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CHAPTER ONE
Paisley
On the night that love made a fool out of me once again, I found myself standing outside my swanky downtown loft, drowning in a monsoon…watching another woman making love to my man.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly a monsoon, and technically I wasn’t drowning. But in my defense, I was caught in one of the worst downpours Necessity, Texas, had seen in years, getting drenched like I needed to repent for something.
“Your grandfather would be so proud of you, Paisley Bent. I just know he would.” My grandmother, Gammy, had sung my praises just twenty minutes prior to what I’ll call the incident. “Good gravy, you’ve got it smelling like the north side of Heaven in here.”
I’d just finished cleaning the mess I’d made of Gammy’s kitchen with the two new Mediterranean taco recipes I’d been working on at her place all day since my stove had gone out. I’d been all packed up, overzealous to get home to Rico for a tasting of the soon-to-be prize-winning tacos. And me. For dessert. I had to admit, though I’d created quite a few culinary disasters along the path to consumption, these tacos? They were like…magic.
“Thanks, Gammy.” I’d beamed. “I think I finally hit my stride.”
A wide grin had slid across Gammy’s face. “Well, that stride you hit is about to win you the Shell-Off’s grand prize at the annual Boo-Tacular Festival. Come Halloween, my grandbaby’s going to be crowned the taco royalty of Texas, just like her late grandfather.”
I’d waltzed around the island kitchen separating me and Gammy and rewarded her compliment with a grandaughterly smooch on the cheek, followed by the biggest bear hug I could give her. “I really want to win the taco festival so bad, Gammy. Gramps won more years than we can count, except for last year before he passed. I’m going to get his crown back; I want this for him.”
“While you’re winning the Boo-Tacular’s five-thousand-dollar prize, make sure you don’t leave yourself out of the accolades. Gramps may have gone on to glory, but he taught you everything he knew about tacos. Now it’s up to you pick up that torch and carry it.”
I’d heaved a sigh. “Do you really think Gramps would be proud of me?”
Gammy had backed away and thrust her hands on her generous hips with a heavy tsk. “Now, I know you’re not standing in my face with the gall to ask me a silly question like that, Paisley. Of course he would.” Her thin brows had formed an arch of disapproval along with her shaking head. “Just look at your pretty self—things are so different for you than they were a year ago. You picked up your grandfather’s taco business, your sessions with Dr. Moncrief have kept me from losing my own dang mind, and you finally moved out of my house into your own place.”
“Rent-free, in an old building that you own,” I’d interrupted.
“Semantics.” Gammy’s large eyes had narrowed, scrutinizing me with a skeptical frown. “What we’re not going to do is tear down everything you’ve worked so hard to build up in such a short amount of time, baby. Sometimes you’re a mess, but you’re still my sweet puddin’.” Her wrinkled hands that had weathered some of the same storms I was about to weather had reached out and stroked my chin. “You have it in you, sweetie. All you have to do is stop getting in your own way.” She’d released my chin and wagged a finger in my face. “And get rid of that boy.”
Oh yeah…Rico.
The torrential rain was heavy enough to revert the massive ’fro I’d spent two hours flat-ironing back to its original wooly state as my thick tresses wilted over my shoulders and tumbled down my back. The destructive storm was brazen enough to seep through my gray Taco Kisses T-shirt and soil the pristine Nike Air Force 1s I’d only worn once beyond recognition. My size nines sank deep into a fresh mound of mud, dragging my wilting heart in the muck with them.
$49.99.
As I stood on the street gawking through the gargantuan, department store–type window with an unobstructed view inside my messy bedroom, the price I paid for the king-sized, royal-purple comforter the bed defilers upstairs were spraying whipped cream all over, hammered my brain.
So disrespectful.
The building I lived in was a red-brick historical edifice at the end of Prichard Boulevard. The old Necessity Records Building. There were two lofts at the top (I occupied one; my cousin Day, who was rarely in town, stayed in the other); an industrial kitchen and another empty space we had no clue what to do with were on the bottom floor. Gammy had purchased the building before the city council made good on their plans to demolish it, which gave me a free spot to kick my feet up until I actually got back on them. It was a lot of space for a single woman with big dreams, but it was my sanctuary.
Tonight, I was dumbfounded watching Rico blaspheme my sacred space.
Where did we go wrong?
Two years of binging our favorite shows, cooking tacos, and sharing dreams together, all reduced to a Cirque du Soleil recreation on the very blanket I’d bragged to him about copping on clearance a few days ago. My heart latched onto my throat as I watched my own villain origin story unfold through a drape-less window.
I tugged my shoes from the gooey muck and paced the dark, abandoned parking lot that was directly across from my loft within eyeshot, contemplating my next move. Chunks of mud washed off the white exterior of my kicks like snot pouring from a nose as I stomped the pavement. The rain pelted my body with the tears that should’ve been spilling from my eyes. But I was too stunned, too furious, too numb to cry.
Compartmentalize.
Confront.
Change the compass.
Create love, cancel chaos.
Which one of the useless affirmations that my therapist, Dr. Moncrief, had drilled into me applied to this specific debacle again? And why was she so obsessed with words that began with the letter C?
Oh, fudge it!
What would Doc advise me to do right now? Oh, that’s right—she couldn’t give me any advice. Because I fired her. Tossed her out on her Dora the Explorer bob and taupe kitten heels right along with her final bill. All because she demanded I start standing up for myself during our final session.
You tend to over-deliver for people who shamelessly disappoint you without remorse, Paisley Bent. Especially your family, Dr. Moncrief chastised me. I don’t want to set back all of our hard work to saddle your temper, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a pushover either. You’re nobody’s doormat any longer, but I want you to find the balance between standing up and lying down.
I glared up at my room, Doc’s advice ringing in my ears. “All right, Paisley, don’t be a punk,” I coached myself through a ghastly croak. “All you have to do is go up there and get them out of your bed…without ending up in jail.” Before tonight, I should’ve known something was up when Rico hadn’t touched me in days. Typically he took me sneezing as my dropping a hint to drop his pants. But lately he fell asleep before I did, with his back turned toward me. Not even a courtesy spooning to get me through the night.
I was mortified.
No, bewildered is more like it. I was bewildered—and straight-up pissed. Yeah, that was it.
I was pissed.
Pissed that Rico was harboring this fantastic creature in my apartment without either of them at least dropping a dime to help me hold down the bills—and that Rico was throwing down some pretty spectacular moves on my doppelgänger that he never once attempted with me.
Tears slid down my cheeks; the raindrops felt like boulders slamming on top of my shoulders. I was about to go confront Rico but was so enraged, charging upstairs wouldn’t be good for any of us until I cooled off. The plastic Kroger bag I’d been clutching onto tighter than the body shaper I wore slipped from my trembling fingers, and I fumbled to catch it.
“Oh no, my tacos! They’re ruined by now.”
Suddenly my brain began to function again. Resting in that bag was part of the Holy Grail that was going to win me the Shell-Off and the results of taco recipe numbers twenty and twenty-one that I was so excited for Rico to try. Almost halfway to the fifty I was racing to curate during the final three months before year’s end. Mediterranean honey and spicy tahini on flour tortillas for the first one; spicy Mediterranean cheese with zucchini, cucumber-tomato salad, and honey chili oil on pita bread for the other. When Gramps fell ill and lost the contest last year, all of us were devastated. Especially me. This year, I was determined to win and reclaim my grandfather’s Best Shells in Texas crown and keep his legacy alive.
I raised the sack to eye level, cringing at the tidal wave rolling off the plastic exterior. After all my hard labor, obviously the meal Rico was craving wasn’t on the menu. I ducked my head and raced across the street to where I’d parked the dilapidated ice-cream truck Gramps passed down to me before he died. Hopped in, slammed the door, and tossed the soaked bag onto the passenger seat.
“What do we do now, Pink Lady?” I always addressed the rusty hunk of pale pink metal by her Gramps-given name. He used to coax Pink Lady up and down the streets, tossing chocolate ice-cream bars, Popsicles, and every flavor of ice cream to the neighborhood kids and adults who outran each other to get to him first. Every summer, I rode in the passenger side right next to Gramps, eating up as much of the profits as I could, right before he took me on our taco dates. Just him and me. He was the reason for my loving tacos so much. And he was why I planned to cruise the streets of Necessity, slinging shells like he slung ice cream. I wished Gramps could be with me now while I processed this awful night in my jumbled brain; he never let me cry alone.
I tossed my head back and groaned louder than the booming thunder. “I don’t believe this.” My high-pitched shriek ricocheted off the truck’s ceiling as I pummeled the steering column with my fists. The rain belted from the sky; torrential winds and thunder rocked my rickety truck like it was a tiny toy, bouncing it back and forth on the two good wheels it had left. I was terrified but stuck inside Pink Lady, at least until the storm passed so I could handle my business with Rico.
Checking myself in the rearview mirror, I noted how bloodshot my copper-coated eyes had turned. Disgusted, I settled back in my seat, nothing but tacos and tears to keep me company.
I peered at the Taco Kisses logo screen printed across the front of my shirt. A gift from my best friend, Coy. Clinching the bottom of the shirt in my hands, I wrung the excess water before using it to dry my damp face. My chest felt like I had swallowed a bowl of cigarette butts as I exhaled. All these irritants—Rico, Ari, bills…life in general, being everyone’s anchor—were sinking me. A fresh round of thunder rocked the truck, scrambling my insides. With nothing to do but wait until my frayed emotions capsized, I dug inside the plastic bag, grabbed one of the tacos I prepared, and bit into it. Spit the cold, soggy pita bread—as limp as my love life—right on out as soon as the spongy texture grazed my tongue. Instantly nauseous, I tugged my drenched camouflage tights away from my skin before flipping on the radio.
“Baby, come home, so I can claim your body. Baby, come back so you can use me…”
Our song.
Mine and Rico’s.
“Used for Love,” by Captivation.
Kind of ironic, wasn’t it? Before today, that song used to put me in the mood. Tonight’s mood?
Rage.
True to Texas form, the sky swallowed up the storm just as quickly as it began. Suddenly the rain ceased, and the chaos quieted as if it was never there. As soon as I realized the worst was over, I angrily reached inside my purse and dug a rubber band from the bottom. Used it to twist my tangled hair into a knot on top of my head, snatched off my earrings, then scoured Pink Lady for the nearest piece of metal that would double as a weapon. My eyes zeroed in on the hammer I’d been using to bang the dents that looked like cellulite from Pink Lady’s “thighs” until she had a professional overhaul.
Perfect.
Nobody had to die tonight, but somebody had to pay.
Rico would be dealt with accordingly, but before that there was the small matter of his first love: the black Lincoln Navigator that he’d rather lose a testicle before even thinking of parting with. Before I kicked Rico’s cheating booty to the curb, me and his most prized possession were about to have a chat.
I hopped out of Pink Lady and bolted across the street. Tripped and face-planted into a mud pile, right in front of Rico’s SUV, which only fueled the strength I needed for what I about to do even more. I struggled to my feet and crawled on top of the hood, then stood and balanced on my slick tennis shoes.
Steady, girl. Time for the doormat to get her groove back.
Slowly, I raised the hammer above my head and swung like I was about to demolish a wall on a home-renovation show. I would’ve landed a perfect grand slam through the windshield, too…had the rubber soles of my shoes not lost traction on the slippery surface.
Unable to balance myself, I slid off the hood…right into the arms of the sexy beast who caught me before I crashed on the concrete.
End of Excerpt
