About You Read online

  “Lunchbox,” I said.

  “Whatever. That was a bad move.”

  No kidding, sister. “It was.”

  “What on earth possessed you?”

  I shrugged. “A huge salary package, points…creative executive status, and the chance to branch out into branding.”

  Branding was the most popular catchphrase in Hollywood. Everyone and everything was a brand.

  She glanced up at me. “And yet you only lasted two weeks. Why is that?”

  Didn’t this woman read the trades? Phil Kowalski, who’d hired me and steered the company to certain ruin, had been guillotined. I’d been his hire so I was out of the door too.

  “Phil Kowalski,” I said. That was all I said. It should have spoken volumes. I guess it did. She nodded and picked up a second piece of paper.

  “I did your chart last night, and I must say I have some good news for you and some bad news for you.”

  “Oh?” What do I say to that? “Well, what’s the good news?”

  “My, you are a Pollyanna, aren’t you?” She gave me a reptilian smile and I felt my knees knocking again, only this time in terror.

  A rap at the door interrupted our strange discussion.

  “Enter,” Lisa said imperiously. I worked hard to avoid an eye-roll.

  The door opened and a man popped his head around the corner. Holy cow. He wore the same hat, but no sunglasses. The dog dumper.

  “Hey,” he said to Lisa. “Just got in. Got an urgent message on my desk.”

  “It was urgent yesterday,” she said, a sour look on her face.

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll get back to you.” She dismissed him just like that.

  “Who was that?” I asked, as soon as he’d closed the door.

  “One of our junior executives. Simon Corley. He’s a bit of a tool, to be honest.”

  He’s a lot worse than that. I said nothing. I was still trying to work on being winsome.

  She frowned. “Now, before I address the specifics in your chart, let’s do a reading.”

  Let’s not.

  She held up a pack of well-worn cards, handing them to me. “Shuffle.”

  They were oversized tarot cards. In a town where even people’s pets got readings, I’d resisted the urge to consult fortune tellers. I’d avoided them the same way I’d shunned coffee enemas, penile enlargements, surgical pectoral enhancements and Botox. Some things I could live without. I shuffled as well as I could.

  She snatched the cards out of my hand then fanned them out on her desk. “Pick ten.”

  I picked, wondering why my heart was beating so fast. I could see the top of the Starbucks building from the windows in her office. I handed her the cards and sat back in my seat. I wanted employment, but did I want it to be with her and the dog dumper?

  She put down the cards in a kind of cross pattern, made lots of tsk-ing sounds and glanced up at me from time to time.

  “You want the good news first, right?”

  I nodded. The expression on her face was so grave I was petrified of what the bad news might mean.

  “The good news is that you are about to meet a fantastic man. He’s in his thirties, he’s got dark hair…he’s a fire sign, which is Aries, Leo or a Sagittarius. His name begins with a T.”

  I really, really, really didn’t give a hoot. I wanted a job, not a man.

  “Is that the only good news?” I joked.

  She didn’t blink. “Yes.” She pointed at the cards and went on and on about squared trines, moons in third houses then finished up with, “You wouldn’t fit in here.”

  What? I fit into the studio for ten years!

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “You make me sound like a deviant personality.”

  “It’s right there in your chart.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, cutting her off. “If you want to talk deviants, let’s discuss your junior executive next door. I saw him dumping a dog yesterday at Mulholland Dog Park. If my friend hadn’t rescued that poor animal, she would have been eaten by dusk. She would have been attacked by coyotes.”

  She blinked at me. “That was my suggestion. And that’s another thing. You are not a team player.” She stabbed her index finger on the astrological chart.

  This time, I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. I was a damned good team player. I stood, surprised when she held out her hand.

  “Good luck with your life,” she said.

  Whatever. I shook hands with her and said, “Good luck with yours, and tell your buddy next door that we reported him to the police.”

  She opened her mouth, her face turning red. “It’s only a dog,” she said.

  Right.

  I walked out of her office, staring straight ahead. I didn’t check in with Starbucks. I wanted to go home and hug my dog.

  * * * *

  “Let me get this straight,” Angus said over a burger lunch at The Counter in Studio City a couple of hours later. “He works there?”

  “Junior executive.”

  “And she said it’s only a dog?”

  “Yep.”

  “You dodged a bullet there, kiddo.” He grabbed a handful of sweet potato fries and scarfed them. “I took Querida to the vet. She’s healthy, thank God. She was micro-chipped by her previous owner, but they won’t tell me who she belonged to. The vet is notifying the ASPCA and Avid, the company that micro-chipped her.”

  “Well, I’m glad she’s healthy.”

  He nodded. “Me, too.” He stopped chomping. “What will you do now?”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t thought that far. I bit into my turkey burger, thankful for the small moments in life that make the big, unbearable things a lot more palatable.

  “Guess I’ll keep looking. I’m not exactly broke and I really should get back into my Spanish. June is only a couple of months away.”

  “Yes, you should.” Angus shoveled some onion strings down his jaw. We’d gotten a monster-sized portion to share. His beloved was back in Tijuana working, so Angus didn’t have to worry about stinky breath.

  Angus’ meetings would keep him in town a couple more days, then he’d fly down to TJ on Friday to spend the weekend with Santos.

  “Why don’t you come with me to TJ?” he suddenly asked. “Santos has such a beautiful house there and I think you’d really enjoy the change of scenery. We’ll listen to music and eat good food. The studio gave him a chef but he rejected the idea, especially since he cooks better than the chef. The studio is trying so hard to keep him there—”

  “Isn’t Tijuana dangerous for Americans?” We’d had this conversation before and I’d always declined his invitations.

  “It’s not Ciudad Juárez, Ky. We don’t go searching for trouble. We don’t hang out in the tourist spots and get drunk and pick fights. He lives in a very nice, locals-only area and people love him.”

  “Okay,” I said, surprised at how easily he twisted my arm.

  “You never know,” he teased. “You might meet that fabulous fire sign guy whose name starts with a T.”

  * * * *

  On Friday afternoon, I took Phantom over to Angus’ house to spend the weekend with the other dogs. Phantom adored sleepovers and was a very sociable guy when tennis balls weren’t involved. He spun around in joyous circles greeting the dog sitter, Spencer, who was just magic with animals.

  Man, I even envied Angus his dog sitter. Phantom ran to visit with the other dogs, swapping bum sniffs with Querida. She seemed to fit right in and I marveled at how well-adjusted she was. I was grateful that Simon the Junior Office Tool didn’t appear to have abused her. He’d just…gotten rid of her, for whatever reason.

  Spencer drove us to the airport, all four dogs hanging out in the cargo hold of his cherry-red SUV. He was so kind and good-natured.

  “It’s no problem,” he said. “I thought I’d take the pups for a hike around Silver Lake.”

  My jaw wobbled in shock. I could b
arely get Tammy to walk Phantom around an entire block and he was talking about covering a three-mile lake!

  He dropped us at the terminal for Aeromexico and excitement caught up with me. Angus and I jumped out with our laptops and cabin bags. I waved to Phantom, but he was too busy chewing on Querida’s ear to wave back.

  We got through immigration and security quickly and our flight was right on time. We landed in Tijuana a scant forty-five minutes later, a little after six, with a friend of Santos and Angus’ collecting us from the airport. Martin was a sweet guy who smiled a lot. I sensed some attraction and wondered what his story was, but then dangerous words skittered across my mind.

  His name doesn’t start with a T. I mentally slapped myself. Stop that.

  Martin’s English wasn’t great, but he tried. Angus and I had talked nonstop on the entire Aeromexico flight and now we were here, I was silent, nose pressed to the rear window of the car as we drove—not that we went very far. We passed the usual jumble of souvenir stores and cut-rate attorneys who doubled as dentists, then a maze of store fronts selling American flags. Why in the world would anyone come here to buy American flags? Did people get that homesick?

  A gigantic bus parked on a corner boasted a shiny paint job featuring an American flag and a bird that was probably meant to represent an eagle, the perpetual motif for the US, but resembled a deranged, plucked chicken. I’d hardly had time to absorb this when we blew through a shanty town that depressed the heck out of me. When I glanced to my left, I noticed a park that was pristine. Driving around it, we arrived in a very fashionable area Angus told me was called Zona Rio.

  “The name means River Zone in English but the river is all dried up,” Angus said. We turned down Avenida Misión de la Paz and even with my limited language skills I knew it meant Peace Mission. What a wonderful name for a street.

  “This is our street. Isn’t it pretty?” Angus asked, turning from the front passenger seat to smile at me.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said sincerely. We passed a row of trendy-looking restaurants and boutiques.

  “I love it here,” he said. “I fell in love with it the first day I got here. It’s the Beverly Hills of Tijuana.” We’d driven just under a mile and I was surprised at how elegant, spacious and contemporary the area was.

  We pulled into a huge driveway with a secured entrance. Angus pressed a remote control in his hand and a large iron gate swung open to an opulent apartment complex. A security guard at the gate acknowledged him and greeted him warmly.

  Angus introduced me and said I’d be staying a few days. I gazed beyond the entrance to an enormous swimming pool littered with some of the hottest guys I’d ever seen.

  Whoa.

  “Hope you’re gonna like it here,” Angus said.

  “I already do.”

  Martin gave us a friendly wave and took off, as we headed toward some double-glass doors with gold handles.

  Inside the lobby, Angus inserted a key into the keypad and we took the elevator to the penthouse. When we arrived, the doors pinged open and I was once again rendered speechless. He winded me and almost knocked me down in his rush to greet his lover.

  Santos stood, waiting for us, his expression emotional as Angus hurled himself into his arms.

  “Tres días,” Santos murmured. Three days, like it had been three years.

  Their anguish was so acute as they hugged and kissed each other, I felt tears pricking the back of my own eyes.

  “We won’t be long,” Santos told me. “Please, make yourself at home. That’s your room, overlooking the pool.” He pointed, but Angus grabbed his hand.

  They ran off to their room and I took a good look around, very impressed. My room was large and breezy. I heard some manly cries coming from across the long corridor and, boy, was I jealous.

  I walked around the rooms, loving everything I saw. It was a real home. I finally understood why Angus pined for his time here south of the border in this beautiful place, even if the river was all dried up. I realized I’d resisted coming sooner because then his life here would be real and I had been frightened of losing him.

  Santos was like a brother to me now and I felt bad that I had resisted opening up to his existence in this lovely place. Well, I’d make up for it tonight. I’d take them to dinner and we’d have fun.

  In the kitchen, I discovered what smelled like margaritas in a blender, all ready to pour. I gave them a quick whirl, thinking my hosts wouldn’t mind if I started the party. After pouring myself a cocktail, I stepped out on the balcony and admired the city view.

  I began to unwind for the first time in days. The drink was great, not that I got to sip much of it. My hosts came and found me, their eyes bright with the unmistakable sheen of afterglow.

  “No salt?” Santos asked. He pretended to pout. He took my glass, salted the rim, brought it back with a wedge of lime and we all began to lick, sip and suck. Ahhh…bliss.

  We laughed and talked, Santos pouring a second round of drinks then producing some of his killer guacamole and homemade tortilla chips. They were very crunchy and had an extra zing he told me came from limes.

  Around nine, we left the apartment and walked down the street. I was quite…happy, to say the least. We sauntered along Revolución Avenue and ducked into an alleyway. It seemed full of street vendors that Angus and Santos assured me made fantastic food, but we darted down a set of stairs to a subterranean level that held more stores and restaurants.

  When we entered Café La Especial, the staff came running, hugging my two friends, who pushed me between them to make sure everyone knew I was their amigo. Two funny little waiters talked over a live mariachi band, ushering us to a big round table where other friends of theirs waited. Angus and Santos introduced me to everyone and handed me another margarita. I let the others order dinner for me and spent the whole evening laughing, even though I understood only half of what I heard.

  I realized I was ‘El Gringo’, but nobody seemed to be saying it to be mean. I liked all their friends and they seemed to like me. Santos knew some hot, handsome guys and they were all so nice, but I sensed no obvious gaydar with any of them. They might have been straight or they might have been gay. Nobody flirted with me and, apart from the fact that I knew Angus and Santos were a couple, I sensed no ‘couples chemistry’ with the others.

  Then Isidoro arrived.

  Man, oh, man, he was gorgeous. He had long, dark hair that he wore in a ponytail under a cowboy hat. He had on tight-fitting jeans and a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He oozed male sexuality. His gaze fell on me and his smile widened. I saw a gold tooth glinting in a sea of white teeth and my cock leaped in my pants. I never usually went for bling, but there was a hunger in his eyes that soon had my entire being praying for just five minutes alone with him.

  He shook my hand warmly, holding on to my palm in a strong grip just a fraction too long. Not that I minded. I knew he was gay and hoped he was single.

  His name doesn’t start with a T. I blinked back the thought. Who the hell cares? He’s freaking gorgeous!

  He pushed a chair between me and Angus and began to dominate my time. Not that I had a problem with that. Far from it. I found him very entertaining, his English much better than my Spanish, and I also discovered my yearning for some private time with him was mutual.

  Throughout the meal, fans came up to Santos, who signed autographs and posed for photos. He was gracious and charming, but I knew his signals by now. He made a T sign to Angus, who immediately called the waiter over and asked for the check. I’d just hefted the last amazing shredded beef taco off a plate and shared it with Isidoro, who grinned when I cut it in two.

  Angus paid the entire bill, ensuring me it was a cheap, but wonderful meal. I’d had every intention of paying for it, but soon found myself getting to my feet and following the others up the stairs and into the alleyway. We walked in a group toward our homes. I felt Isidoro’s hand on my arm.

  “Come to our house for c
offee,” Angus told him.

  “I would love that.” Isidoro released my arm and we walked down the street in harmony. I smelled steak on the breeze and heard music and laughter on the air.

  Back at their penthouse, Santos made coffee and Angus put some old Mexican music on the stereo. They danced and began kissing. Things heated up quickly.

  “Goodnight,” Santos called out with a laugh, dragging Angus off to their bedroom.

  I turned and smiled at Isidoro, sitting beside me on the sofa. I found his inquisitive eyes staring at me.

  “I am pleased to meet you,” he said. “Angus talks of you all the time.”

  “He does?” Angus had never mentioned Isidoro to me and I wondered why. Was there something wrong with the guy?

  His name doesn’t start with a T.

  Shut up, idiot!

  I knew enough about Angus that he would never leave me alone with a guy who was a certifiable oddball. I relaxed as Isidoro leaned in and touched my cheek.

  “Why haven’t you come here before?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m always working.”

  That wasn’t a lie.

  He nodded. “And now you are not?” He reached for his coffee and sipped it.

  “No. I’m desperate for work.”

  He didn’t act like this was any big deal. He asked me questions, but I didn’t feel like spewing my guts out to him. I gave him the bare bones, but he was astute, that’s for sure. He seemed fascinated by my work and laughed when I described being escorted off the premises of Lunchbox Productions and how I’d been convinced the security guard wanted to Taser me. I left out the part about how he and I had once dated.

  Dang. He’d got me spewing my guts after all.

  “What kind of work do you do?” I asked him.

  He smiled. “I am a gardener.”

  “A gardener?”

  He nodded. “It is my passion. Since I was a small boy.”

  “You…er… Do you own your own business?”

  “No. I am just a gardener.”

  Holy shit, Ky. He’s a frickin’ gardener. And his name doesn’t start with a T.