telling her the bitter truth. Between my attraction to Lucho and my desire to fade quietly into the background so I could make whatever life I could at the J-Bar. Between running like hell from the past and giving it a hard stare, and possibly turning into a pillar of salt.
“Anyway . . .” I glanced at Lucho, willing him to understand.
A man doesn’t break a promise to his mother.
Lucho said something softly in Spanish. His mother scowled. While they argued, I stepped outside the room and waited. Things got heated, but eventually, I heard Lucho call me back in.
His mother rose to her feet with great dignity. The others stood with her. They filed out of the room without saying a word, leaving Lucho and me staring at each other.
“I’m sorry about this,” I said.
“You’ve got some craptastic timing, army.”
I acknowledged that as I placed the cold casserole down on one of the now-vacant visitors’ chairs. “There was never a good time to bring your mother a casserole.”
Despite his huff of laughter, and the smile on his tan face, I thought he looked tired. “So are you kidding me? Crispin sent me food?”
“Yes.” I unzipped the thermal carrier and found a foil-wrapped plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. When he made a grab for it, I pulled it away.
“Give it here,” he reached out.
“You sure you don’t have any dietary restrictions? Maybe we ought to ask the staff. Get the doctor up here to okay this. In the meantime, I’ll just test it out to make sure it’s okay.”
“You do and you die,” Lucho growled.
“I’m kidding.” I handed the food over and searched the other bag for silverware. I found plastic utensils and a couple of napkins. “Here.”
As he picked up a chicken thigh and took a big bite, a look of pure pleasure bloomed on his face. I couldn’t help imagining what he’d look like in the throes of another kind of pleasure altogether.
God
. I had it bad.
I rubbed my damp hands on my jeans. “Someday, you’re not going to hate me—” I said firmly. “Someday—”
“I don’t hate you.” He chewed. Swallowed. “I don’t care enough about you to spend time hating you.”
Okay, that was harsh. My face went hot to the tips of my ears. “Is that why you told Fausto I like to fiddle with little boys?”
He did a classic spit take, chicken bits nearly spewing before he got his hand to his mouth. I grabbed another napkin for him but he waved it away, brushing his crumbs into a pile and dumping his chicken back onto the plate.
“Did he say I told him that?”
“Yeah.”
“That little shit.” Lucho laughed weakly. “Obviously, I didn’t. Even if I hated you I wouldn’t put that on you.”
“I figured.” That was something, anyway. “I rode Galleta.”
“Yeah?” As he grabbed for a biscuit, I braced myself for an outburst of some kind. It didn’t come. “I told Eddie that was okay. Galleta loves to work. She gets antsy when she doesn’t get a good long stretch, and he said you were good with horses.”
“She’s amazing.” I loved the way he said her name.
Guy-jetta
. It made me wish I had a name like that, foreign and mellow. Not Tripp and certainly not
Calvin
. “And so goddamn smart. I wish I had a horse like that.”
He ate a few more bites while I watched, then motioned for me to sit. “Take a load off, man.”
“Won’t your family want to come back?”
“They’ve gone home. They’ll come back in the morning.”
“You sent them away? For me?” I glanced at the door. “I never meant for you to—”
“Come on, they’ve been sitting around staring at me all day. I needed a break.”
I sat. “Okay.”
“Plus you brought me food.” He waved a chicken wing at me before biting into it.
“Yeah.”
Through some noisy chewing, which I found oddly endearing, he said, “Crispin’s cooking is awesome.”
I figured that was probably true because my mouth was watering. I hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches at
“Anyway . . .” I glanced at Lucho, willing him to understand.
A man doesn’t break a promise to his mother.
Lucho said something softly in Spanish. His mother scowled. While they argued, I stepped outside the room and waited. Things got heated, but eventually, I heard Lucho call me back in.
His mother rose to her feet with great dignity. The others stood with her. They filed out of the room without saying a word, leaving Lucho and me staring at each other.
“I’m sorry about this,” I said.
“You’ve got some craptastic timing, army.”
I acknowledged that as I placed the cold casserole down on one of the now-vacant visitors’ chairs. “There was never a good time to bring your mother a casserole.”
Despite his huff of laughter, and the smile on his tan face, I thought he looked tired. “So are you kidding me? Crispin sent me food?”
“Yes.” I unzipped the thermal carrier and found a foil-wrapped plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. When he made a grab for it, I pulled it away.
“Give it here,” he reached out.
“You sure you don’t have any dietary restrictions? Maybe we ought to ask the staff. Get the doctor up here to okay this. In the meantime, I’ll just test it out to make sure it’s okay.”
“You do and you die,” Lucho growled.
“I’m kidding.” I handed the food over and searched the other bag for silverware. I found plastic utensils and a couple of napkins. “Here.”
As he picked up a chicken thigh and took a big bite, a look of pure pleasure bloomed on his face. I couldn’t help imagining what he’d look like in the throes of another kind of pleasure altogether.
God
. I had it bad.
I rubbed my damp hands on my jeans. “Someday, you’re not going to hate me—” I said firmly. “Someday—”
“I don’t hate you.” He chewed. Swallowed. “I don’t care enough about you to spend time hating you.”
Okay, that was harsh. My face went hot to the tips of my ears. “Is that why you told Fausto I like to fiddle with little boys?”
He did a classic spit take, chicken bits nearly spewing before he got his hand to his mouth. I grabbed another napkin for him but he waved it away, brushing his crumbs into a pile and dumping his chicken back onto the plate.
“Did he say I told him that?”
“Yeah.”
“That little shit.” Lucho laughed weakly. “Obviously, I didn’t. Even if I hated you I wouldn’t put that on you.”
“I figured.” That was something, anyway. “I rode Galleta.”
“Yeah?” As he grabbed for a biscuit, I braced myself for an outburst of some kind. It didn’t come. “I told Eddie that was okay. Galleta loves to work. She gets antsy when she doesn’t get a good long stretch, and he said you were good with horses.”
“She’s amazing.” I loved the way he said her name.
Guy-jetta
. It made me wish I had a name like that, foreign and mellow. Not Tripp and certainly not
Calvin
. “And so goddamn smart. I wish I had a horse like that.”
He ate a few more bites while I watched, then motioned for me to sit. “Take a load off, man.”
“Won’t your family want to come back?”
“They’ve gone home. They’ll come back in the morning.”
“You sent them away? For me?” I glanced at the door. “I never meant for you to—”
“Come on, they’ve been sitting around staring at me all day. I needed a break.”
I sat. “Okay.”
“Plus you brought me food.” He waved a chicken wing at me before biting into it.
“Yeah.”
Through some noisy chewing, which I found oddly endearing, he said, “Crispin’s cooking is awesome.”
I figured that was probably true because my mouth was watering. I hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches at
Similar Books
