22
DREW
Fuck.
This can’t be happening. Camille cannot be Lucianna. Of all the jobs she could have, of all the food trucks she could run, of all the streets she could have picked, of all the spaces she could have parked in. Why, why, why?
Why her? Why True North?
While I’m saying, “I want you,” my conscience wages a battle against itself. Before now, Camille’s and my obstacles were deployment and time—not minuscule by any means. It would have meant months of not seeing one another and a concerted effort to keep in touch. It would have meant trust and eventually a decision about the future.
But all that is far less disastrous than what’s been detonated in front of me. Finding out Camille is Lucianna, the target of my father’s focus, his direct competition, eclipses the crisis of convincing Camille to trust me. Now I’ve got to take a defensive posture, too, to find a way to remove her from my father’s crosshairs.
What was simply between her and me is now all about family and loyalty.
It’s a lose-lose situation.
I open my mouth, committed to tell Camille the truth. To say how much my parents have struggled to make ends meet. That her truck is fueling my father’s fire. That the zone she picked is jutting against a business that considers her an enemy, not an ally.
But the words don’t come. I can’t say a thing, because Camille’s pulled me down gently by the neck and pressed her lips to mine.
This kiss isn’t hurried. Not like others we’ve had, when we’ve clawed at each other’s clothing, resisting the need for oxygen. This one halts time. It mutes noise. My focus narrows to where I’m intimately connected to Camille, tongue against tongue, pelvis pressed against her stomach, hands exploring her lower back where it meets the curve of her ass.
Slow as this kiss is, it sears, leaving me parched for more.
“Get a room,” someone yells from across the street. All at once the sounds of the city rush in. The cable car, the foot traffic, the car engines.
Camille smiles into my mouth. “Looks like you got what you wanted.” Her face is flushed.
I groan, taking my gaze to the ground as I willfully separate myself from her body. It’s just as well. My brain is mush. Somehow, between now and dinnertime when I meet up with my father, I’ve got to devise a plan. I’ve got to make this right somehow, or at least attempt to, before I mention it to Camille. “If you only knew how it pains me to not strip your clothes off right now.”
She bites her lip. God, I wish I could bite it for her. But there’s a fire raging at the city Planning Department, and I’ve got to put it out. Pronto.
“But . . . I need to get downtown this morning. Some work for my dad.” I stare at the space between her eyes to hide my omission. For all the times I’ve tried to coax her to get into specifics, I’m a gem for not being straight up with her. But if I can still fix this, I should, before I lose my nerve. Before the consequence rears its ugly head.
She eyes me. “What are you working on?”
“Odds and ends.”
“Oh?”
“He’s in . . . sales.” Of food, but the rest of my explanation doesn’t make it out of my mouth. Not exactly a lie, right? “I’ve got to rescind some paperwork on . . . a territory he was setting up. You know how it goes.”
“Oh yeah, I do. In my own way.”
Yes. Yes, you do. “I’m going to take a guess now that the zone we talked about is a new area you’re parked at.” She nods, so I continue. “It’s not working out?”
“Oh, it’s working out, fabulously. Sales are through the roof. Customers love me. But let’s say hopefully your dad is way more gracious than the crap I’ve been putting up with from the owner of that restaurant. True North, blech. His name is Chef Ritchie, and he’s just a . . . a . . . ugh.”
I shift my feet once, then a second time. Can she tell I’m about to lose it? “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like fake complaints about my truck, my customers. The only thing going for us right now is that we rule social media. The person they have doing theirs is completely inept.”
I choke on air.
“You okay?” Concern floods her face.
“Yep, fine. I do have to go, before they shut down the office for lunch. Never know what the line’s going to be like.” I run my fingers through my hair. C’mon, wake up brain. Think of how to fix this. “But I can take you home. Then we can meet up tomorrow, after lunch?”
A smile breaks out on her face, and she seems satisfied with my lame-ass excuse. “Actually, I’ll stay. I want to be here when Ally gets out. Besides, I can scope out a couple of new spots to park in. Research.” She checks her phone. “I’m jam-packed the next couple of days, though. Things are picking up at work, and I’ve got to spend more time than usual cooking. How about Thursday?”
“I’m going to be in withdrawal by then.” I kiss her lips and savor the safety in it.
“Maybe you can come visit me sometime, at work? I’m right on the Great Highway.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you.” Guilt slices into me when she tightens her arms around my waist.
Fucking pathetic, man.
Somehow I tear myself away from Camille, climb into my car, and speed to the planning office, my heart at odds with my brain. Logic screams for me to pull over, to think of the repercussions. My heart argues if I wait too long, and the appeal passes, the chaos will be irreversible.
Rescinding the appeal will buy me some time.
Through a mental haze of pros and cons, I make it to the office and fly through the door. A receptionist sits behind a high counter, hidden behind a computer screen. The room is stark and smells like artificial lavender.
The receptionist audibly sighs, glancing sideways at the clock on the wall. She waves her hand toward my nemesis, the ticket dispenser. “Please take a ticket.”
There’s no one else in the waiting room. I point at the contraption mounted on the wall.
The receptionist nods. She sighs a second time.
Fine. I flick a number out from the slot. Thirty-two. Minutes pass while I sit on the patterned cushioned seat, knees jumping. The white noise of the soap opera on the overhead television is the only thing keeping me from screaming, because the red numbers won’t move from thirty-one. They’re stuck at thirty-one.
Impatience throws me to my feet and marches me to the counter. “Ma’am?”
The receptionist peers above her purple reading glasses. “You need to wait until your number is called.” She stands and approaches the woman at one of the rear tables, shuffling through papers and typing into her computer.
No, no, no. That woman could be processing last week’s paperwork. At this moment, she could be approving my dad’s appeal to move or even remove the truck completely from the street. I enter the area behind the counter, and the woman spins in alarm. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I need some help, please.”
“Sir, back off. Please.” She splays her hands near my chest, as if to push me, but doesn’t make contact with my body.
“Yes, ma’am.” I back up. “I’m trying to stop paperwork that should never have been sent here in the first place. It’s life and death.”
She groans into her chair. “Really now? Life and death?”
“Sort of my life and death, figuratively. Like my dad’s gonna kill me.”
Her lips press into a line. “I see. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that, would I? What’s your business name?”
“True North Cafe.”
She fiddles with the mouse of her computer. Clicks it several times. “For the food truck appeal?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Huh.” More clicking. “You changed your mind?”
It’s none of her business. But she has the power to do what I ask or the absolute opposite, so I say, “We got to thinking, why can’t we all get along?”
“Well, aren’t you nice.” Her fingers fly on the keyboard. “Can I see ID, please?”
My body shudders. This is it. Then is when the hammer comes down and I’ll be found out. I slide out my leather wallet from my back pocket. After flashing it to her, she rifles through a set of folders on her desk.
Then she hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s the original paperwork back.”
“It’s done,” I say rather than ask. How did my ID pass? But I don’t double-check the woman’s accuracy. I don’t admit to a thing. Instead, with the paper gripped tightly in my hand, I step out of the office and onto the street as silent as the barracks during lights out.
Only when I’m buckled into my car do I glance at the paperwork: Appeal to Appropriate Public Parking Spaces.
The name written on the application: Richard Bautista. Flipping open my wallet, where my driver’s license is showing through the clear plastic sleeve, I realize my first name is covered. The name that’s visible through the plastic: Richard Bautista. Not Andrew Richard Bautista.
I sink into my seat and my breath leaves my body. The receptionist made a mistake.
And that quickly becomes the least of my concerns, because with this paper in my hand—I’ve chosen.
I’ve chosen a woman over the man I came home to reconcile with.