“Nope. It’s the truth. He was fun and it was awful.”
“Showing up at the bakery, it sounds like he came looking for you. Do you think he likes you?”
“I hope not,” I reply glumly.
It’s a bigger lie than I’d like it to be.
“Do you like him?”
“Maybe.”
“It’s not a bad thing to be liked by someone, Lil,” he tells me seriously. “And it’s definitely not a bad thing to like somebody.”
“It is if it’s the wrong kind of somebody.”
“What makes him wrong?”
“Everything.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“He’s famous. Or he’s getting famous, which is probably worse.”
“So?” he laughs. “Half of the people in L.A. consider themselves famous. You should give him a chance.”
“That’s what Rona said.”
“Rona’s smart. You should listen to her. And you better tell Mom about him before she does.”
“There’s nothing to tell. He asked me to dinner. I said no. That’s it.”
“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully.
I glare at him mildly. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking things.”
“I think you should tell Dad at least,” he says distractedly, pulling us off the freeway. “He’d flip out if he heard you met one of the Kodiaks.”
I feel my stomach turn, my appetite disappearing in an instant. “I really doubt that, Mike,” I mutter miserably.
His hands clench on the steering wheel, flexing and stressing. “Sorry, Lil. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay.”
We fall into an awkward silence where we pretend everything is fine. Like no one’s hurt and nothing is wrong. My family is famous for it.
I check my phone again.
It’s three fifty-one. I have seventy-seven percent battery life.
No new messages.
No missed calls.
CHAPTER NINE
COLT
Palmetto Warehouse
Los Angeles, CA
“Maria, I love you. I mean it.”
“Alto,” she laughs.
“I can’t stop. It’s too real. I love you.” I take another bite of lasagna, the cheese stretching gooey and thick from my mouth to my plate. “This is so good. What’s in it? Oregano? Cocaine?”
“Cheese. A lot of cheese.”
“Mucho queso.”
“Si. Bueno.”
“Te amo, Maria.”
She laughs again, her back to me, her hands in the sink washing the last of the dishes. “I love you too, Mr. Avery.”
Short, thick, sixty, and sassy, Maria is a surrogate mother for me here in Cali. She’s been with me for the last two years cleaning my apartment, making me dinner, and taking care of Kat, my big, beautiful yellow lab, whenever I’m away. I couldn’t function without her. Tyus gives me shit for hiring her. He says I can’t live without a woman taking care of me, and he’s not wrong. Not entirely. The truth is, I like having someone to come home to. When I’m alone in my empty apartment I feel jittery. I’m painfully aware of the silence. And having someone to download my day with helps me cool it for the night, like I’m settling in. Unplugging.
“Your mother called me today,” Maria tells me in her thick accent and flawless English. “The other apartment is empty soon.”
“Really? I talked to her on the drive home and she didn’t mention it.”
“She does not like you to know when it’s open.”
“No, she does not. This is the first time in a while, right?”
“Yes. Mrs. Schaal is good at keeping it rented.”
“A little too good. I haven’t been able to use it in months.”
“She says a couple is taking vacation next Sunday. They’ve booked it for the week. It will be booked through Christmas after that.”
“Shit,” I groan, my mouth full of lasagna.
“Do you want me to clean it?”
“No. I’ll have some people over on Saturday.”
She nods her head knowingly. She knows my drill.
When I was house hunting with my mom three years ago our agent brought us to this building. An old warehouse that had been converted into two industrial looking lofts with high ceilings, exposed beams, open floor plan, and floor to ceiling windows too much for your average curtain to handle. I loved it so much I bought it twice. This one and the matching apartment downstairs. I tried to talk my mom into moving into the second one, but she wouldn’t do it. She likes her job and her husband too much to leave them. Even for me.
I handed the apartment off to my mom anyway, letting her decorate it and turn it into a vacation rental. She manages it online from Kansas, letting Maria know when people come and go so she can go down and clean it. Restock soaps. Drop mints on pillows. But when it’s empty I get my own use out of it. Every now and then I throw a party down there, and it doesn’t matter if it gets out of hand or if anyone steals anything because none of it is mine. Not personally. I go to Ikea to replace what’s damaged. No muss, no emotions. No one stealing my toothbrush as a souvenir.