CHAPTER ONE
ALEJANDRA
“ALEJANDRA MARIA DE LA ROSA!” My grandmother’s high-pitched shrill makes me cringe.
Dear Lord, here it comes. I love coming home, but sometimes mi abuelita is just too much, especially when she starts on her favorite subject—great-grandchildren.
“Abuelita…” I sigh in resignation because there is no escape. My hopes that she would give me at least an hour of peace before jumping on my case, are in vain. I’m not even through the front door when she catches me.
“Don’t you ‘abuelita’ me,” she scolds, waving her index finger at me.
She catches me off-guard because this isn’t the usual welcome I receive from her. She’s…angry? Wracking my brain, I try to think of everything I’ve done in the seconds since arriving and find nothing that would anger her.
“How could you…” Her breath hitches. My eyes widen in alarm, but before I can ask, she continues, “How could you not tell me about your hand? Me! Your grandmother. The woman who loves you more than life itself. How could you keep me in the dark?” She sounds hurt, betrayed.
Understanding hits me. It’s not great-grandchildren she’s panicking about, but something more serious—my hand. A sigh of relief escapes that I won’t have to listen on her favorite subject, but I soon realize my mistake when her eyes narrow on me. Her anger turns to fury.
“Abueli—” I try to backtrack.
“Don’t.” She silences me with her no-nonsense voice, holds her hand up, and shakes her head. “I had to hear from your boss. Your. Boss!” That right hand of hers now rests over her heart. Her lips thin, and her head continues to move from side-to-side.
“Oh…” Maximiliano the third, also known as Max, the oldest of my cousins and my grandfather’s namesake, stands behind my grandmother and draws out in a sing-song voice—the same voice he used when we were younger. “Someone’s in trouble.” He chuckles and punctuates his teasing with a shit-eating grin.
“Bite me!” I snap through gritted teeth, my hands fisted at my side, itching to throw a punch at his face.
“Young lady!” my grandmother reprimands and brings my focus back to her.
“I’m sorry, Abuelita.” Lowering my head, I try to sound contrite, knowing that despite my grandmother’s dramatic flair, my keeping the lump on my hand a secret has caused her pain.
“Cecilia, at least let the poor girl through the door before you start in on her.” My grandfather, and the most important man in my life, comes to my rescue, pulling my grandmother backwards to his side. His left arm around her, he turns her toward him, and settles a kiss on her forehead while his other hand holds and balances his weight on his derby handle, cherry wood walking stick.
My heart sighs at his display of affection. More than fifty years of marriage and still, every chance he gets, my grandfather takes every opportunity to show my grandmother how much he values and cherishes her.
That is what I want. That kind of love. I want my heart to sigh.
He brings her head to his chest, and the hurt in his eyes cannot be missed. I fucked up, real bad. With my silence, I hurt the very people who have gone above and beyond to give me a better life and feel more love that I could ever know. My cousins, who are all males—I’m the only female of my generation—have made their way to the front door and stand behind my grandparents, staring at me with worried gazes. Even Max, the oldest of us all, and the one who gives me the most shit, looks upset despite his earlier teasing.
The door clicks shut behind me as I step forward and drop my bag to the side. I open my arms and pull my grandmother out of my grandfather’s embrace and into mine.
“I’m so sorry, Abuelita,” I croon, placing a kiss on the crown of her queenly head, and running my hands reassuringly over her back.
For as long as I can remember, she’s been a greater-than-life figure. My rock. My reason for being the woman I am today. After raising five strong-minded sons, helping rear her hellion grandsons, and taking me in after my parents’ death, she is, and will always be, my champion, and both—mi abuelita and abuelito—have earned my undying devotion. But now, her small, bony frame beneath my rough, calloused hands reminds me that mi abuelita is aging and becoming more frail. My secret added a worry to her mind. For that, I feel lower than dirt.
She sniffles, wrapping her arms around me, holding me tightly.
“It’s nothing. You don’t need to worry.” My attempt to smile and reassure everyone that I am hale and hearty fails. Their faces continue to be stricken with worry and doubt. “It’s just a lump that will go away…eventually. The doctor wasn’t worried after the ultrasound.”
My grandmother leans back, and I try to smile once again. Wiggling said hand, I continue, “There’s no pain, no numbness, no change in color to show obstruction of blood flow or that it’s moving. Most importantly, it doesn’t inhibit me from working.”
“Work,” mi abuelita snorts, in a very unladylike manner, I might add, but I ignore it.
Though she’s been my biggest cheerleader, and I know she’s proud of all I have accomplished, at times as proud as a peacock showing off its feathers, my grandmother can’t help but view my work as the reason for my unmarried and childless state. Despite voicing that work is not the reason I haven’t given her great-grandchildren, she refuses to believe anything else is the cause.
She insists I’m being stubborn because I’m a woman in a man’s world. Though it’s the wrong assumption, it is a fitting portrayal of my life. Not only am I the only granddaughter of Doña Cecilia Maria de la Rosa y Don Maximiliano Alejandro de la Rosa, I’m also surrounded by men at work.
Big, burly men, who, at first glance, would cause you to shake in your boots, but who are really sweethearts. Men who gave me shit when I first began working with them because they’d never been led by a “mere” woman. But after sticking to my guns, giving as good as I got, and working side-by-side with them—not being afraid to get a little dirty and killing a snake or two in the hot, Texas landscape—I earned my place.
What more could be expected from the woman raised by la gran doña of the de la Rosa familia? After everything she accomplished in her life, never quitting even at the hardest of times, and putting up with my grandfather—who can sometimes be overbearing when he thinks it’s for our betterment—mi abuelita has earned her place and everyone’s respect.
They raised me to be an independent girl surrounded by boys. I learned to fight, play sports, and work alongside the best of them. My grandparents made sure I knew I was the princess but didn’t let it go to my head. They supported me when I chose to go away to college—a thousand miles away from home to one of the best engineering schools in Texas—encouraged me to get my engineering degree, and even gave me advice on how to deal with the machismo in my work place—because the oil business is definitely a man’s world. Especially when you’re lead foreman, or woman in my case, for major pipeline constructions.
Over the years, marriage became a sore subject between us. Though I was encouraged to be a strong, independent woman, I am still a woman, after all. In our culture, no matter our life style, we marry and have babies.
“Abuelita,” I whisper in warning because I don’t feel much like arguing my marital status.
“What? I’m not getting any younger, and Diosito will soon call me.” She tries to sound innocent, but she doesn’t fool me.
“Abuelita, as much as I adore you, God isn’t calling you anytime soon. You are hale and hearty and will probably outlive us all.”
“Bite your tongue, niña,” she scolds.
Immediately, I feel awful for my flippant answer. My grandparents have buried one son and daughter-in-law—my parents—lost to an ill-fated accident in downtown Chicago. They were cartel collateral—at the wrong place at the wrong time. Two innocent people lost their lives in the crossfire of two warring cartels.
Every so often, especially near the anniversary of their deaths, mi abuelita breaks down. A parent should never have to bury her child; that’s not the way life should be, she says.
Remembering her words, I apologize, and lead her, with my grandfather at our side, to the front room. I’m exhausted from the long hours at work. We put in extra time to finish the project and leave everything ready for the next one after our vacation time.
Plus, the flight didn’t help at all. The seats were tight, and I couldn’t lean my head back and rest my eyes because the person next to me insisted on telling me his life story. He even went so far as to invite me out for a drink when he discovered Chicago was my final destination. I politely declined, but he continued to ramble on.
I’m taking my seat next to my grandmother when a body slams into me, tearing me away from my grandparents, and knocking me to the floor. The body sprawling on top of me and trapping me on the floor is not light.
“You’re finally home!” the person squeals in a familiar tone.
Teresa is here.
“Oh, my God!” I wrap my arms around my best friend, squeezing her tight.
“Yes!” she shrieks.
“Dear God…” is grumbled throughout the room in male voices. “The nightmare is here.”
“Hey!” Teresa and I sit up and protest in unison.
“See.” Max points out. “They even speak together.”
“Oh, hush.” I strike him with my most intimidating glare.
He smirks.
“Are you ready?” Teresa snaps my attention back to her.
“For what?”
“The ER. Duh,” she states matter-of-factly.
“The what?” I exclaim at the same time my grandmother answers, “She is.”
“Vehicles are ready,” J.C., Max’s twin and the second oldest of my cousins, announces. “Let’s get rolling.”
“What is going on?” I ask, praying for a sane, logical answer because, knowing my grandmother, it won’t be.
“You’re heading to the ER,” Max announces, with a gleeful expression on his face, never one to let an opportunity to tease me go to waste.
“The ER?” This doesn’t make sense. “But why? And everyone’s coming?”
“Oh, yes.” J.C.’s expression matches his twin’s. “We’re all going to the ER with you. You wouldn’t want to worry our old, frail, and delicate grandmother, would you?”
“Abuelita!” I turn to my grandmother, awaiting her protest at J.C.’s description of her, but when my gaze lands on her, her eyes are downcast, and she’s leaning into my grandfather. One arm is wrapped around her shoulders, and his other hand is patting her back. She’s not going to voice any objection.
Teresa stands and pulls me up with unexpected strength. “You didn’t think we would take your word for that thing on your hand, did you? We know you, Alej. You don’t want to worry us, but that lump is something that can’t be played with. Give us this peace of mind. Please?”
After looking at every face in the room with me, I conclude that, sometimes, coming from such a large, tight-knit family isn’t such a great thing, after all. Not even ten minutes at home, and everyone is interfering in my life. And no matter how much I fight, I know I’ll never win. I lost this battle before I ever stepped foot in the door.
Welcome home, Alejandra. I think to myself as I’m rushed back out the door.
ANTONIO
Life is fucking hard.
Particularly when your family consists of two people. Long hours without sleep doesn’t help either.
“Antonio,” my mother’s voice grounds me back to reality—our conversation. “Are you listening to me?”
“Sorry, Ma.” As much as I want to give her my full attention, I can’t. I’m tired. So fucking tired, I can’t even think straight.
I check the clock on the wall of the on-call room and see there are two long, dreadful hours to struggle through before I can go home to my small, worn-down apartment and pass out on my bed for a hopeful five hours of sleep. That is, if you could call the one-room—with one teeny-tiny bathroom—cube of an apartment, an “apartment.” There’s no distinction between my bedroom and kitchen or living room. Everything is crammed into the “apartment” I can barely afford.
“Are you okay, mijo?” She sounds worried, and I feel like shit for causing her more of that dreadful emotion. She doesn’t need to worry about me, instead, she needs to focus on getting better and relaxing. That broken leg of hers won’t heal if she tries to get up and head back to work to help pay for our bills.
“Of course, Ma. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she answers, and I hear movement through the phone.
“What are you doing? You better not be hobbling around, you need to be resting. It’s been a few days since your surgery, you can’t rush it. Where’s your nurse?” My words shoot out rapidly, part in worry, part in frustration over not being the person there helping my mother, but I need to work and finish my residency.
Otherwise, I’ll never be the doctor I’ve dreamed of becoming. The doctor who will not only help people, but will also be able to afford the very best for my mother. The doctor who will finally be able to buy my mother a house of her own.
“I’m not rushing, and I am resting. You heard me shifting to get more comfortable. This laying around, resting, isn’t for me,” she grumbles.
I chuckle, and my lips curve upwards. My mother is being forced to rest for the first time in her life.
From my earliest memory, my mother has worked every day. After my father’s death, and her refusal to receive payment from his side of the family, she’s labored to keep us afloat and so I could live a better life. She refused the Gaitan family’s money, saying it was tainted with evil and insisting they were the reason my father had gone to his grave early. All their promises of a better life were nothing but lies. Every day, she’s worked to keep our hands clean from that money. Living paycheck to paycheck wasn’t easy, and it continues to be a struggle, but at least it has kept us “clean.”
The thought of money wipes the smile off my face, and the weight on my shoulder piles on. I don’t regret moving my mother to a safer neighborhood in Chicago, but the increase of rent does put added stress to my finances. Being a medical resident at one of the best hospitals in Chicago is a great accomplishment and a lifetime opportunity, but it doesn’t pay enough to rid myself of all my student loans, pay for mine and my mother’s rent, our medical insurance and bills, and everything that we need to live a basic life. Particularly now that my mother cannot work after her fall, and she needs daily care while her entire leg is casted and her movements are restricted.
God, I need a fucking vacation…a few seconds to breathe because I’m drowning under all the stress, loans, and bills.
But even that costs money. Everything costs money. Money that I don’t have.
“Antonio, mijo.”
Fuck. Why does life have to be so hard?
“¡Mijo!” she repeats in a sharper tone.
“Sorry, Ma. I love you, but I need to go.”
As much as I love my mother, I can’t talk to her right now. My thoughts are focused on other things, like trying to figure out a way to pay for everything without turning to illicit means, mainly finally breaking down and contacting my cousin and taking the Gaitan’s money. But if I do that, my mother will surely have a heart attack or disown me.
So, I must figure some other way because those bills are stacking up. Before long, I’ll be a marked man with a collection agency, and my credit will be even further in the pits than it is now.
After saying my farewell, with a promise to call her after work, I hang up.
I rest my head in my hands and gulp for air.
In…out…
I repeat until my body calms, and I feel in some sort of control.
My waist vibrates, indicating I’m needed. I unhook the pager from my waist and scan the code. Work calls.
Minutes later, I enter a patient’s room. I have every inch of this floor memorized, so I go in while reading the patient’s chart: twenty-five-year-old female, health insurance coverage current, a lump on her right hand.
Though I’m not supposed to judge, the reason she’s in the emergency room seems excessive. She’s spending thousands of dollars on an emergency room visit when she could have called her primary care physician.
“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Gaitan, and I’ll be your attending physician.” I look up and take a step back in surprise.
The room is filled. Almost a dozen men arch around the hospital bed. Their gazes zoom in on me, their faces scowling.
Clearing my throat, I take a tentative step forward. “Okay…” At the sound of my voice, their bodies go taut, their jaws clench, and their arms flex, all except for the older gentleman. “Where is my patient?”
For a moment, I even fear they’ll pounce.
“Here.” The female voice draws my attention to the bed.
She sits in the center, between an older woman, who’s holding her hand, and a younger woman with short blonde hair. The older woman looks familiar. Maybe a prior patient or family member?
“I’m the patient.” She raises her hand in the air, like an elementary school student, and smiles at me sheepishly. Her cheeks are rose-tinted. “Please excuse…” She jumps off the bed to stand before me and jerks her thumb back toward the formation behind her.
Her apology falls on deaf ears because nothing registers through my brain but the vision of her. My eyes devour every detail, from the top of her dark-haired head to the tip of her boots, and then back up again. Even in her plain t-shirt and well-worn, fitted jeans—that mold her luscious, full hips and fit like a glove down to where they’re tucked into a pair of working boots—she’s a vision. A curvaceous, mouth-watering, rocking body vision out of every male’s wet dream.
A weird sensation flutters in my stomach; my breathing becomes difficult; and my legs go weak. Gripping the chart, I fight the urge to pull her toward me and stroke every hill and valley of her body. My mouth aches for a taste of her.
Dirty, naughty images fill my mind. Images of those full, rosy lips of hers begging to be kissed. Images of her lips wrapped around my thick, hard cock. Images of me sliding into her.
My pants tighten.
“Yo, doc! You better get those thoughts out of your head and start thinking with the head above your waist, or we’ll beat the ever-living-shit out of you,” one of the males calls out.
And just like a bucket full of ice-cold water being poured over my head, I’m snapped back to the present.
Well, fuck me.