Cholo

I pushed the front door open and waved toward the empty living room. I knew better than to warn my mother of our arrival. As inconsiderate as it might seem, telling her would have caused her to frantically attempt to clean, cook, and get ready at the same time, leaving her half finished with each task.

Simply showing up would allow her to truly enjoy our presence.

With us halfway through the living room, she walked through the kitchen door. Her eyes went wide and she stopped in her tracks.

“Qué emoción!” she gasped.

“English, mother,” I said with a laugh. “This is Alexandra, the girl I told you about. And, she doesn’t speak Spanish.”

My mother was wearing her apron, but it was no surprise – she always wore an apron. The home smelled of her cooking, and it smelled good. She wiped her hands on her apron, and rushed excitedly to where we stood.

A handshake or a nice to meet you remark would have been typical of most mothers, but not mine. She opened her arms and smothered Alexandra with a hug.

After she released her, she leaned back and looked her over. “He told me you were beautiful, but I had no idea…”

“Thank you,” Alexandra said. She leaned forward. “He told me you were a great cook.”

“He knows nothing of good cooking,” my mother replied. “He’d eat rocks if I put broth over them.”

“He made tacos for me the other night,” Alexandra said. “They were delicious.”

“He cooked?” She stopped in her tracks. “My Adam?”

Alexandra looked at me and then at my mother. She nodded. “We ate dinner together and watched television.”

“Television? He doesn’t sit still for very long,” my mother said. “Siempre nervioso.”

I chuckled. “She said I’m always nervous. English, mother.”

“I’m so sorry,” my mother said. “I left my manners in the kitchen. I’m Maria.”

“Alexandra,” Alexandra said. “Nice to meet you.”

Being a man whore wasn’t a trait I developed once I was in the MC, or because of some outside influence. It was part of who I was. From the time I had sex for the first time – at thirteen – until my current age of thirty-one, I had been a tornado of sexual explorations. Much to my mother’s disappointment, I had yet to meet a woman I cared enough about to invite her into her home for dinner.

“Alexandra,” my mother said, taking Alexandra’s hand in hers. “Come with me.”

Alexandra looked at me, grinned, and then followed my mother into the kitchen.

What in the fuck have I got myself into?

I wiped my sweating palms against the thighs of my jeans, and looked around the living room. I had no idea where I was headed with Alexandra, but wherever it was, I was going to make sure getting there caused her no harm.

I walked to the doorway, peered into the kitchen, and watched as my mother stirred a pot of what smelled like pork chile verde.

“…roasted tomatillos, jalapenos, garlic, and oil. First, you slice the tomatillo in half, and then put them in the oven on a sheet, with the flat side down. Cook them under the broiler, but just until they…”

Turn black.

“…turn black.”

I grinned. My mother taught me to cook, explaining every detail of what needed to be done and why. She never wrote anything down, and neither did I. I didn’t need to. She pounded the recipes into my head repeatedly, every time she cooked, whether I was paying attention or not.

“…after the pork is brown, pour the sauce over it, and let it cook for 4 hours. Three hours, and it will be too thin. Four is perfecto.” She paused, looked at Alexandra, and smiled. “Okay?”

Alexandra nodded and smiled in return. “Okay.”

“When will we eat?” I asked.

“When it’s ready,” she said over her shoulder.

“I’m ready now.”

“You’ll have to wait fifteen more minutes.”

“I’m going to steal Alexandra for a minute,” I said.

“She’s doing just fine in here,” she said. “Go shine your motorcycle.”

“C’mon, Alexandra. I want to show you around.”

She looked at my mother.

“Go,” she said. “He’s sad when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

Alexandra followed me down the hallway to the last door on the right. It was the bedroom I grew up in, and was still decorated the way it was when I moved out.

I pushed the door open.

She looked around the room, and then focused on the pictures that were hung on the far wall. “Is that you?”

Four framed photos of when I had boxed in Golden Gloves competitions hung side-by-side on the wall. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s me.”

She looked at me, and then at the pictures. “You were smaller.”

“That was a long time ago. I weighed 40 pounds less.”

She walked up to one of the pictures and traced her fingertip along the outline of my face. “You had hair.”

“Not much, but yeah.”

“I can’t imagine you with hair.”

“I can’t either. Not now.”

“Were you good? When you boxed?”

“Everyone thought so.”

She studied the next picture. “What did you think?”

“I was never any good in my eyes. Not good enough, anyway.”

“Did you win?”

“Every time I fought.”

“Every time?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you were good.”

“The competition was poor.”

“You’re humble,” she said.

“I’m a realist.”

She turned to face me. “A humble realist.”

“Maybe.”

She met my gaze and locked her eyes on mine. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

She spread her arms wide and gazed around the room. “This. Bringing me to your mother’s home for dinner. Showing me your old bedroom. Kissing me?”

“I like you,” I said.

She let out a sigh. “You like me, or you like the thought of me?”

“What do you mean?”

She pressed her hands against her hips. “Do you like the thought of someone who’s young and easily influenced?”

Before I had a chance to respond, she continued. “Maybe you like the thought of saving me.” She raised both eyebrows. “You already did that, you know.”

I admired her as she spoke. Describing her as beautiful simply wasn’t enough. I exercised a little self-control and shifted my focus to her eyes. “Already did what?”

“Saved me. I don’t need any help from here on out. I can make it without you.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you want?”

“What I want?” She asked. “I want what every girl wants.”

Hell, I had no idea what every girl wanted. Any response on her part would be enlightening.

“And what might that be?”

“I want a man to love me for no other reason than he believes I’m the most unique creature on the planet,” she said, folding her arms against her chest as she spoke. “When he thinks of living life without me, I want him to get scared and confused.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

She shrugged. “That’s a good start.”

“When I was younger, I was mad at the world,” I said. “I wanted answers on why I was a half-breed, and why I didn’t have a father. I’d ride my motorcycle 550 miles to the Grand Canyon just to watch the sunset, and then ride back the next day. I went there because there was nowhere else that I knew of that was as beautiful, as magical, or as perfect. Sure the canyon held all the answers, I’d stare out at it hoping to find them, but I never found any. In the end, it didn’t matter. For me, the canyon itself was proof of something bigger than life. Something magnificent. I’d end up lasting another six or eight months, and then I’d be back, mad and needing some relief. I’d watch the sun set over the canyon, then everything would be fine for a while.”

I paused and took a breath.

She grinned. “I like that story.”

“I wasn’t finished.” I said.

“Sorry. Continue.”

“I kept going back because there wasn’t anything, anywhere, that could replace it. Nowhere was as serene or as beautiful. Believe me, I tried to find spots that were closer. Went farther, too, but nothing compared.”

I looked at her for a few seconds and then shook my head. “There are a lot of rivers and canyons on this earth, and none compare to the Grand Canyon. And, there are a lot of beautiful women on this earth, and none of them compare to you. So, if you find me staring at you, it’s because doing it saves me a 550-mile drive.”

“Stop talking,” she whispered. “And kiss me.”