Page 27 of Fearless
“Shall we?” He released one of my hands to walk me back down the driveway, lacing his fingers through mine in a tighter grip on the other hand.
I followed his lead down the quiet street, rubbing my thumb over the back of his palm. The only sounds I heard were excited voices of children and the rumbles of bikes a few blocks over. I imagined it was Dallas and his family playing around on their mini bikes.
“So you and Shadow live together?” I swung our hands between us like we were a pair of innocent kids ourselves.
“Yeah. At first it was out of necessity for him. He didn’t know how to live on his own, and kind of just stuck by me so he could figure shit out. Now he’s a lot more independent and also a great roommate, as it turns out. We leave each other be, for the most part, but even a loner like him doesn’t like to be alone all the time.”
More questions turned over in my head, but like usual, I sensed that Jandro purposely omitted details about Shadow’s life out of respect for his privacy, and I couldn’t violate that.
He led me up a wide, gently sloping driveway to a house with a similar floor plan as Reaper’s, but a smaller version. It had the same central entryway with two wings on either side. I had a hunch that he and Shadow each had half of the house to themselves. When he pushed open the heavy wooden door and led me inside, I saw my instinct was right.
A central staircase greeted us upon entry, leading up to walkways branching off to the left and right at the second level. The first floor was clearly the common area, with a large TV surrounded by comfortable but mismatched furniture, and an open concept kitchen and dining area toward the back. I spotted Jandro’s chickens pecking at the ground through the sliding glass door at the back of the house, and a large, dark figure leaning over a desk across from the living room.
“Shadow, don’t be fuckin’ rude,” Jandro muttered under his breath after closing the front door behind us and leading me inside.
“Hi, Shadow,” I chirpily greeted the large man hunched over the desk before he could say anything.
“Hi, Mariposa.” A desk lamp pointed down at an open book in front of him, casting half his face in shadow as he glanced up at me.
“How are you today?”
I felt elated that he said hi to me without any apparent distress. After greeting him at least once per day since he donated blood at my office, he seemed to become less abrasive to small, social interactions with me. Now that we had established that as a comfort zone, I couldn’t resist pushing the envelope just a tiny bit further.
“I’m fine.” He moved his forearm to rest on the page of what I now realized was a sketchbook. A pencil spun absently over his thumb and forefinger. “How are you?” he remembered to ask after a long pause.
I smiled wider at him, immensely proud at his progress. “I’m great, thank you.”
Jandro cleared his throat, pulling me toward the kitchen as Shadow’s attention returned to his sketchbook.
“You’re brave,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against my ear. “Want anything to drink?”
“For saying hi, how are you?” I asked in a low voice. Then louder, “What do you got?”
“I know you’re trying to push him to be more social, and he doesn’t usually react well to that.” Jandro grabbed a lime from a small basket on the counter and tossed it in the air before catching it again. “I can make a mean margarita.”
Forgetting about Shadow for the moment, my mouth dropped open. “You have tequila?”
“Do I have tequila,” he scoffed, reaching under the counter to produce a large, unlabeled glass bottle. A pale amber liquid swirled in the lower third of the vessel.
“Is that an añejo?” Nostalgic memories of my father sneaking me shots of his “good stuff” as he called it, filled my brain. Tequila aged for at least one year was smoother than younger spirits and best for sipping.
“Ah, my girl knows her stuff.” Jandro’s eyes sparkled with glee while I tried to ignore my stomach flip-flopping at him calling mehis. “It is an añejo. I’ve been savoring this since Gunner scored it about a year ago.”
“It would be a shame to dilute it down in a margarita,” I said. “I used to drink añejo with my dad with just salt and lime.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He brought down two shot glasses and a salt shaker from a cabinet, then dug out a cutting board and a knife from a drawer. “You make those how you like ‘em while I get the food started.”
“What’s for dinner?” I slid into a stool across the elegant, granite countertop and started cutting the limes.
“Breakfast,” he grinned, opening a small, wooden crate to show me rows of eggs in various shades of brown to off-white. “Huevos rancheros, to be precise. My girls have been good to me.”
I smiled back as I untwisted the cap of the añejo and began to pour. “That means they’re happy with you.”
“I like to think I know a few things about keeping ladies happy.”
While the eggs fried and he prepped the sides, I poured the shots and dumped a few good shakes of salt onto the lime wedges.
“Bite the lime and then take a sip,” I said, sliding his glass toward him across the counter. “Savor it in your mouth for a few seconds, like a good whiskey.”
