Page 12 of There Once was a Dancer
I’d never really liked it before, even though it was popular in some circles. I’d been raised by a homophobic father who poked fun at gay folks every time one starred in a TV show. To hear him tell it, all gay men were weak, not real men. It’s one of the reasons I’d loathed the way those three jackasses had treated Cachi last night. I’d hated my daddy’s characterization of gay men so much that I’d hidden my sexuality from him all my life, leaving home as soon as I could to join the Army.
I’m sure his ideas about gay men being effeminate had shaped my personality and ideas about men wearing makeup, but that had changed the moment I’d met the gorgeous creature seated beside me. The eyeliner was stunning on him with his fine boned, delicate features. He was slender, with a well-toned body which was extremely masculine and gorgeous. Delicious. It took Herculean effort to turn my attention back to the road, but I somehow managed the task, driving in silence until we got onto the freeway. By now, traffic had let up, and it wasn’t a bad drive. “So, how’s your hand today?”
He held it out, flexing his fingers to show me. “Is better. Perhaps, a small sprain but is okay when I go back to work tonight.”
I hated the idea of him going back to the club to dance nearly naked for a bunch of horny men. I knew it was none of my business, but I’d started out our relationship as a protector, so the role was really hard to shake. I’d never been the recipient of ridicule myself, possibly due to my stature and the fact that I grew up playing football all throughout high school. I could nevertheless imagine how hard it was to take when someone like those idiot frat boys started yelling terrible things.
Back home in Texas, some of the jocks on the football team had ridiculed a male cheerleader until he’d finally quit the squad. I hadn’t stood up for him at the time, even though I should’ve. I’d wanted to fit in, and I’d been afraid that my friends would turn on me and call me names. I’d been a damned coward. Over the years, I’d come to terms with my behavior but often wished I would’ve made different choices. I’d learned to live with the shame of what I’d done—not for participating in the taunts, because I hadn’t—but for not standing up for the kid.
It’s one of the reasons I’d been so outraged by the way those assholes had treated Cachi last night. It still irked me that they’dthought it was okay to say what they’d said to him, calling him a whore just because he danced in a cage at a gay club.
“So, how often do you work at the club? You told me you work there part time, right?”
I registered his nod in my peripheral vision. “Yes. I have second job also, but tonight and Saturday, I have to work in the club.”
“What’s your other job?”
“Mi tia y tio have store in downtown…Olvera Street. They sell things from Mexico and other place,” he replied. “I work for them on weekend. Mi mamá, she work there too, but store closed today for them to do—” He paused as if searching for the English word before finally seeming to give up. “They do, um…inventario, so she home today.” He glanced at me. “You know inventario?”
“Inventory?”
“Si. Inventory.” He repeated the word slowly. “She work very hard and need the time off.”
I smiled to myself. “It’s easy to tell how much she loves you. It’s real nice.”
“She’s great and we lucky to have such great familia. The house we live belong to Tio Francisco and Tia Carlotta. They buy when they come to the States. When we make decision to come here, they tell us we can move in. They give us jobs and make us feel at home.”
“That’s great.” I badly wished my family had been as loving toward me as Cachi’s was to him. My mama still wrote me the occasional letter, but they didn’t come regular. I never heard from my daddy who’d wanted me to stay in Texas and work on the family farm rather than join the military. He’d never forgivenme for leaving, so we spoke very infrequently. The army had given me purpose but not until hooking up with my team in Afghanistan over a decade ago, had I felt like I had brothers. Captain Sorensen and the guys on my team were more like family to me than my own blood kin.
“You?” he asked. “You have family?”
I swallowed hard. Getting in my head about family was a bad thing to do and it generally took me to a dark place. “Back in Houston, yeah. That’s where I was born and raised.”
“I hear Texas in your accent.”
I chuckled. “And I hear Puerto Rico in yours.” I glanced over when he didn’t say anything as he turned big, brown eyes up to me. In the daylight, I could see bright gold flecks in them. “You know I’m not makin’ fun of you, right, sugar? I love your accent. Sounds like music when you speak to me.”
He smiled sweetly, making it hard to drag my eyes back to the road. “Thank you. Muy bien. That’s really nice, Rex.”
“You know, I think you’re probably the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. I’m just upset I have to keep my eyes on the road, because I’d sure like to look into them pretty eyes of yours when I talk to you.”
“You know, you a nice man, even if you are cop.”
I chuckled. “Gee, thanks, and by the way, I ain’t a cop. I’m FBI, remember?”
“Si, I remember now. You are nice, FBI man.”
I laughed out loud that time. “Are you pullin’ my leg?”
He snorted and I glanced over. He was staring at my leg, shaking his head as he held out a hand, waving it at my leg. “No.I no pull your leg, Rex. I sit here and wait for you to drive me to police station so I can give them report.”
“Give them a report,” I corrected.
“Is same!” He glared at me, and I realized I’d been rude. He spoke two languages while some might argue that a Texan barely spoke one. “Give the police a report…but I no pull your leg.” He waggled his finger at me, telling me off.
I chuckled, feeling utterly charmed by this delightful creature. “Pullin’ your leg means—” I had to think about it. “It means, uh, I wasn’t bein’ serious when I said that.”
“So, why you say it? I mean, I say you are nice FBI man, and you say you pullin’ my leg.”
