Page 12 of The Challenger

“Nice. I’ve been dying to try that place.”

The heels of his brogues ring hard off the concrete as he rounds the car to open the passenger door. My Escalade squats like a guardian troll in the shadows next to us, and he takes a long look at it.

“Is that your ride? Or do you have full-time security?”

“It’s mine. Why?”

“Why is a skinny little thing like you driving around in a tank?”

“I like it. It makes me feel safe.”

He’s quiet for a moment, surveying the front yard. “Safe. Is that why you have razor wire on your fence?”

“I live alone,” I explain, the clip in my voice meaning,Let’s not start with the third degree, please.

He smiles while pretending not to notice my dress riding higher while I navigate myself into the low-slung seat. “You might not after tonight.”

His salacious wink makes me laugh. This guy has no shortage of confidence. Chavez slides behind the wheel and shuts his door, a rush of cold air following. The El Corazon card spins lazily on its ribbon like a dead man from a noose. Goosebumps pebble on my arms like a rash.

“What’s with the card?” I ask.

"It's from a game called—”

"Lotería,” I finish.

He glances at me in surprise. "You know it?”

“Not the rules, but I have seen the cards before."

His gaze flickers to the laminated image. “My Abuela, my grandmother, gave it to me. I was going through a rough patch and…” He trails off, a muscle around his mouth twitching. After a moment of heavy silence, he clears his throat. “Anyway, it’s a reminder of her. She passed away earlier this year. We were close.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I look sidelong at Chavez. An unspoken understanding hovers in the small space between us. He swallows hard and palms the stick shift. TheFEARinked on his hand is very close to describing the sensation rushing through me, and I should not be thinking of how his fingers would feel cupping my ass when a net of nostalgia still tangles over him.

“I like the feathers,” he says quietly.

The tats, the car, his taking control of the entire evening … My skin tingles with something raw and unmentionable. Danger, yes, but it also feels bizarrely fated to be together in the tight confines I had spied on nine hours earlier, adrenaline pumping hard in my veins. One thing is for sure: after years of shoe-gazing fanboys and Vanilla Avenue, Chavez is a hard right down Unexpected Street.

A wrong turn never felt so exciting.

* * *

After a monthof lonely nights in silent hotel rooms, an upscale taco bar crammed with hipsters talk-shouting over Shakira and her hips that don’t lie is the perfect shot in the arm. My toes refuse to stop tapping.

“This place looks funky,” I say.

“There’s a private room in the back,” Chavez shouts back. “It’s quieter.”

He flags down a middle-aged man sweating hard in frayed cords and a Ramones T-shirt, and they hug like old friends. It’s impossible to decipher the rapid-fire Spanish flying back and forth between them, but Chavez introduces him as Mateo, the owner, who smiles and waves at us to follow him through the crush of bodies. Chavez and I look pretty fab, and when a wolf whistle cuts through the thrum of music, he tightens his grip on my hand and adds in a shoulder check and wink combo. Beyond the bustling kitchen is a private room, heavy on gothic flair with wooden floors and Renaissance tapestries hanging from golden spindles mounted high on the wall. What comes to mind is a chamber in a castle, only much better smelling.

“Whatever that is," I say, inhaling the thick scent of charred meat, “we need to order it.”

“They make the best pork tamales other than my Mama’s,” Chavez says.

“Can you share the recipe?” I ask Mateo, who’s busily dimming the lights. “I love to make tamales.”

"I'll have to ask the boss. No promises," he says with the shrug of a man who knows his place in the pecking order. "In the meantime, what would the lady like to drink?"

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