Project Produce(11)

As I rolled to a sitting position, I rubbed my eyes with my fists and yawned. Friday, thank God. Working the graveyard shift and attending class in the morning was hard enough. But cramming in homework in the afternoon until I passed out for five hours each evening before starting all over again was killing me.

I padded on bare feet past Gloria’s bedroom into the tiny bathroom and then cranked the shower on hot, listening to the pipes moan and rumble. As the bathroom filled with steam, I turned on Gloria’s boom box and pressed play. Salsa music poured out of the speakers, and I smiled. My new obsession. Shedding my cotton T-shirt and panties, I stepped into the shower and shook my big ole insecurity to the beat, feeling a whole lot better.

Until a pair of blue eyes flashed in my mind. The same eyes that had haunted my sleep, what little sleep I’d had. Eyes that belonged to one Mr. Way-Too-Dangerous-To-Be-Around. That didn’t stop me from wanting him, but I wasn’t ready to get involved with any man.

I’d given up hope that decent men even existed, so what was the point? Then why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? Because I needed him for my project, that was all, I rationalized. He was far too confident for his own good and more handsome than a man had a right to be, I conceded. At least I’d gained some valuable information.

Note to self: Men with large winkies have swelled egos.

One thing was clear. He was too darn used to getting his own way. Until last night. Score one for me. I grinned. Most women probably fell at his feet, swooning over his every word and drooling over those incredible eyes of his. I wilted against the shower wall and then jerked my back ramrod straight.

“Ha! I’m no swooner. I may drool a bit, but swooning you will never see, Detective.”

My mind knew I had to steer clear of men, but my body sure as heck wasn’t listening. I plunged my head under the pelting spray of water and tried to shake off my frustration, but it insisted on sticking around. Probably because his image insisted on sticking around, frustrating me in a different way, I admitted.

“Get over it, Cal. There isn’t a darn thing you can do about it.” I shut off the pipes and snatched my towel.

“Cal? Who are you talking to?”

Gloria? What was she doing home? “Uh, no one.” I reached out a hand and flicked off the boom box. “Hey, shouldn’t you be at work? I was just getting ready to relieve you.”

“Don’t bother. We don’t have a job to go to.”

“Hold that thought. I’ll be right out.” I got dressed and joined Gloria in the kitchen fifteen minutes later. “What do you mean? What happened?” I sat down in the creaky chair, facing her.

She opened a bottle of Tequila, downed a shot, and then fixed herself a margarita before answering. “This short, bald health inspector guy comes marchin’ in with white gloves and a clipboard like he’s Mr. Clean, or somethin’. Yeah, right, don’t think so.” She tossed her long curls over her shoulder. “He was way too fat to pull that one off, honey. Mmmm, hmmm.”

I laughed. “So what happened?”

“He screwed everything up, that’s what happened.” Gloria jerked her hand, and her margarita sloshed out of her glass.

I reached for a napkin, but she beat me to it, wiping it up without missing a beat.

“Anyway, he starts spoutin’ off all the things that ain’t up to code. I thought Simpson’s face was gonna explode.” She giggled. “You shoulda seen him. He started to pick a fight with Mr. Clean, so Cleanie shut us down. Simple as that.” She sighed and took another sip. “Can’t say Simpson didn’t deserve it, but I needed that job.”

“We needed that job.” I drummed my fingers on the white Formica table, trying to figure out what I was going to do now. My savings had run out, and there was no way I would go to my parents for help. They’d been horrified and tried to keep me from going out in public until the scandal talk died down, making me feel like Quasimodo. So I took matters into my own hands and left. They didn’t even know where I’d run to, but at least they no longer had to be embarrassed or ashamed to be seen with me. “I don’t get it. Simpson’s place has always been a dump. Why close it down now?”

“Honey, wake up and smell the latte. Someone put pressure on the health department, that’s all there is to it.”

I blinked. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t go that far, would he? “Was anyone else there, or just Mr. Clean?”

“Mr. Clean came all by his stumpy little self and then stayed until we left.”

I relaxed.

“Wait, there was this one hot tamale standing outside all day next to a classic car. Calliente. Wish I had a ride like that, chica, and I don’t mean the wheels.”