Page 30 of Betsy
I took a mental snapshot. When I was on the road somewhere, maybe in a dive in the middle of nowhere on the way to Vegas or dealing with some crisis or another to get the show going—because these things were more a question ofwhenthanif—I’d pull out this picture and remind myself of the reason I was doing this in the first place.
More hugs were given and received, then I was sent off with a plastic container filled with fresh, home-made empanadas filled with ground beef, spices, fresh herbs, green olives, and boiled eggs. Mami probably expected me to share since she’d packed so many. I’d have to give that some careful consideration, since her empanadas were the best thing anyone could ever put in their mouth. It would be a truly selfless act to share.
The smell seeping past the lid tempted me as I drove the fifteen miles to the church. We were all supposed to meet there, load the equipment and instruments onto the rented bus, then head out. The itinerary placed us at the farthest away venue first, then slowly making our way back with each performance.
As I neared the church, the sun reflected off a shiny silver monstrosity. Actually, I take it back. Shiny didn’t even begin to describe this behemoth on wheels. It was blinding, both literally and metaphorically. I shielded my eyes as I turned into the parking lot, afraid the brightness would cause me to lose my vision and crash into the flowering tree planted near the curb. The thing looked like Dr. Frankenstein had turned in his lab coat for mechanic coveralls. Part lunar vehicle, part post-apocalypse getaway ride.
I pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. I had no reason to linger in my car. Unfortunately. I took one more whiff of Mami’s empanadas before I forced myself to open the car door and face my fate for the next few weeks. What did sixty years of people in a tin can smell like? I had a feeling I was about to find out.
Dave came out of the church carrying a snare drum, Marcus right behind him with a cymbal stand in each hand. They disappeared around the other side of the bus.
I popped the trunk and retrieved my suitcase, next going around to the passenger side to get the food Mami had shoved in my hands. Tricia saw me and waved me over. She stood off to the side of the bus, away from the guys moving Dave’s drum set piece by piece.
She touched her wrist to her forehead. “Can you believe how warm it is today? I know I should be used to the weather by now, but eighty degrees in February always surprises me.”
A bee buzzed by and landed on a camellia blooming in the landscaping along the church’s exterior. The trailing nasturtiums and poppies that flowered by the highways as well as the few planted pear trees in the neighborhoods tricked people of Southern California into thinking it was spring when other parts of the country were still experiencing snow storms and below-freezing temperatures.
“The Santa Ana winds up from the desert do tend to bring these higher temperatures, but the forecast says it’s supposed to cool back down to the low seventies and even high sixties again in a few days.”
She stretched her back, eyeing the bus with wariness. “What are the chances, do you think, that thing has air conditioning?”
Probably not as good as us getting tetanus if we scratched ourselves on any of its surfaces. Instead of answering, I opened the lid of the Tupperware and held the container in front of Tricia. “Empanada?”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised but lifted a meat-filled pastry from where it nestled among the others and took a bite. A moan emanated from behind her closed lips. “This is so good.” Her eyes went wide when she opened them. “Did you make these?”
I shook my head. “My mom.”
She shoved the rest in her mouth and thumbed the corner of her lips, chewing and nodding her head. She’d closed her eyes again. Mami would love her and how she made food a full body experience.
I placed the container in her hands. “Have as many as you want. I’m going to help with the loading.” I didn’t want the mixing board to just be thrown in without any care. Those things could be fragile. We also didn’t want to get to another city and discover that the in-ear monitors had been left behind. Then there were the cables. I definitely didn’t want them all to get mixed up or knotted together. I had Velcro tapes to keep the TRS, TS, RCA, and all the cable connectors organized.
As I stepped into the sanctuary, Asher was bent over an amplifier. He stood, lifting the black box, his muscles cording under the tight hem of his T-shirt.
Caray. My breath hitched.Look away, Betsy, I told myself.
Why? You can’t unsee his sculpted physique. Amanda’s voice in my head this time, the shameless flirt.
Ah! I pulled my gaze away, but Amanda in my head was right. Even when I blinked, Asher’s form highlighted behind my eyelids. I groaned. I didnotneed this. I needed the opposite of this. To stop noticing things about Asher. His long, tapered fingers and competent hands. His deep, penetrating gaze that seemed to strip away the layers and leave me feeling exposed. His easy smile that tried to convince me to relax despite my misgivings. And now, a peek at physical strength—long, sinewy muscles that spoke of dedication and self-discipline. Which, because I wasn’t a coward I’d be honest and admit, made my blood pool in a delicious heat in my belly.
I squared my shoulders and set my jaw. Traitorous body. Unlawful anatomy. Didn’t it remember my number one rule? No. Falling. For. Musicians. Physical attraction was a stumbling block, but I would not be taken down that easily.
Asher set the amplifier down beside the others. He straightened, and our gazes locked across the room. His crooked smile lifted on one side of his face.
“Betsy, you’re just the woman I’ve been waiting for.”
12
Asher
Betsy’s toe caught on the commercial-grade carpeting running under the many rows of chairs set up in the church’s sanctuary instead of traditional pews. She managed to catch herself without falling, but the color traveling up her neck to her cheeks belied the unaffected expression she kept on her face out of what was probably sheer willpower.
It hadn’t been the carpet that had tripped her up. It had been what I’d said. That she was the woman I’d been waiting for. If not for her physical stumble, I wouldn’t have even heard what could’ve been considered a double entendre or second layer to what had come out of my mouth. Had I even meant it that way, on some subconscious level?
Betsy intrigued me, I’d admit. The more I got to know her, the more I wanted to know. She wasn’t easy, but then, hard things had always drawn my interest. Mostly because I’d always found they were more than worth the effort. A sweet reward not given to just anyone.
Not that I considered Betsy a reward. Heaven help me, if she even caught wind that her name and the equivalent of a trophy were tied together in a thought, she’d probably have my hide one way or another.
I grinned. The firecracker.
