Outsider (30 page)

“No.”
Reagan shook her head, knotting her fingers in his shirt.

Ethan
wrapped his fingers around her wrists. “I don’t want to be apart from either of
you, but Trey’s right. Something needs to be sacrificed—by all of us—to make
this work. And this is my sacrifice.”

What
kind of stupid sacrifice was that? Reagan would be terrified to continue on
tour if Ethan left her now. She depended on him far more than he could possibly
realize.

“I
didn’t mean for you to leave,” Trey said. “You can still be Reagan’s
bodyguard.” Besides, how could they all realize within hours of their temporary
separation that they couldn’t live without each other if Ethan was fucking
gone
gone?

“I
love you,” Ethan said, kissing Reagan’s lips. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Ethan?”
Her plea tore at Trey’s heart. How could the man possibly walk away from her?

“And
I love you,” Ethan said to Trey.

His
feather-soft kiss of farewell twisted Trey’s throat in a vice so tight, he
couldn’t force a single word out.

“Promise
me you’ll put up
your
bro box when you’re around Brian.”

An
uneasy laugh—more like a gasp—escaped Trey. He’d wear his bro box like a suit
of armor if it would make Ethan stay.

“You
can’t go,” Reagan said. “Ethan?”

But
with a final touch to Reagan’s cheek and to Trey’s chin and a look of longing
for each of them, Ethan went.

Sacrifice.

Leaving
had felt like hell on earth to Ethan, but it needed to be done for Trey’s sake and
even more so for his own. He’d taken a flight from New York to San Antonio.
He’d intended to go home to Los Angeles and sort his shit out there, but while
waiting in line at the ticket counter, he’d decided it was past time for him to
man up. And make a real sacrifice. One he hoped he wouldn’t regret making.

This
was the right decision. He couldn’t come up with any other way to make things
right. Ethan had been avoiding this conversation for years. It was time. Past
time. He knew he had to tell his family on his own, no matter how lonely it
felt to have no one at his side while he broke his mother’s heart, earned his
stepfather’s hatred, and lost his brothers’ respect.

While
waiting for a rental car, he called both Reagan and Trey’s cellphones but
neither picked up—not that he was surprised—so he texted them a group message.
I’m
back on the ground.
I love you both. Counting the days until we’re
together again. Thirteen to go. Already feels like an eternity.

No
immediate answer from either of them. They were probably at some crazy party or
making love without him.

He
didn’t want to tell them he was in Texas. Not yet. The flight had given him plenty
of time to talk himself out of his self-elected mission, but he couldn’t erase
the image of Trey begging for someone to believe that he was worth some
sacrifice. So sacrifice was on Ethan’s agenda, because someone as wonderful as
Trey should never have to ask to feel worthy.

The
harried attendant finally found Ethan a
suitable
rental car—if baby blue
Volkswagen Beetles were suitable—and he headed toward his mother’s house. Every
mile he journeyed closer to his family strengthened his resolve. He should be coming
out for himself—and he was to some extent—but if he lost his nerve, he knew he
could do it for Trey. Because Trey was worth it. Trey was worth any sacrifice.

Ethan
hadn’t just been spouting words when he’d told Trey he would die for him—he’d
meant that—but he’d much rather
live
for him. In the back of his mind,
Ethan hoped that if he found the strength to reveal his secrets to those he
loved, those he might lose over this revelation, then Reagan would find the
strength to do the same. She should talk to her father for Trey, yes, but also
for herself. Ethan had known Reagan for years, and he’d never once seen her
lose her backbone, not until Sam Baily had made her feel small and then again
when that goddamned tabloid had been published. He wondered if fame was worth the
price. Maybe to her. Probably to Trey. But it sure as hell wasn’t worth it to
him.

It
was late when he pulled into the driveway of the small adobe house. The window
of the front room flickered from the light of the television inside. The
wrought-iron bars over the two front windows and door were more decorative than
protective, but they reminded him where he came from. He wondered if he’d
become a police officer because he’d never felt safe in his own neighborhood or
because he’d learned to be a badass at an early age or because his mother had
an unusual fondness for police television dramas. Or maybe it was because he
liked serving justice. He just needed to learn to serve it with a little less
fist.

Maybe
it was time to go back to the force. Assuming he could convince the LAPD to
give him a chance. His temper wasn’t what it had once been. He was no longer
consumed by uncontrollable rage when confronted by injustice, although he still
wanted to do something about it. Reagan had softened him up, he decided. Why
else would he be thinking about returning to the force and leaving his personal
anger at the door?

His
key didn’t work, so he had to ring the bell. While he waited for someone to let
him in, he examined the bushes flanking the door, deciding they could use a
trim.

“¿
Quien
es
?” his mother’s voice asked and he heard the unmistakable click of a
pistol being cocked behind the closed door. “Who’s there?” she repeated in English.

“It’s
just me,” Ethan said. “Sorry I didn’t call first. I thought I’d surprise you.”

“Ethan?”

“
Si,
soy yo
.”

He
listened to a series of locks being turned, slid or unlatched before his mother
threw open the door.

“Ay
mijo
, I missed you.” She tossed her short, plump figure into his arms,
and he hugged her fiercely, wary of the pistol wrapped in her tiny hand with the
butt pressed into his side. Her thick black hair smelled of cumin and cilantro
and crispy flour tortillas. He hoped that meant she’d been cooking. His stomach
rumbled, and his mouth watered in anticipation of being delighted by her
culinary skill. Madre Rosa’s Mexican Restaurant was the local fave for a
reason.

“When
did you get a gun?” Ethan asked. She pulled out of his arms, grinning up into
his face and reaching up to pat his cheek.

“You
are so skinny,” she criticized, ignoring his question. “Come to the kitchen. I’ll
feed you.”

She’d
get no arguments out of him. He closed the door and threw the various locks
while she tucked her pistol into a nearby side table.

“Is
that loaded?” he asked, still rattled from seeing his mother with a gun. He’d
seen one in his stepfather’s hand before, and he owned one himself, but what
could his sweet little mother need with a gun?

“Si,
is loaded. Come. You look hungry.” She headed through the small living room,
where the television was airing a late night talk show, and into the kitchen.
Ethan trailed after her.

“Mam
á
,
you didn’t answer me. When did you get a gun?
Why
did you get a gun?”

“Carlos
gave it to me. So much crime in town.” She began pulling ingredients out of the
cabinet and refrigerator. “It’s okay though. I protect what is mine.”

“Carlos?”
What business did his brother have in giving their mother a gun?

Mam
á
turned, found him standing uncomfortably in the doorway, and scowled at him.

“Si.
Sit, sit,” she insisted. “I’ll feed you.”

“We
need to talk about this. Where is Pap
á
? Does he know you have a gun?”

“Pap
á
is away most nights. Working late shifts. He will come home if I tell him you’re
here.” She grinned at him. “He will be happy to see you. Now sit, please. You
must eat.”

“Late
nights? Are you keeping the restaurant open late now?”

Mamá
opened a cabinet and pulled out a large bowl. “We’ll catch up later. Sit.”

Ethan
sat and watched her mix flour, salt, baking soda, water and lard into her
signature dough. The woman never used a measuring cup, yet her tortillas always
came out perfect. Ethan made tortillas from scratch on occasion, but they were
never as good as hers. When she pulled out a huge cast iron skillet that had
been seasoned for decades, he decided that pan was her secret ingredient.

“Mam
á
,
you don’t have to cook for me. I already ate at Taco Bell.” He waited for the
explosion. Nothing got her riled faster than one of her boys eating at fast
food’s attempt at Mexican fare.

“No,”
she said, whirling around to stare daggers at him. His thinly veiled grin didn’t
fool her. She set her lips in a thin line, pulled her skillet off the stove and
slid it back into the oven where she stored it. “I wish you told me you were
full before I mixed the masa.” She lifted her bowl and headed for the trash.

“I
was just joking,” he said hastily. “I dream about your tortillas, Mam
á
.
Please don’t throw them away.”

“What
else do you dream about, mijo?” she asked. She set to work dividing the dough and
rolling it into small balls. “I worry since you left the police. You worked so
hard to make it through school. So hard. It made your Mamá proud.”

So
she wasn’t proud now? Ouch. “I told you I’m doing security work with a rock
band. Remember?”

“This
satisfies you?”

Not
really. It kept him close to Reagan and Trey, however, so it wasn’t a bad gig
for an ex-cop.

“I’ve
been thinking about trying to get on with the LAPD, but how likely are they to
hire me with my track record?” He’d been branded a vigilante cop. He wasn’t
sure he’d ever shake that label.

“Maybe
they will give you a chance to prove yourself,” Mamá said. “You are no longer
so angry and have better control of the temper.”

He
had changed from that young punk with a badge. Being fired had been his wakeup
call. He’d admittedly been drunk on power, so focused on righting wrongs that
he’d ignored some of the laws he was supposed to be enforcing. Specifically the
law against beating the shit out of assholes just because they deserved it.

“Besides,”
Mamá continued, letting most of the tortillas dough balls rest while rolling
one out with a wooden pin and dropping it into her skillet, so Ethan wouldn’t
have to wait. “They used you as an example, Ethan, because so many think police
are our enemy. Someone had to be the escape goat.”

“Scape
goat,” he corrected automatically.

She
offered him a sad smile over her shoulder. “Whatever this is, I wish it had not
been you.”

“I
deserved to be fired,” Ethan said. “I was out of control.”

“You
also deserve second chance.” She plopped the first tortilla onto a towel and
set it in front of him with a stick of butter.

He’d
had a second chance. It was the third chance they hadn’t given him.

He
rubbed one end of the butter over the hot tortilla, rolled it up, and bit into
it. His eyelids fluttered in bliss. Freshly made warm tortillas with melted
butter . . . Was there anything more delicious in the
entire world? Perhaps Trey’s cherry-flavored kisses might give them a run for
their money, but little else did.

“Do
you want a second chance?” Mamá asked, sitting beside him and taking his free
hand. “Or is there something else you dream of?” She lifted her dark eyebrows
and smiled hopefully. “Babies?”

Ethan
laughed. “That’s what
you’re
dreaming of.”

“I
have all sons but no grandbabies!”

“Why
don’t you harass Carlos or Miguel for grandchildren?” Ethan glanced down at his
empty towel and wondered where his tortilla had disappeared to already. Surely
he hadn’t scarfed it down that quickly.

“You
are my oldest, mijo” she said. “And you have a lovely girlfriend. Marry Reagan
and make your mamá happy.” She reached over and patted his cheek. “Don’t you
want to make Mamá happy?”

“Reagan
doesn’t want babies.”

His
mother was completely unaware that they’d broken up for almost a year—though
they’d stayed friends and roommates the entire time. And now that they were
back together with an additional romantic partner, having babies was completely
out of the question. Which reminded him why he’d traveled so far to see her in
the first place.

“All
women want babies,” Mamá insisted. “We cannot help it. Give Reagan time. She will
want them someday.”

Ethan
blew out his cheeks, his heart thudding with apprehension. He had no idea how
she would react to being told he was bisexual and hopelessly in love with a man
and a woman. He might as well get this over with.

“Mamá,
I have something to—”

The
doorbell rang and then a loud pounding began on the front door.

“¡Mamá! ¿Estás bien?” More loud
pounding
.
“¡Mamá! Open the door.”

“What
is
his
problem?” Mamá asked as she rose from her chair and left the
kitchen. Ethan trailed after her to see why his brother was freaking out on the
doorstep.

When
she opened the door, Carlos said, “Why did you open the door without your gun?”

“I
knew it was you,
tonto
.”

“Whose
car is in your driveway?”

Despite
the rapid-fire questions, Mamá didn’t lose her cool. “It belongs to a very handsome
man, who came to visit.” She pressed a splayed hand to her throat and batted
her eyelashes.