Friday Night Chicas Page 5

  I gave him the eye.

  “Is there anything I can say that will convince you I’m not a complete asshole?”

  “No.” Damn. I hate it when they get you to talk.

  I turned to stare out the window, watching a Mexican man in a straw hat push a grocery cart filled with roasted corn on the cob.

  “I said I’m sorry. I mean it.”

  “I heard you.”

  “So that’s it? After last night, you’re done?”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you—”

  “Oh please. You didn’t exactly tell me the truth, either, did you?”

  He sighed. “Isela, I’m grasping at anything to make you understand.”

  My eyes narrowed. Yeah, right. “Glad to know I was that good.”

  His eyes wide and pleading, he turned to stare at me in spite of the green light. “That’s not why.”

  “You have a green light.” A rusted pickup honked behind us.

  “I don’t give a shit. I spent the night with you because I liked you and you liked me.”

  The truck swung around violently and before the driver sped off, he screamed, “¡Pendejo!”

  I couldn’t agree more. “Will you just go?”

  He switched off, the ignition and yanked his key out. “Get this straight. I was leaving when I saw you staring up at the ceiling and after going back, I found you at the bar. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  I let him go on, hoping some raving road-rager would bash in the back of his ’67 Landcruiser with a pipe.

  “I know it was stupid, but I never meant to lie to you. And technically I didn’t lie to you. I lied to that blonde chick you pissed off at the bar.”

  “You should’ve told me before we went to your place.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Isela. I know it sounds stupid but you were there with Sebastian, a guy who couldn’t help your career. I just got caught up in the moment with you and I’m sorry.”

  Well, that made two of us. And the seat groaned as I twisted away to hide the tears smarting my eyes.

  “I don’t why I’m trying so hard with you,” he said.

  “Neither do I,” I admitted.

  He took in a deep breath. “Let’s go get something to eat. We can talk.”

  “You’re not wearing shoes and I look like I spent the night with you.”

  In the side-view mirror I saw him reach for me and then drop his hand back on the gear shift. “Then let me take you back. We can talk and if you don’t want me to drive you to your car, I’ll call someone and you can have some coffee while we wait.”

  “You like to give orders, don’t you?”

  A furious voice exploded behind us and Tyler restarted the engine. “It’s what I do for a living.”

  I held on to the hand brake. “But I didn’t say yes.”

  He looked at me expectantly.

  “You need to ask me back,” I instructed.

  He closed his eyes and then reopened them slowly. “Isela, will you come back with me to my loft so the guy behind us in the Cucui de Michoacan doesn’t drive over my car?”

  I looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, there really was a monster truck with six-foot-tall tires, chrome-light racks, and El Cucui de Michoacan written in Old English letters across the windshield.

  Turning, I folded my hands in my lap. “I don’t want to go back to your place.”

  “Fine. I know where we can go.”

  I retreated back into myself.

  “You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?” he asked quietly.

  I didn’t dignify that with an answer. If he used me, then I needed to do a little using of my own.

  Chapter Ten

  Give a little thigh, a little cleavage and then make that pendejo beg for you.

  —Many years later, Isela to her niece, Jody, on giving a man a second chance

  I stayed two steps ahead of Tyler so he couldn’t open any doors for me, which wasn’t easy by the way since his legs were about a foot or two longer than mine. But I kept my distance until he beat me to the double doors of the Penthouse and with a smirk held the ornate wrought-iron and glass door for me.

  “I’m on to you,” he teased, sweeping his hand to let me enter.

  Foolish man. I opened the other door and walked into the club from the night before.

  On the ride over, Tyler explained that he owned half the place, which made me feel better about breaking the glass and the plates last night. He walked around the back of the bar, stuck his head through a door, and argued with someone in the back.

  “Be right back,” he said and then disappeared behind the door.

  While he did whatever he did, I tried the pool doors. Stepping outside the sun burnt my eyes, but the wind felt good and clean against my skin. Walking past the pool and the deserted cabanas, I grasped the iron railing. Beyond the refurbished lofts and the awakening stores were the abandoned warehouses and broken up railroad tracks that fringed the lesser buildings of downtown. A haze lingered as if the city itself recovered from the excesses of Friday night.

  Downtown looked different when you saw it from the inside. At a distance all you saw were the gleaming, aloof edifices of power. But from the towers themselves, you saw the scars they bore from the city, the exhaust, and the spray paint.

  “Put it over there,” Tyler said to someone behind me. I turned to the jingling of porcelain against silver. Tyler held open the door with his foot, carrying a tray of coffee things, while arguing with some viejo who flapped a white tablecloth.

  “Es mucho romantico,” the old man argued in his gravelly voice.

  “Over by the pool.” Tyler jerked with his head. “Ahora, por favor.”

  “Ay, you finally bring home a lady and you need to—” The old man saw me lurking out of the corner of his eye and his whiskered face broke into a grin. “Buenas días, m’ija.”

  Tyler plunked the tray on the table, smiling as this old man hobbled over to kiss my hand. “You speak Spanish, no?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “You speak very nice, m’ija.” Charmed, I let him tuck my arm under his as he walked me to the table.

  “Leave her alone, Tío,” Tyler laughed lovingly.

  “I promise to act like a gentleman,” he argued in Spanish. “Sit here. M’ijo, pour her some coffee.”

  While he poured Tyler introduced me to his Tío Mateo.

  “Mucho gusto.” I smiled as Mateo snapped open a linen napkin and then placed it over my lap. To Tyler, “I like lots of milk and two spoons of sugar.”

  I watched in case he decided to spit in it, because frankly, that’s what I would’ve done.

  “More milk, m’ijo. She’s skin and bones.”

  Tyler dutifully added a bit more.

  Like an old courtier, Mateo kissed my hand and admonished his nephew to act like a gentleman.

  Then, Tyler unwrapped two luscious chocolate muffins that I bet Tío Mateo had personally covered in a white napkin.

  “Where does your uncle live?” I asked.

  “Up here. I tried to get him a house but he won’t let me. He likes the view.”

  “So are we okay?” Tyler ventured.

  Good question. You see, the thing about being a Mexican, especially a female one, is that we never forget and we aren’t stupid. Tyler apparently wanted one thing from me and I, another from him. If withholding that meant the difference from me working at Toda Moda and another chance at my dream, I could play this.

  On the other hand, the fact that Tyler and his tío got chocolate muffins touched me.

  “Isela?” he asked.

  “We need to start over.”

  His brow twitched. “How do we do that?”

  The Mexican coffee took no prisoners, even with the milk and sugar.

  “Where does your brother live?” I asked.

  “With me. For now anyway.”

  “And what does he do?”

  The skin between brows puckered. �
�Why do you want to know?”

  “Because when I asked you last night, you said you weren’t doing much of anything.”

  “I wasn’t pretending to be him.” Staring at the pool, he smiled as if something known only to him was amusing. “I was telling you the truth because I really haven’t decided on what I’m doing next. Does that answer your question?”

  “Who was calling you last night?”

  He counted on his fingers, “My agent and my brother.”

  “And what about your real name? The one you were born with.”

  I heard him take in a fortifying breath. “Man, you don’t miss a thing do you?”

  “Only when I’m lied to.” I sipped from my coffee, ignoring the tightening of his fists.

  “It’s Terencio Romero,” he said. “So how do I start over with you?”

  I tried to figure out how he went from that name to Tyler. Instead, I focused on the game at hand. “That’s up to you.”

  “How about lunch this week?”

  Looking back at him, I took my time to answer. “Fine.”

  Thinking he had it easy, Tyler grinned and picked up his cup. “I know a good place in Hollywood. You’ll like it.”

  Men. They’re so transparent. “We’ll discuss business.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ll see.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to speculate?” His eyes did a once-over up my legs. The wind flapped at my skirt which was too short to be blown up, but not long enough to leave much to the imagination if I wasn’t careful. “See where this might go?”

  I did and I didn’t. In one night Tyler unlocked this wildness that made me do something stupid like sleep with a guy I’d just met. And while I think he could be the perfect guy, I wasn’t walking back into anything with him blindly, or without wanting something in return.

  “Not right now,” I said, unable to break these long lingering looks that were starting to become a habit with the two of us. “We’ll see each other but only on my terms.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I want you to direct a screenplay I optioned last year.”

  Intrigued, he set his cup down. “Yeah?”

  Tyler had the senses of a predator because his hand moved across the table, covering mine.

  “Are you sure you want to be friends?” His skin against mine nearly did me in. “I’ll make it real hard.”

  “Tyler, I—”

  He cocked his head, looking at me with this speculative light in his eyes. “I like the way you say my name.”

  I did, too. Recovering, I slid my hand out from under his. “Looks like I’ll have to get used to saying it.”

  With a long sigh he sank back into his chair and crossed his arms. “Not that you’ll believe me, but I know what it’s like when someone you trust lies to you. I’ll never lie to you again.”

  “Why did you lie to that girl at the bar?”

  He shrugged and then grinned. “Because I could.”

  I started to say something and then changed my mind. “So we’re set for Thursday?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “One thirty at Kate Mantilini’s.”

  Tyler saw that I wasn’t letting him call the shots and whisk me off to some romantic Hollywood spot. “Fine.”

  I handed him my purse. “Open it.”

  He did and I plucked out one of my cards. That wry grin played on his lips as he caught it between two fingers, brushing mine in the process.

  Don’t ask me what I felt sitting there with him, staring into those eyes with that hair tied up in a ponytail. However, it did occur to me that Lydia might not speak to me after I told her that I gave Tyler my number.

  “Isela?” Tyler asked, tucking my card in his pocket. “I want you to know that I don’t give up that easily.”

  I could see it on his face, the scenarios he’d orchestrate until I let him think he’d seduced me. Against my better judgment, I anticipated every second of it.

  With a snap of my purse, I took him up on his challenge and said, “You know what, Tyler? I don’t, either.”

  Hearts Are Wild

  CARIDAD PIÑEIRO

  Chapter One

  Gravity and her breasts were still friends.

  Victoria Rodriguez—Tori to her friends—stood before the mirror and took a long, hard look at herself. Breasts. No sag. Downright perky.

  Had she just used the “p” word? Even as she told herself she was letting this whole birthday thing get out of hand, Tori turned to the side and perused her butt. No droop. No excess junk in the trunk, like J. Lo.

  Tori released a breath she’d been holding and panicked for a moment. Was that a little belly that popped out? She sucked her breath back in then released it. Good news—still flat in the one place where it was good to be flat.

  Get with it, girl! she chastised herself. What had she expected this morning—a total body meltdown? It was just another day. The sun was shining. Birds were singing. And nothing special was going to happen today.

  Of course, poor Marie Antoinette had probably felt the same way on the day she uttered her infamous cake quote and had turned her entire world—not to mention most of France—topsy-turvy.

  Tori swore there would be no topsy-turviness today, but she definitely planned on eating cake. After all, it was her birthday. Her thirtieth birthday. The Big Three-O. And the eating cake part would hopefully be free of any dire consequences. Other than maybe adding an extra ten minutes on her jog this morning.

  But her friends had something else planned as well, Tori reminded herself as she walked away from the mirror and dressed in her running clothes.

  Slipping on her jogging bra—best friend to perky breasts everywhere—then an oversized ’Canes T-shirt and fleece shorts, Tori considered her friends’ supersecret plan for her birthday night.

  She wasn’t supposed to know about the overnight excursion, but Tori had accidentally overheard Adriana confirming the reservations on the casino yacht when she had gone by Adriana’s restaurant to drop off some papers for a business loan. Tori had been tempted to put a stop to the plan right then and there, only it would have reinforced her friends’ belief that Tori was Ms. Uber Anal and unable to deal with a little spice in her life. And the last thing Tori wanted was to add any grist to her amigas’ mill. They managed to find enough on their own.

  With a last little tug on the laces of her Nikes, Tori headed out of her apartment in what had formerly been a tourist hotel on Collins Avenue. The walls of the smallish rooms had been gutted to make more modern-sized dwellings, but a lot of the Art Deco touches had been preserved during the conversion. Those slightly garish highlights were more visible in the lobby and on the front of the hotel, which still bore its former name in glaring pink neon.

  A stiff sea breeze blew in off the Atlantic as Tori reached Ocean Drive, jogged across the street, and toward the winding path that ran from one end of Lummus Park to the other.

  The gusts pushed at her back as if to rush her along, but Tori didn’t want to rush. Not today. She wanted to enjoy this small stretch of solitude on her birthday morning. Few people were out, and what little noise there was came from the occasional screech of a gull or the rustle of the breeze-blown palms.

  The headphones of her CD player were draped around her neck, but the CD of the tunes she used to pace herself wasn’t playing. She didn’t want to let the music intrude this morning.

  She flew along, ponytail bouncing with the rhythm of her jog. Her pace as deliberate as she was. In no time she had reached the end of the path, but she continued down along Ocean Drive to where Adriana would be waiting for her in front of her pricey condo facing Fisher Island and South Pointe Park.

  From a block away Tori could see her friend, doing some preliminary stretching and bending. Adriana caught sight of her, waved and jogged to meet Tori.

  “Buenos días and of course, feliz cumpleaño,” Adriana said with a bright smile as Tori slowed her pace. At five feet tw
o inches, Adriana was a few inches shorter, and it was hard for her to keep up with Tori’s longer-legged stride.

  As their steps fell into sync, Adriana and Tori jogged back toward the main Ocean Drive strip and Lummus Park.

  “How was last night?” Tori asked much as she did every other day except Tuesdays, since on Mondays Adriana’s restaurant was closed.

  In between uneven breaths, Adriana answered, “Busy … Thursdays are almost as … crazy as Fridays … Lots of turistas.”

  “The snowbirds savoring the South Beach sizzle,” Tori quipped, her breathing still as regular as when she had left the apartment.

  A street-cleaning machine approached just as Adriana began her reply. Its brushes whirred against the asphalt, picking up the debris of a South Beach night of merriment, obliterating Adriana’s words.

  As the street sweeper edged away, Tori shot a questioning glance at her friend. “What did you say?”

  “I said that you should try some of that night life yourself.” It came out a little too loud and a little too harsh.

  Tori gave an exasperated sigh. She and her amigas had been over this time and time again. Emphasizing the point with her hands as she ran, she said, “See the dictionary. Under the word ‘wild.’ Notice there is no picture of Victoria Rodriguez.”

  “See the dictionary. Under the word ‘boring.’ Way boring,” Adriana said with a roll of her eyes.

  “Sí. That’s me. Boring. Responsible. Connect the dots to successful.”

  Adriana stopped dead in her tracks, hands braced on her hips. “Hello! Successful, too, only I have a life.”

  Tori braked to a halt, turned and faced her friend. Adriana’s success was blatantly advertised by the tony Fila jogging clothes, the sparkling diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist that matched the large studs in her ears and the perfectly French manicured nails of the hands that were angrily tapping against her hips.