Taming Romeo

Table of Contents

Start Reading

Glossary

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Rachelle

Upcoming Books 

Filipino Family Salutations (See Glossary for more Detail)

Anak - child, term of endearment

Ate - elder sister or friend, term of respect

Kuya - elder brother or friend, term of respect

Nanay - mother

Tatay - father

Tita - Auntie, or parent's female friend

Tito - Uncle, or parent's male friend

I pin my hair and loop a black apron over my black
barong
shirt worn over black pencil leg jeans. All I need is a black veil over my long black hair and I could pass as a mourner at a rock star’s funeral.

But that would have to wait until someone actually dies.

Pots and pans bang as Carlos, the head chef, barks orders to the assistant cooks. Steaks sizzle on the grills and the deep fryers bubble with baskets of
lumpia
, milkfish, prawn cakes, and chicken wings.

“Evie, grab a pad,” my sister Choco calls. “Big party in the
kare-kare
room.”

“It’s not even noon.” I roll my eyes. “I’ve got the senior center crowd on the
bangus
side to serve.”

Ever since I returned from med school, Choco has been trying to palm her tables off on me. It’s always a retirement party camping over
halo-halo
, a big reunion asking for separate checks, or a screaming child’s birthday party with twenty-five hyperactive children all wanting punch, hot dogs, and pizza. Not that Barrio XO, my parents’ Filipino restaurant, serves American fast food. Guess who has to make the run to Pizza Shack or Top Dog?

“What’s it this time?” I tuck my pencil over my ear. “A baby shower or a Dora the Explorer birthday party?”

“Actors and their entourage. They want to sample every single appetizer we have.” Choco slaps tickets onto the wheel. “Stop by the bar and help me mix the drinks. I’m getting slammed. The girls want fancy cocktails, mojito, zombie, sex on the beach, I need google to figure out how to mix this shit.”

Carlos plops a scoop of garlic fried rice onto a plate of breakfast
longanisa
, a sweet Filipino sausage, arranged artfully between two blobs of sunny side eggs. He grabs the next ticket and swears. “Choco, tell them we don’t have whole pig so early. We have slices, but no whole frickin’ pig. Too early!”

I take the breakfast plate and fill a glass of milk, then shrug her an apology. “I’ve got Mr. Dee waiting with his dentures. Be back to help in a minute.”

“Urgh!” Choco flaps her hands as if she could fly away from the chaos. “I’m going crazy.”

I swing through the kitchen door and almost run over Mama.

She pulls me toward the
kare-kare
side. “Your old friend Romeo’s back. Come say hi.”

I freeze in my tracks. My entire anatomy rearranges itself starting with my heart which trades places with my stomach. Romeo García is definitely not a friend. Once, he was more than a friend, now, less, but never ever just a friend. Romeo García did not do friend.

“The eggs are getting cold.” I shake the plate, the yolks wobbling greasily. “Later.”

“Choco!” Mama hurries into the kitchen, volleying complaints in a mixture of Tagalog and English.

I take a deep breath and amble to the calmer side of the restaurant separated from the bar and karaoke room by an outdoor patio. Tropical fish swim in a saltwater aquarium. The walls are decorated with displays of baskets, traditional instruments, and murals of Filipino hacienda and garden scene. The atmosphere is peaceful, serene, like schools of milkfish, or
bangus
, swimming in a swamp.

Mr. Dee beams from behind his large reading glasses. He moves his newspaper aside and tucks a napkin into his shirt.

“Miss Evie, you are looking prettier every day.” He winks, forgetting he complimented me when I took his order.

I set the plate in front of him with the glass of milk. “Would you like hot sauce or banana catsup?”

“
Bagoong
.” He asks for the fermented shrimp and fish paste old timers spread on everything, from peanut butter jelly sandwiches to crumpets and scones, if they have the chance. Fine, I exaggerate.

I duck behind a screen and take a small jar from the drink refrigerator, then slide it to him. “High sodium content. Better watch your blood pressure.”

Mr. Dee chuckles while I check on the Sunshine Ladies, a gang of grandmothers from the nearby Sunshine retirement complex. I refill their ice teas and take dessert orders.

The door from the patio swings open, bringing in echoes of loud voices and hollers from the
kare-kare
side. Romeo García’s wild party.

Papa strides smoothly toward me, grinning and tipping his head to the customers. He pinches my arm and pulls me behind the screen. “We need your help. There are more than forty people waiting for mixed drinks.”

“Just a minute.” I swing by Mr. Dee’s table and grab the wide-brimmed golf cap off his head. “I need a disguise. May I borrow this?”

“Sure.” Mr. Dee grins, his dentures stark white. “You’re looking really pretty.”

“Thanks. I’ll bring it back later.” I shove it over my head and lower the brim, then follow Papa to the patio.

“Evie, you’re being silly,” Papa grumbles. “I don’t think Romeo even remembers you.”

Well, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.

“He has so many girls crushing over him, he wouldn’t have noticed a smart, studious girl like you. There’s no need to hide.”

That’s what I get for covering up my true relationship with Romeo while growing up. Papa would drop me off at the library and minutes later, I would jump on the back of Romeo’s moped. That was before he got the awesome classic Yamaha
Elsie
twin-stroke senior year. Anyway, I digress. Immediate problem is hiding, preferably dropping into a five and a half foot deep hole.

“I’m not hiding,” I lie. “There’s a huge zit growing out of my forehead. I think it popped.”

Papa twists his mouth and opens the door to the
kare-kare
room which resembles a sports bar more than a family restaurant. Raucous laughter and whoops compete with the thumping music. I hand the dessert orders to Mama and slink in Papa’s shadow toward the bar.

A blonde dressed in a slutty black leather halter top and no-leg hot pants over fishnet stockings twists and lurches to the soundtrack of “Erotica” by Madonna. She’s not even lip-syncing, just gyrating and moaning, as if she’s orgasming off a giant mic tucked between her legs.

For once, I’m thankful for the plain uniform my parents impose on the wait staff. Since the window shades are drawn and all Y chromosome eyes are glued to the blonde, I breathe easier and zero in on Romeo.

Holy moly. Could God be so unfair? His heartthrob looks haven’t changed a bit. If anything, he’s filled out, his shoulders wider and the angle of his chin more confident. The boyish face, so instrumental in rocking him into boy band heaven years ago, has become rugged, more angular, his jaw stronger and dark with a five o’clock shadow. And it’s not even noon. What’s new are the tattoos criss-crossing his muscular arms. I’m too far away to tell, but the metallic glint over his lower lip could be a piercing.

Papa yanks me from my trance. “Quit gawking and help me serve the drinks.”

“Evie! What are you doing out back? Having a smoke?”
Ate
Choco screeches. “Get back and help me clear the plates.”

“I quit before med school,” I holler back into the kitchen and head for the recycling bin. “And I’m not dawdling.”

One by one, I place the wine bottles carefully into the bin so they won’t crack and cut anyone. I’m not ready to go back inside. Being surrounded by Romeo and his gang is dangerous to my health, especially since no one warned me he was around. Last time I stalked him on the internet, he was shooting a
teleserye
in the Philippines. Some sappy opposites-attract soap opera about a rock star who falls in love with a mathematics teacher.

I check my pulse. Elevated. Breathing rapidly, tingling sensations in my fingers and toes. Heart palpitations, sweating on my nose, and dizziness. The summer heat simmering off the asphalt dances in my visual field. Vasovagal or am I having arrhythmia, irregular heartbeats?

The bottles settled, I stand up too quickly. Uyuh, my head swims and I stagger, catching myself on the leather banana seat of Romeo’s Yamaha. Long and smooth, it seats two cozily, unlike the stair-step indented seats of modern racing bikes. I swallow the drool collecting in my throat. Romeo’s long arms and legs allowed me to ride in front, my hands hugging the fuel tank and my boots tucked on top of the engine. Sometimes, I’d face him, straddling him with my legs wrapped around his waist. We didn’t wear helmets. I know, young and stupid, but the kissing was awesome.

I caress the seat and admire the deadly looking black engine and twin pipes. “Tell me, little bike. How many women has he seduced with you?”

The banging of the side door startles me and bantering male voices and giggling female ones approach. A quick assessment tells me there’s no escape route. The kitchen door is in plain view of the alley, and concrete walls surround the small parking lot filled with motorcycles and muscle cars. The dumpster is pushed up against the wall and I cannot squeeze behind it. I can see the backs of two guys waving and yelling for Romeo to get a move on if they’re to get to Sunset Cliffs in time to set up and film before sundown.

Oh shit, I spy the blonde. She’s made up. I’m wearing none. She’s dressed fit to kill. I’m sweating in a long sleeved, black cotton top with beaded embroidery around my collar. She has her hands around his freakin’ hot bicep. I’m going into the dumpster.

I pounce in the nick of time, my feet clearing the edge when the first guy straddles his Harley. One by one, the motors start and engines rumble out of the lot. I’m sweating bullets now. Choco, Mama, and Papa are going to be so pissed. Not only did I leave them with the cleanup, I haven’t delivered the desserts and tea to the Sunshine Ladies, or was it milkshakes I promised them?

A few minutes pass without another engine starting. Slowly, I raise my head so I’m eye-level with the dumpster rim. Oh, crap. Blondie’s sucking Romeo’s face. And, and, shit, he looks like he likes it. I slump back into the dumpster.

“Hey, you forgot your dessert!” Choco’s voice drives shivers down my spine like squeaky markers on a whiteboard.

“I don’t want it,” the female smacks her lips. “Romeo, you eat it.”

“Thanks,” Romeo says. “How’s your sister doing?”

“You tell me.” Choco huffs. “She’s always pulling the disappearing act.”

“Tell me about it.” He laughs. “See ya, Choco.”

“Choco or Chalko?” the female sneers. “Are you named after your favorite dessert?”

“Rhymes with Yoko,” Romeo says. “It’s short for Conchita, actually Concepción.”

Too much information. I grit my teeth. Choco hates her first name, just like I hate mine, Evangeline. Coupled with my mother’s maiden name of Apostol, we might as well be mistaken for the missionary sisters.

My sister beats a hasty retreat, her steps crunching away on the gravel. I’m sure if bitchy blondie weren’t around, she’d be yoohooing and hollering for me. I settle into the dumpster to wait it out.

“Try some,” Romeo wheedles her. “It’s
ube
ice cream over
halo-halo
.”

“Not into nuclear purple shit.” She sniffs. “Are you sure we didn’t have any dog meat back there?”

“We don’t eat dog,” Romeo answers stiffly. “Which dish did you like the best? I notice you hardly touched anything.”

“Everything’s too greasy.” Her voice rises to a petulant pitch. “And judging by the chubby waitresses, I’d say the food’s unhealthy. Fried and high in sodium. You sure you want to have the benefit concert here?”

Chubby waitresses. Did she use plural? I know Choco could use a few Slimfast diets, but I thought I was in shape. I pinch myself. The problem with working at a restaurant is all the good food left at the end of the day. Did she call me chubby? Grrr…

“Can we stop by that vegan place I was telling you about?” Barbie on Wheels rubs it in, sounding supremely snotty and healthy.

“Later.” Romeo had the guts to sound exasperated. Good for him. I don’t know how long she’s been dating him, but Romeo doesn’t take crap from anyone, and if I know Romeo, he loves Barrio XO and my mother’s cooking.

“Put your helmet on,” he barks at her.