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Pastrana’s dark eyes are leveled at me again, his hard stare settling over me like a physical weight. I don’t dare meet his gaze. “Then I wish you success, Bella.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, focusing on a crumb on the tablecloth.
The uninvited guest slides his chair back and stands. “Shall I send your regards to Otero?” Apá asks.
Pastrana stiffens at El Gran’s name, making me wonder what history exists between them. I glance upward in time to see him issue a terse nod before walking away. Apá returns his attention to me and his dinner, completely dismissing the man.
Later, after finishing the remaining courses and the short drive home, my father kisses my cheek at my door. “Mi Tesoro, I am so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Apá.”
He hesitates, not coming in and not leaving. We only had a few hours together today, and he’s taking a private jet back to the island tonight. Who knows when we’ll see each other again? Voice laden with emotion, he says, “Please be safe, Mija.”
I don’t trust my voice to answer, so I wrap my arms around his neck for a hug. Seconds later, my father is gone. He’s returning to a world I hate and leaving me to walk through a new one on my own.
One week later
Austin
Piper prances inside the new privacy fence installed around the duplex's backyard. I’m on the other side in the driveway, measuring off some plywood for a pair of custom storage cabinets for the living room.
I pull a carpenter’s pencil from above my ear, marking the measurement in three places before gripping the writing utensil in my mouth. After swiping my sleeve across my brow, I line up my level, pull the pencil from between my teeth, and mark the long line.
I lift the circular saw to cut the board stretched across two sawhorses, and a moving van and white Lexus roll up the street. The fancy sedan pulls into the driveway of the duplex’s A unit, and the movers park on the road.
I return my focus to the saw, not wanting to fuck up the cut or lob off a finger. The blade slices through the plywood cleanly, and I blow the board and my shirt off with my nearby air compressor before taking the wood inside.
Work on the unit upgrades is coming along. The two bathrooms have new plumbing fixtures, the cabinets have been painted, and new countertops have been installed.
I’m working on custom built-ins to the left and right of the fireplace. I hold the cut wood to the frame I constructed this morning. A few screws from a pocket in my belt go into my mouth, and I grab the drill from the loop at my right hip.
The built-in units are fully constructed by six, and I’m ready for food and a cold beer. Stepping outside, I take off my tool belt and lay it on the tailgate of my truck. My shirt comes off next. After shaking the persistent saw dust from it, I drape it over one of the sawhorses and start packing my tools away.
The moving van is gone, and I haven’t laid eyes on the new tenant, not that I care. I have no intention of knocking on her door to introduce myself. I never do. Besides knowing the resident is a single woman, I only know she passed muster with Shannon’s company. I never interact with tenants, letting the property manager handle things.
I only get involved in operations when repairs or upgrades are needed in a unit between tenants. Otherwise, Shannon arranges for people to address problems reported by renters.
I like my privacy, which is why I pay the property manager a hell of a lot of money to handle complaints. I don’t bank a ton in profit from my twelve properties, maybe equal to my Knot salary each year. But these properties weren’t meant to make me rich. They’re my retirement plan.
I don’t trust the stock market or the assholes running it. A long time ago, I decided that if I were going to invest in something, it would be tangible. Real property.
I stow the saw, drill, and tool belt in my mounted toolbox, and the orbital sander goes in next. The sawhorses go into the bed, and I drape my shirt over my shoulder before closing the tailgate. On the way inside, I pick up the bag of finishing supplies and the bucket of rags. The plan is to stain the new installation tonight and seal it tomorrow. Right now, I’m hungry.
I lock up, finish cleaning up my outdoor work area, put away the air compressor, and open the back gate.
Piper bounds through the opening immediately after I call for her, as her obedience is absolute. We get in the truck and drive to one of my usual places for Friday night wings and beer. The place has outdoor dining, which I prefer. And the waitresses love Piper.
The food is the same as always, and Piper soaks up the attention from our regular waitress. A sour mood I don’t understand settles in my bones after Patrice delivers my barbecue wings and a flavorless beef rib for Piper. When I realize what the problem is, my mood darkens further.
I’m jealous of Piper and all the attention she’s getting. I usually prefer to be left alone, but my temperature rises with each person who speaks to the Mali and ignores me.
I scarf down the rest of my dinner, pay the bill, and leave before I give in to the temptation to call Shannon and ask if she wants to hook up. That would be a colossal mistake, no matter how much my dick disagrees.
Returning to the duplex, I get back to staining the new built-ins. The work is cathartic. Much later, after staining, sanding, and doing it all again, I’ve worked the stupid urges from my system, and I’m ready to collapse. Piper and I go to bed in our temporary quarters. I lie on an air mattress in the master bedroom, and Piper curls up in her dog bed.
Two hours later, I’m still awake. Sleep just won’t come. For the first ten minutes, I ran down the things I wanted to accomplish this weekend. The next hour and fifty minutes are spent staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I ended up here. Not here, as in this duplex, but where I am in general.
I don’t hate my life. It’s just not the life I was supposed to live.
