All the Waters of the Earth (Giving You ... Book 3) Page 2

  Twelve year old boys like videogames and I struggled with the tension of wanting to be a cool mom who let him do what he wanted, such as rot his brain in front of the television, versus wanting to be mom the enforcer who’d tell him to ride his bike or read a book. As a single parent, I was both, and I couldn’t decide which one was more important. Sometimes he needed a friend. Sometimes he needed a parent. Although I tried, it felt impossible to do both well. Today was cool mom, since he was OD’ing on the Xbox. What can I say? I did my best.

  Carlos Castro, my ex-boyfriend who got me pregnant, still lived in town and he saw Roberto every other weekend. I took full advantage of the weekends I didn’t have Rob, getting drinks with the girls and dancing.

  Not that I didn’t love my kid. Just every parent needs a break.

  Carlos worked for his parents, who owned a chain of flooring shops. He was a manager. He made decent money and normally paid his child support, but our relationship wasn’t good. We were always civil in front of Rob. Sometimes we were civil to each other when Rob wasn’t around. But sometimes it got very ugly when we were on our own.

  I didn’t really want to think about that right now. I was too busy making tamales.

  My friends, Georgie and Sara, were in the kitchen, dealing with the corn husks, while my mother tended to the seasoned pork. Georgie was short like me, but she let her hair frizz, unlike me. She worked as a bookkeeper for an automotive parts dealer and told the best jokes. Sara, taller, more regal and elegant, almost always wore white. She was quiet, but when she talked, whatever she said was important and made you laugh or think. She always had the best clothes because she worked at Macy’s and spent all of her money using her employee discount. My mother was just like me—same height, same high maintenance, same looks, just twenty years older and a grocery store cashier.

  Although we chatted while we cooked, we were all intent on our tasks. Tamale making was serious business.

  My mother made tamales regularly, but for me, it was a once-a-year event—only at Christmas. I tried to make a ton to freeze for later. I always enlisted help, because there were so many steps in the process. That said, it was fun. For example, even though it was barely ten o’clock, all of us were on our second margarita. It was a party! At least the type of party where you all had a job to do and needed to coordinate to make it work well. So we drank, we cooked, we assembled, we chatted, we laughed, and we had a good morning.

  It was Saturday, five days after I had met Jake, my neighbor. In that period of time, I’d become obsessed with seeing him again. I mean, he was going to be the inspiration for my next book, right? So I needed to observe him. It was research.

  Yeah, that was it.

  I’d spent the entire week trying to come up with ways to talk to him or run into him. In so doing, I’d deduced the following.

  He lived an incredibly regimented life. I heard his door open every morning at five-thirty. Then the door opened at six-fifteen. Then it opened again at seven and never opened again until after seven or eight every night at the earliest.

  As far as I could tell, this meant that he went for a run every morning, first thing. When he left to go for a run, he wore a tight, white t-shirt and long, black athletic shorts. He went out looking sleepy and came back bright-eyed and covered in sweat.

  That only made him look better.

  Then he went inside his duplex and I presume that he showered, ate breakfast, and went to work, working twelve hours a day until he came back home. He always wore a pristine suit, even wearing the jacket, very formal, no shirtsleeves for this guy. His cufflinks winked in the early morning sunlight. And his long hours? Man, that type of schedule was so dreadfully boring.

  I didn’t know what he did that made him work so much, but I hoped that he loved it, or at least got paid well for it. Based on the look on his face, though, I concluded that he was tired by the end of the day and very done with life and what he was doing. He didn’t look happy, the bright-eyed spark from his morning exercise gone.

  I made these deductions through careful observation and analysis.

  Okay, I could tell this by peeping out the little hole in my front door.

  I was reduced to being a stalker.

  He hadn’t had any visitors the whole week he was there. I hoped that he was single. For, you know, research purposes. And he was very quiet, with no music, or even television blaring. I needed an excuse to see him. Thus my tamale delivery plan.

  I really hoped he’d like them, because if I was honest, I wasn’t making them for Christmas. I was making them for him.

  Just then there was a knock on my door. Hoping it was Jake, I scuttled to the front door in my heels, and opened it with my elbows, trying not to get masa on the door.

  There was a man standing on my doorstep.

  A bike messenger man, all slim muscles, tattooed calves, and messenger bag.

  He pulled some papers out of his bag and handed them to me. “Lucinda Figueroa?”

  “Who wants to know?” I asked, the back of my hand on my hips.

  “You are being served with this petition by Carlos Castro—” he started, as he handed the documents to me, and I screamed, “That SON OF A BITCH!” and then I clamped my messy, masa hand over my mouth because I remembered that Rob was in the room.

  Wow, what an asshole. What was he trying to do this time?

  I grumpily yanked the papers out of the messenger boy’s hands and said, “Fine, the jerk has served me,” and I slammed the door in his face.

  Then I felt bad because it wasn’t the bike messenger’s fault.

  So I gingerly opened the door again and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. You’re just the messenger and my ex is an asshole. I’m sorry,” I repeated. “Have a nice day.” And I smiled at him and then slammed the door again.

  “Lucy,” called my mother. “What was that all about?”

  “Carlos,” I muttered under my breath, and then I went into the kitchen. I set the papers down on the only clear surface, and then wiped my hands off on a paper towel. “Carlos served me with some papers. I’ll read them after we are done here.”

  “Oh that cabrón," my mother muttered.

  “Mom!”

  “She’s right,” said Sara.

  “Yeah, he’s a pinche cabrón,” said Georgie.

  “Rob. Can. Hear. You.” I hissed.

  “Sorry, girl,” Georgie replied, immediately.

  “Don’t say sorry to me, say sorry to Roberto.”

  “Sorry, Rob,” Georgie called out.

  “No worries, tía,” he called back. Rob called both of my friends tía, meaning aunt.

  I let out a breath and managed a weak smile.

  “Oh, that was ugly. Okay, let’s finish these up.”

  Two hours later, I had dozens upon dozens of pork tamales and a clean kitchen. My friends and my mom had gone home and I’d cleaned up and now sat at my dining table with the envelope from the messenger, scared to read the words on the page.

  Better do it, though.

  I looked at the first sheet. It was a petition to modify child custody and child support. Basically, my ex wanted to take my child from me and pay me less in child support.

  Bile rose up into my throat and my hands shook. I had downed three margaritas before lunch and then had barely eaten any lunch, but this news put me over the edge. The room spun and I felt ill.

  No way could he take away my child. No way could he threaten me with this. Rob and I were so stable. We had a good home. We didn’t need to change anything.

  Carlos worked all day. He wouldn’t have time to take Rob to school or pick him up. What was he thinking?

  He probably just wanted to stop paying child support, because the more time Rob was with his dad, the less child support he had to pay me. I needed to call my lawyer on Monday. I hadn’t had to use her in a while but it looked like I’d have to since Carlos made this move.

  I tossed the papers on the floor and stamped out of the room,
flinging myself on my bed. I didn’t need this. Everything had been going so great. I didn’t want a legal battle and I didn’t want Rob to have anything to do with his parents fighting.

  Goddamn fucking Carlos. He’d ditched me when I had Rob and left a scar so deep it hadn’t healed. Even though I’d just had a house full of my closest female confidantes, I still felt like the unsupported single mom who, because of a single choice in high school, now had all this responsibility.

  I took a deep breath.

  After I lay there for a while, I calmed down. I’d call my attorney Monday morning and until I talked with her, I didn’t have to think about this. It was time to chill and enjoy the rest of the weekend. Actually, it was time to give Jake the tamales that the four of us had slaved over for hours this morning. That would cheer me up.

  I’d heard Jake leave that morning and I had heard his door open while I lay on my bed. Time to make a delivery. For research purposes.

  I checked my hair and makeup in the mirror, and put on fresh lip gloss.

  Calling to Rob that I’d be back in a second, I slipped out of my house, a dozen still-warm tamales wrapped in foil. My high heels clacked on the concrete as I scooted over to his door and knocked.

  After a second, the door opened and Jake stood there looking godlike as ever, in jeans and a black t-shirt. His blue eyes bored into me and I saw a flash of surprise and, I hoped, delight. He held his cell phone to his ear with one hand and the other rested on the doorknob.

  “Hang on a sec,” he said into the phone. “Hey, Lucy, how are you?”

  “Good. I made you some tamales.” And I handed them to him.

  “Uh, thank you,” he responded in a friendly, but distracted tone, and then said, “Yeah, I’m back,” into his phone and closed the door in my face.

  Seriously?

  What was up with that?

  I stood on Jake’s stoop fuming, apoplectic, while a million thoughts ran through my head. Amidst all of my rampant thoughts was one rational truth: he didn’t have to give me anything other than a reasonably polite thank you, which he did. I’d made the tamales out of the goodness of my heart and he didn’t need to invite me in and fuck me in his shower, which was what I really wanted.

  Wait, no. I just wanted more research for my book.

  Well, anyway, I knew that the world didn’t owe me anything. Jake didn’t owe me anything, either. And I couldn’t control any other person’s responses to my actions, I could only control what I did in a situation.

  The other part of my brain, perhaps irrational, perhaps not, ran me over and left me motionless, outside his door, thinking the following. I was pissed. I’d spent all morning on those. I invited a crew over to make them. I ignored my son to make them, letting him rot his brain on videogames. I even got served by a process server while I made them. While covered in masa!

  I wanted the homemade food—a care package—to be my excuse to get to know him and to talk to him. Anything other than having him just take them and close the door in my face.

  Jerk. Maybe my impression about him was wrong. He didn’t deserve any more attention from me. And as I stood there, I realized that it hurt to be rejected like that. Based on the way he looked at me before, I’d thought he liked me.

  Fucking rejected by a man, again. Just like Carlos.

  I turned to walk back to my home and paused.

  No.

  I was going to tell him that he was a jerk and that I deserved better. I turned back toward Jake’s unit, raised my hand in a fist to pound on his door, and it opened before I could make contact. I dropped my fist immediately and Jake stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  “Hey,” he said, running his hand behind his neck, stretching his well-defined arm. His eyes looked weary, and such a distracting, intense shade of blue. But I saw kindness in them and something hotter. We both stared at each other and then I remembered to talk.

  “Hey,” I responded, looking up at him, sidetracked, and trying not to drool. Then I remembered that I was angry at him and I put my hand on my hips, sassy-Lucy style. “You know, you need to get some manners. I worked hard on those and you don’t have to like them but you didn’t have to slam the door in my face.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” he said immediately, walking towards me, backing me against the wall. What was this? “I was on the phone with someone from work and I got distracted.” He looked sheepish. “Work gets in the way of everything and runs over my life. I’m sorry. I was coming over just now to tell you that I appreciated you bringing them to me.”

  “Yeah, well, acting like that? I thought you were a complete tool,” I said, now hitting the wall. I couldn’t help it. It was true and I deserve to be treated better. I’d learned from my past.

  “So tell me what you really think,” he muttered and his blue eyes danced. I shrugged in response, twirling my long brown hair around my finger. He let out a breath and put his hand on the wall next to me. Damn. That was close. I liked it. He looked me in the eyes, apologetic. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I wasn’t expecting you and I was in the middle of a conference call. I finished it just now and like I said . . .” and he trailed off and started looking at the top of my head.

  And then I started looking at his mouth and I started really wishing he would kiss me. So badly. I wanted to feel him. I wanted to smell him. I wanted to run my hand along the back of his neck like he did, rubbing out the tension. Poor workaholic.

  He stepped forward, towering over me, and put the other arm against the wall next to me. Then he leaned in and I knew he was going to kiss me. I closed my eyes, and . . .

  I felt a peck on my cheek.

  My belly dropped to my toes, which wasn’t a long journey. I let out a breath. Ugh. I was so disappointed.

  “Thank you,” he said, and turned to go into his unit.

  No. This was not the way he was supposed to act. He was supposed to kiss me and sweep me away. He was not supposed to give me some cheesy, chaste kiss and leave. I needed to fix this.

  “Wait,” I burst out.

  He stopped and looked at me, his brows raised in silent question. Oh, he was so fine.

  “That’s not the way to kiss me,” I whispered, turning my face toward him.

  Jake smiled, a dazzling smile that made me want to buy his brand of toothpaste. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” He ran his finger under my chin and I went up on my tiptoes and looked him straight in his dark blue eyes. He leaned down and kissed me on the mouth, this time for real. A lovely kiss, his mouth heated and wet, his tongue velvety, his strong hand behind my neck, holding me to him.

  Now that was the proper kiss that I’d wanted from him ever since I laid eyes on him a week ago. And now that I had it, I knew that I wanted more.

  I invited him into my mouth, loving this, loving kissing my hot neighbor. I wrapped my hands around his neck and felt the back of his soft, thick hair. He smelled clean, like he was just out of the shower. Yum, yum, yummy, yum, yum.

  He took his time with this kiss but it was still too soon when he broke apart. He ran his finger down my nose and I melted a little more. The way he looked at me was analytical. He seemed to be taking me all in, studying my face like he was memorizing it as if there would be a test later and he’d have to recreate it. It didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.

  It made me feel wanted.

  And, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, his jaw ticked and then he asked, “Can I take you for a drink, Lucy?”

  “Yeah, that would be good,” I answered a little breathlessly, attempting to be nonchalant, but still feeling his lips on mine, his finger on my nose, his taste in my mouth.

  “When? Tonight?”

  I loved that he was eager. It was goddamn awesome. But I couldn’t do it.

  “No, I can’t. I can go next Saturday night, though,” I said, thinking about Rob’s custody schedule. Carlos would have him next weekend and I was free to go out. I had a new art class to model for, though, so I wouldn’t be
done until about three o’clock. That was still plenty of time.

  “Saturday night it is,” he responded. He looked me up and down, in my high heels and my white capris and pretty pink fluttery top. “You like to dress up?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then dress up, honey. I’ll take you someplace nice.” And he smiled his glorious smile again and leaned in, and it looked like he was going to kiss me again.

  “Okay,” I whispered, and as he leaned down, his goddamned cell phone sounded, and he looked at me apologetically, straightening up again.

  “We’ll set it up,” he said, and then answered his phone. “Jake Slausen.” He walked back into his duplex, giving me a little wave this time as he shut the door.

  I didn’t see Jake the rest of the weekend. What I did do, however, was clean my house, take my kid to the park, and shop for Christmas presents. Normal mom stuff. I tried not to think too much about my next door neighbor. I failed. He was always there, just below my thoughts.

  Hmm. What was going on? He was more than just a research project.

  It was easy not to see him, though, because he was gone the entire weekend, probably working. Right?

  First thing Monday morning, still pissed about Carlos and his legal papers, I called my attorney and made an appointment to see her at the earliest time I could get, which was in a week. Great. One more week to worry and get pissed. After calling, I spent the morning and early afternoon writing. I liked most of what I wrote. I especially liked the kisses between my characters, for some reason. Then I picked up Rob from school—again, normal mom stuff. He did his homework, we ate dinner, and I cleaned up. After dinner, at about eight o’clock, there was a knock at my door.

  Would it be a hunk or a process server? I was seriously hoping for the former. The latter never needed to come again.

  When I opened the door, I found Jake, rumpled in his suit, his tie undone slightly and his hair roguish. One exhausted businessman.

  “Hey,” he said, those sapphire eyes regarding me. God, he smelled good. Even tired, he gave off an energy, pheromones. All I wanted to do was touch him.