “I’ll tell you how it worked, but it’s a lot duller than you’d imagine. First, you have to pick a service, and there are a lot of choices with different things to offer.”
“Really! I had no idea. Like what?”
“For example, 809 numbers are located in the Dominican Republic, and they don’t charge a per-minute fee. You’d just pay regular long distance charges. That’s a pro, but the con for some callers is the fact that these lines are more like dating party lines. It all depends on what the caller’s looking for.”
“I’m so out of the phone sex loop!” Wyatt said.
“Which I’m sure your wife is happy about.” Cristy smirked at her sister. “The 900 numbers you can find in magazines. Some are good, some aren’t, and some will really rip you off. Are you bored yet, Wyatt?”
“Not in the least. Keep going.”
“Fine. Oops, did you hear that?”
Wyatt perked. “What?”
“I think it was your ratings dropping by the second.”
“Very funny.”
“Moving right along, 011 numbers are offshore services. Mostly off the coast of Africa. You’ll pay long distance rates, but there can be language barriers that make the call a waste of money. English-speaking callers should be aware of this.”
“Check, avoid 011 numbers,” Wyatt said.
“Not necessarily. But, whatever. Okay, 800 numbers will bill your credit card. You have to be careful not to get bilked. But according to some of my old pals who are still doing phone sex work as a side job, the most reliable numbers these days are the 10XXX numbers.”
“What’s different about them?”
“Well, most of them are located in Canada, so there isn’t a language barrier problem. They are per-minute services, but—at least what I’m hearing—the 10XXX services are highly experienced and professional. You can generally rely on them to deliver…oh my God, I can’t believe I’m talking about this.”
“Just tell us,” Wyatt said.
“Okay. In a nutshell, if you want explicit, hardcore, reliable, and professional, use the 10XXX.”
“What kind of line did you work on?”
“A 900 service. We also had a psychic hotline in the company. But really, my experience wasn’t that exciting.”
“Is it fair to say you don’t consider this bombshell about your past as hot news?” Wyatt asked.
“Wyatt dear, it’s no news,” Cristy said in an overly patient and condescending tone. “Half the women in my MBA program worked for the stupid phone sex lines. Thousands of women all over the country do it. Housewives, professionals, students. We take our earnings to build fantastic, fulfilling lives, while the guys who called us are probably still living in their mothers’ basements.”
Laughter permeated the studio. Even the producer was laughing, which bolstered Cristy’s confidence. She waited for it to die down. “It would be news if, say, the First Lady had worked on a phone sex line, but me? Who cares? I’m a twenty-seven-year-old, single, small business owner. That’s it.”
“And yet the media has been trailing you all week.”
“All hype, no substance,” Cristy said. “They’ve been hounding me because of you two, anyway. For goodness sake, I own a coffee and yarn shop. I’m a knitter. And I’d rather wear sweatpants than anything sexy. That’s who I am. All through school, Marisol was the popular, outgoing one. I was the shy dork, and very happily so. The part-time phone sex job was a way to make a lot of money quickly, period. I didn’t love it. I wasn’t particularly skilled at it. But overall, your listeners should know that it’s so totally yesterday.”
“I hear you. But I still want to know what it was like,” Wyatt said, almost whining. “I’m sure our listeners do, too.”
“All righty, then. Got your notepads ready? In my limited experience, these guys—callers—paid by the minute. Almost six bucks a minute for—”
“That much?”
“No one ever said they were smart. Anyway, they paid that much for, basically, dirty talk.”
“Like what?”
“Like whatever turned them on. The direction each call took was up to the individual caller. We didn’t start in until the guy said something to set the tone. I mean, different people are turned on by different things. There wasn’t a script. To lay it right out there, our sole job was to flatter each caller into staying on as long as possible, and we did that by keeping up the conversation they wanted to have. Think about it, sixty minutes? That’s over four hundred bucks.”
“And how much of that did you get?”
“It varies across the industry, but I worked for a fair company, and no, I will not name it. But we earned fifty percent of the call time.”
“Two-hundred-some-odd bucks an hour for a part-time job?” Wyatt whistled. “That’s some cash!”
“Hello! Which I was trying to tell you on Monday,” Marisol said. “Cristy’s experience was the positive argument against your contentions that all sex workers are sluts or addicts.”
“Right,” Cristy said. “The money’s the whole point, Wyatt. I wanted to earn enough in a year to put a hefty down payment on the building that now houses Simplicity, because I fell in love with it the minute I saw it, but I was in college, you know?”
“And did you?”
“You bet. I was able to put down half and still have a chunk of capital for the business. It’s the reason I was able to launch Simplicity and make it a success at such a young age.”
“Good for you, woman!” Predictably, Wyatt steered the conversation back to the racier aspects. “And so, they’d call, and you…?”
Cristy rolled her eyes. “We asked what each caller wanted and went from there, dragging it out however we could. It was easy. I mean, the callers will picture you however they want to, and they’ll hear what they want to hear. Who you are on the other end is utterly irrelevent.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you called a sex line, wouldn’t you picture yourself talking to the busty blonde from the ad that prompted you to call in the first place? Lingerie, lust, the whole shebang?”
“Stop, you’re killing me.”
Cristy nodded. “Well, here’s some reality slush to dump over your head. I’d say ninety percent of the time I was wearing ratty pajamas with my hair up in a towel and zit cream dotting my face. And there was no lust or arousal on my end, believe me. The woman at our company who made the most money—”
“How much?”
“I’d estimate about three hundred grand a year.”
“Man, I’m in the wrong business,” Wyatt mused.
“Anyway, she was a single mom, fifty-four years old, and weighed close to three fifty, not that her weight matters at all, because she was beautiful inside and out. But it’s a sad fact about our culture that most people lust after the thin and fit. Anyway, she had four kids in college at the same time, and honey, she was living in style. All because men believe what they want to believe, and sister knew how to talk the talk. I adored that woman. She kept the job in perspective for a lot of us newbies. She even helped us amp up our ‘fantasy voices.’”
“More power to her,” Marisol said. “That is what I was trying to tell you, Wyatt. He never listens to reason,” she added to Cristy.
Wyatt mulled it all over. “So you can honestly say you weren’t into it or the callers, eh?”
“God, Wyatt, that’s such a guy question.”
“That’s his specialty,” Marisol said.
“I’m a guy!”
“Do you really think a woman could be turned on by some guy spending a ton of cash to jerk the gherkin while talking to a stranger who, sad but true, couldn’t care less about him?”
“Well, maybe you weren’t turned on by every caller.”
“Try none of them. Know what I used my call time for? Studying. Believe me, even my least favorite class, statistics, was more interesting than these calls. They were so tediously predictable. We barely had to pay attention. Throw in an ‘Oooh baby ’every now and then, and you’re golden. Here’s me: ‘I’m touching myself right now, thinking of you, Horace,’ and inside my head, ‘Crap, I have twenty pages left to read before tomorrow. Could you hurry up?’ Callers never could tell the difference.”
Marisol laughed. “I’d kill for a tape of that.”
“I’d kill you if you had a tape of it,” Cristy told her sister before turning back to Wyatt. “The absolute only turn-on was the money, and I made a lot of it without ever having any live contact with anyone. Phone sex is safe and pretty chaste.” She shook her head in pity at Wyatt. “I suppose you think the strippers who shimmy in your face are into you, too, huh?”
“Sure, why not?”
“News flash, Wyatt, the strippers think you’re a toad just like all the other identical toads who drool while they dance. They just want your money. Half of them have girlfriends. And I’m not talking the shop-and-do-lunch kind of girlfriends, either, if you get my gist. But, hey, the theory of most sex workers is, as long as you guys are gullible enough to hand over your money, we women will be more than glad to take it. You’ll be getting screwed, but not in the way you’d hoped.”
“Harsh words from our guest, Cristy Avila, folks.”
“True words. I banked on the callers’ big egos. Strippers bank on men’s big egos. We all did. In the no physical contact sex-for-money world, women have always had the upper hand.”
“How about all you strippers out there giving us a call in the studio. Is Cristy Avila telling the truth here? We’re going to find out, right after this.”
Wyatt went to a song, then cued up a commercial to run after it. “You’re doing a great job, Cristy.”
She smirked. “I’m surprised you’d say that, what with me kicking your ass all over the airwaves.”
He grinned. “Whatever works. You know me—I’m a ratings whore with the best of them.”
After the brief break, they went back live. “Cristy, on a more serious note, we hear some men have been bothering you this week,” Wyatt said.
“Yes, it’s true.”
Marisol gave her an odd look. “So I guess it’s a good thing the company kept thorough logs of every single caller, isn’t it?”
Cristy opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“I mean, didn’t you tell me you had a list of names, addresses, phone numbers, and other personal data on every single guy who ever called you? Kind of like how a call girl has her book of regulars?”
Surprise zinged through Cristy. So that’s what the note had been about. “Oh, yes,” she said, transitioning easily into her sister’s lie. “And, since I’ve been having a little trouble, it’s already been turned over to the cops. So my message to those guys is, nice talking to you, now leave me alone to run my business. You wouldn’t want your wives, girlfriends, mothers, or whoever finding out how you spent your holiday bonus, would you?”
“Cristy,” Wyatt said. “You’d actually do that?”
“Darn right. If they’re messing with my business, I have no qualms about messing with their lives. And my business is not phone sex. It’s Simplicity. A place for knitting, conversation, friendship, and the best coffee and baked goods in the world.”
“There you have it. And we’ll be right back after this.”
“Do I ever love seeing Wyatt put into his place,” Marisol said as the newest hit from one of the pop divas played.
Cristy took a long drink of water, then shared a squinty-eyed smile with her sister. “Don’t act like you’re off the hook. This whole fiasco was your fault, and my hour’s not over yet.”
“Hit me with your best shot, sis. I deserve it.”
From the producer’s booth came, “And you’re on in five, four, three, two…” The red lights came back on.
Cristy glanced at the producer, realizing she hadn’t felt nervous for a while now. Wow. Calls trickled in. A few strippers gave total support to her, as did women from all walks of life. Their favorite call had come from a timid minister’s wife. She admitted, with some embarrassment, that she’d thoroughly enjoyed the show. And if she’d learned one thing from it, it was that she wished she could charge her husband for sex, since it was usually of the “Brace yourself, Effie” variety. That way, she said, at least she’d have the cash to buy a new pair of shoes now and then.
When Cristy got to the point where she felt like she’d set things straight enough, she decided to switch gears. Cliché or not, paybacks were a bitch. “Wyatt, have we sufficiently beaten the dead horse now? I’d like to talk about a different topic.”
“What Cristy wants, Cristy gets. Lay it on us, babe.”
“I want to hear from anyone who, like me, has a clueless but allegedly well-meaning sibling who manages to humiliate you constantly. He or she exposes your secrets, talks when shutting up would be the smart route. I mean, honestly, people, how do we keep from killing them?”
“Oh, great,” Marisol said, but with a smile. “Fine, come on, callers. 303–555-HOTT.”
Almost instantly, every single phone line in the studio went berserk. The whole metro area wanted to bash their big-mouthed siblings, it seemed. Ah, vindication.
“Now that,” Cristy said, pointing to the stacked calls, “is newsworthy.” She had such a great time commiserating with callers and dissing her sister, sixty minutes passed before she even thought to glance at her watch. Sure, a few of the callers brought up the phone sex, but it was either to tell her they wished they knew how to do it or to congratulate her for her ingenuity. Not a single negative caller was sent through.
By the end of the hour she felt confident that Denver’s media was kicking themselves for wasting a full week outside Simplicity. Even better, Marisol and Wyatt had been knocked firmly into their places. This radio stuff wasn’t anywhere near as bad as she’d thought it might be. And her life didn’t suck as much, either. Now if the show had succeeded in scaring off the perverts, life could truly be normal and happy again. Her segment ended, and the producer, Wyatt, Marisol, and even Diego stood and applauded. All she could do was grin.
Cristy hadn’t known what to expect at Simplicity after her appearance on the radio show, but it turned out to be a blessedly normal Friday. No news vans lurked. No unwelcome photo takers popped up. No strange men came in at all. Her regulars sat around the center table stitching and bitching like nothing had ever happened. Best of all, Simplicity’s sales set a record high, especially on the café side. Poor Lola was working like a slave just to keep up with demand, but they needed it after the disastrous week.
By six o’clock that evening the shop had closed, although the regulars still sat in the front room knitting. Diego had disconnected his surveillance equipment and abandoned his watchdog duties to sit in the kitchen with Lola. Cristy found them laughing when she walked in. She smiled. “Wyatt and Marisol weren’t kidding when they said I’d be old news almost immediately.”
“Definitely,” Lola said. “It’s been a great day. But, damn, you women sure eat and drink a lot. I’m pooped.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Cristy said. “I’ll clean up.”
Lola gave a little grimacy smile. “No offense, but I don’t want anyone else in my kitchen. It’s a deep-seated control issue that I’m just not willing to abandon.”
Cristy raised her hands. “Say no more.”
“Is the place officially closed for the day?” Diego asked.
“Yeah.” Cristy sat on one of the tall bar stools. “I mean, the girls are still here, but we’re locked up.”
Diego nodded, then stood. “Unless you disagree, Cristy, I think my job here is done.”
Unexpectedly, her heart squeezed. She swallowed, and went for the casual tone. “No, you’re right. I think we sufficiently scared the creeps away. But thanks for everything. It really was…nice that you were here.” Nice? What was she, some kind of pinafore-wearing milkmaid? Jesus. It was a wonder she’d ever made a dime in the phone sex biz. “Don’t be a stranger. We might even let you join the center table if you promise to knit.”
“We’ll see about that.” He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then crossed to Lola and did the same to her. “Keep up the excellent work, ladies. It was a pleasure.”
“I can’t really echo that, but we were glad you were here. And for God’s sake, next time rent a hybrid.”
“Will do,” Diego said with a laugh.
And then he left. Just like that.
For a few moments Lola and Cristy sat in silence. The voices of the regulars drifted in, and behind that, the sound of the Hummer rumbling away from the curb. Cristy felt empty.
“It’ll be weird without him here,” Lola said.
Cristy tried to be the voice of reason, even though her words rang false in her ears. “He was only here four days.”
“I know. That’s what makes it so awful.”
For some strange reason, Cristy found herself on the verge of tears. She stood and shook her hair back. “I think I’ll just go finish up with the girls and give them the gentle boot. It’s been a long week.”
Cristy schooled her features to hide her melancholy before entering the main room. Lisa, Racquel, Allegra, Alma—each woman deserved nothing but smiles from her for all the support they had given her this week. Her affection for them felt like a hand-knit cashmere blanket around her heart.
To her surprise, however, no one was knitting when she walked in. Each woman sat in her normal spot around the table, but their yarn and needles had been stowed in favor of…wine? Three uncorked bottles sat in the middle of the table, breathing, and everyone besides Allegra had a glass waiting to be filled.
Cristy stopped short and studied their expectant faces. “What’s this?”
“Have a seat, honey,” Alma said, gesturing to the empty chair at the head of the table. “We’d like to talk to you.”
Her heart started to pound, but she sat. Had she done something to hurt or offend them? She clasped her hands in front of her on the table and made eye contact with each woman in turn, stopping with Alma. “I’m all ears.”
“Wine?” Alma asked.
Boy, did she need it. “Actually, I’d love some.”
Racquel poured wine all around and surprised Allegra with ice cold sparkling cider so she wouldn’t feel left out.
“The thing is, Cristy,” Lisa said, “we really enjoyed your radio appearance this morning.”
“Oh.” That was it? “Well, thank you.”
“And we were glad to be here for you all week, when things were crazy,” Allegra said. “Just like you’re always there for us.” She smiled shyly.
Had she failed to thank them fervently enough? Cristy splayed a hand on her chest. “Ladies, you have no idea how much that meant to me. I should’ve made that more clear. I mean, I can’t even repay you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, honey bunch,” Alma said, her tone determined and strong.
Cristy tilted her head quizzically. “I don’t follow.”
“Which is why we’re going to explain this payback situation to you as we see it.” Alma sniffed and straightened her back. “You see, we’ve talked, and we all agree it’s just plain not fair for you to possess all those juicy phone sex skills and not share them with us.”
Huh? “Oh, Alma—”
“No. We’re serious.” She held up a hand. “None of us want the job, for goodness sakes, but—”
“I have twin toddlers,” Lisa blurted, her voice almost plaintive. She blushed all the way to her ears. “Robert’s and my sex life has been pretty G-rated since the kids came along, and they’re going to be two. That’s a long time to go without some X-rated nookie. Frankly, I need something to spice it up before I go nuts.”
“Me, too,” Racquel said.
“And my Manuel, God rest his soul, has been gone for years now,” Alma said. “He will always be the love of my life, but I don’t think he’d want me to be a nun for the rest of my days.” A pretty pinkness touched her cheeks as well. “You see, there’s this new gentleman in my running club that all the widows have an eye on. I need something to set me ahead of the pack.”
“Oooooh, Alma!” Lisa said. “You never said anything about that to us.”
“Well, I was feeling out the situation.”
Lisa stood to give Alma a high five across the table. “You go, girl. Crack yourself off a piece of that.”
Cristy’s mouth dropped open. She took several long gulps of wine, then held out her glass. Racquel topped it off. She pointed toward Allegra. “What about our young friend here? Am I supposed to expose her to my knowledge?”
Allegra rolled her eyes. “God, Cristy. I’m eighteen, you know. If I’m old enough to vote, I think I’m mature enough to get a few phone sex tips. I mean, I don’t have anyone to use them on now, but who knows about the future?”
“You kind of owe them,” came Lola’s voice from behind her.
Cristy whipped around to find her chef leaning against the archway wall, grinning. “You knew about this?”
“Heck, I helped them pick the wine. Oh, and I’m done in the kitchen and all the doors are locked, so I’ll just grab our cheese and cracker tray and pull up a chair if no one minds. I’m all for some heavy breathing on a Friday night.”
Lola disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a gorgeous spread that included brie, gouda, and other cheeses arranged around grapes and dates and homemade crunchy bread sticks.
By the time everyone had loaded up a plate, Cristy was on her second glass of wine, feeling no pain. She also felt no shame. She hated to admit it, but going on her sister’s radio show had opened her mind up to the idea of letting her inner extrovert out to play every now and then. What could it hurt? She’d always have her shell to retreat into, but venturing out could lead to…who knew what? And this was a perfectly safe venue in which to give her new boldness a whirl. Hey, if she could help spice up her friends’ sex lives, why not?
“Okay,” she said, enjoying her friends’ bright expressions of anticipation. “Simplicity is closed for the day.” She gave a sly smile. “But, Sinplicity is officially open, and ladies? Class is in session.”
The women all applauded.
Just before she started to talk, someone knocked on the front door. Cristy jumped. God, she hoped she hadn’t released Diego too soon. The legs of her chair scraped against the wood floors as she pushed back. “Sit tight, gals.”
She crossed to the front door and peered out carefully. It was her sister. Marisol gave a little finger wave.
Perplexed, Cristy threw the dead bolt back and opened the door. “What are you doing coming to the front?”
Marisol shrugged one shoulder. “Trying to turn over a few new leaves. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” Cristy glanced at her friends over her shoulder and held up one finger to them, then stepped out on the front porch and pulled the door shut behind her. “I never got to thank you, for that list of names idea,” she said. “To be honest, I had no idea what to use as pervert repellent. You really helped me out. And yes, it kills me to admit that.”
Marisol smiled, a bit sadly. “Can you forgive me?”
Cristy crossed her arms over her torso. “Will you refrain from talking about my life on your show from here on out?”
“I’ll try. I promise you that.” She held up one hand. “Not that my promises mean anything to you.”
A smile tugged at Cristy’s lips. “You’re such a pain in my ass, Marisol.”
Marisol spread her arms, and Cristy moved forward into the hug. “I know I am,” her sister said. “But you love me anyway.”
“I do, damnit. That’s the worst part.”
Marisol laughed, then stepped back. “Truce?”
“Sure,” Cristy said nonchalantly. “I mean, I can’t legally kill you, and I hate it when we’re not talking. As if you’re ever not talking, but you know what I mean. To each other.”
“I love you, Cris.”
“I love you, too, you hag.” They shared toothy, evil grins, like they’d been doing since childhood. “So, you want to join the party?” Cristy pointed over her shoulder.
“You’re having a party?”
“Sort of.” She smirked. “The ladies want me to give them phone sex lessons.”
Marisol’s eyes bugged. “And you agreed to it?”
“Eh, what the hell. It can’t hurt anything, right?”
Marisol laughed. “I guess we’re both turning over a few new leaves, huh?”
Cristy held up a finger and narrowed her gaze. “You will not—I repeat, will not, discuss this on your show.”
Marisol made a zipping motion over her mouth. “My lips are officially closed.”
“Wow,” Cristy said dryly. “And I hadn’t even heard that hell froze over today.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Arm in arm, the two sisters headed into Sinplicity together, and everyone greeted Marisol enthusiastically. They settled in, poured some more wine, and Cristy glanced around at her audience. “Okay, we’ll start simple. Sometimes, when you ask a guy what his fantasy is, he may be reluctant to open up. So instead, take control.” She grinned. “Come right out and tell him your fantasy instead.”
“Really?” Marisol asked.
“Like, how?” Lisa chimed in.
“Easy. Pick up the phone. Dial. When he answers, use your sexiest tone, and say, ‘I have this fantasy…. ’”
Cristy made the usual commute downstairs to Simplicity on Monday morning after hell week, and stopped on the landing to take it all in. Everything seemed the same. The familiar sunlight slanted in the windows, the yarn looked fluffy and inviting. The whole place still felt like her.
But something was missing.
Diego.
Damnit. She sighed, raking her fingers through her as yet unbrushed hair. She couldn’t have her Monday mornings ruined just because she was mooning over some guy who would never be hers. She’d awakened earlier than usual feeling a little off, so she’d decided to creep downstairs and grab some coffee to take back up to her room. Lola wasn’t even there yet for company.
She had to recapture the magic. With determination, she started around the main room, straightening displays and clicking on lights—just like every day. But instead of feeling embraced by the serenity of her little oasis, she felt lonely. On any other day she would have just buried herself in work and denial until the feeling dissipated, but something elemental had changed inside her in the past week.
She was still Cristy, the one and only Avila who’d been born with an embarrassment gene. She was still an introvert. She still wanted to fade into the background, but now she sort of wished she could fade with someone, rather than alone.
Okay, not someone. Diego.
She didn’t want to lie to herself, for God’s sake.
Cristy sank into the window seat and stared unseeing out her front window. Damnit, she needed to start asking for what she wanted in life. If she’d learned anything from Marisol, it was that. And what she wanted right now was Diego Mora.
She had no idea what, if anything, he felt for her, or if he’d even respond to her suggestions, but that didn’t matter. Standing, she took a page out of her brave sister’s handbook and grabbed the phone. She didn’t need to look for his number, because she’d memorized it the moment he’d given it to her. For God’s sake, she was just a grown-up version of one of those girls who doodled marriage names in the margin if a notebook, and right now she didn’t care at all.
It rang.
Panic seized her, but she held it off.
A second ring.
This was stupid. Maybe she should hang up and—
“Hello?”
She swallowed tightly. “Diego?”
“Cristy? Is that you?”
She stilled all her fears, closed her eyes, said a silent prayer, then lowered her voice to its most seductive level. “If that’s who you want me to be, sure. I’ll be whoever you want.”
A stunned silence ensued. When he spoke, she recognized his arousal in the timbre of his voice. “Damn, no wonder you made so much money on that phone sex line.”
“I’m not interested in money at the moment.”
“What are you trying to do to me, little Cristy Avila?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m just sitting here, still warm and cozy in my bed and wondering if you’re busy this morning…because, I have this fantasy….”
She heard his hard swallow. “Don’t move. Cristy? Cristy?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“I’ll be waiting….” They disconnected, and she took the stairs two at a time so she could brush her hair and her teeth and spritz a little perfume on her skin.
Fifteen minutes later he knocked on her door.
Cristy swept it open and raked him naked with her bold gaze. It wasn’t just the fact that he looked like male perfection, although that was a bonus. Diego Mora was truly one of the good guys, and she knew, without a doubt, that he’d always have her back. He knew all her most devastating secrets, and he liked her anyway. What more could she ask?
Taking a deep breath, she decided caution was overrated. She threw herself into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. The heat from his hands seared through her thin silk pajama top and made her skin tingle. “Forgive me for being so forward.”
“No apology necessary, believe me.”
He smelled soapy and fresh and sexy, like a man with all kinds of ideas she wanted to experience. She flipped her hair back and pressed her lips to his, gently, and then more urgently. When they finally broke apart, she was breathless, and he obviously wanted her. God, risk was fun sometimes.
She smiled at him, and her heart clenched. “Hi.”
“Tell me your fantasy,” he said in response.
“Wow, don’t you have a one-track mind?”
“You expected anything less? After a call like that?” He shook his head, then nipped at her bottom lip with his teeth. “Tell me, Cristy. In detail.”
“I’d rather show you,” she told him. “In detail.”
The man needed no further encouragement. Carrying her easily, he headed for the stairs. “How much time do we have?”
“An hour and a half before Lola gets here.”
He grinned. “Is that long enough for you to tell—show—me your fantasy?”
“Not nearly.” She kissed his jawline. “But we’ll make it work.”
They started up the stairs, still wrapped around each other. Cristy glanced over Diego’s shoulder at her own little oasis. The glow had returned, and she loved it more at that moment than she ever had before.
As they reached the top and headed down the hall toward her bedroom, she tilted her head back and studied him. “Want to know my deepest, darkest secret?”
“Of course.”
“I love Monday mornings.”
He entered her bedroom, kicked the door closed behind him, and then laid her gently onto her bed and followed her down.” You know,” he said with a grin, as he gripped the shoulders of his T-shirt and pulled it forward over his head. “I’ll be damned if they aren’t beginning to grow on me, too.”