Still Standing (Wild West MC 1)

She also had the brightest, sweetest smile I’d ever seen in my life, beautiful, warm brown eyes, and she made great homemade tamales. Her cooking, and Tia’s, was the only food I’d eaten in the last two months. Without the two of them looking out for me, I’d be in more of a mess than I already was.

“Tell me you hid your car,” she said.

“Of course,” I replied then deduced, “The repo men have been here.”

“Nosin’ around,” she said on a nod then her eyes got sharp. “The Jackal’s been here too.”

“The Jackal” was what Mrs. Jimenez called our landlord, Dallas Hill.

Mrs. Jimenez had been living there for years, and Dallas Hill had owned the apartments since she moved in. He raised the rent on a regular basis but didn’t raise the level of service provided. Which meant, if a toilet flooded, a roof leaked, the hot water went out or a refrigerator stopped working, he’d take his time coming to fix it and the time he’d take could be weeks. In apartments with one bathroom, waiting even a day to have your toilet fixed was seriously not fun.

However, if you were a day late paying rent, he’d come around to call.

This meant I drove him batty, and Mrs. Jimenez was loving every minute of it.

So much so, she had her son, Raymundo, come in and change my locks so Dallas couldn’t get into my apartment.

This was probably illegal, but when Dallas made an issue of it while standing outside my door shouting (while I was standing inside my apartment hiding) Mrs. Jimenez had come out to the open-to-the-elements walkway that the doors to the apartments faced.

I saw her out my kitchen window with her phone to her ear and heard her say loudly, “Hello? Can I speak to a building inspector?”

At that, Dallas had scowled at her and stormed away.

Still, rent was cheap, and my apartment came furnished.

Mrs. Jimenez had her own stuff in hers and her place was far homier than mine. This was because Dallas decorated in castoffs from Goodwill and Mrs. Jimenez decorated in history, love, memories and family.

“Are they gone?” I asked.

“They’re never gone, but they’re out of sight,” Mrs. Jimenez answered. “Where’d you hide your car?”

“Two alleys over, by the dumpster that homeless guy sleeps next to. He let me use his tarp to throw over the trunk.”

If I chose that location of the many I’d found the last few months to hide my car, that homeless guy always did that for me. I didn’t know why. I didn’t ever give him money, though I had brought him some of Mrs. Jimenez’s tamales. Maybe that was it. Or maybe he saw in me what he’d seen in himself prior to his current situation.

Either way, I was grateful.

“Bien, querida,” Mrs. Jimenez approved then her eyes moved to my feet. “You walk back in those shoes?”

“Yes, but I can’t feel my feet considering I’m hungover,” I replied.

Her eyes came to mine and lit with interest, considering I’d never said that to her before and a hangover would indicate having a good time and she hadn’t heard of me having any of those before either (unless I was at her place eating tamales or chilaquiles and gabbing with her).

Thus, she grabbed my hand and pulled me to her velour, old-lady couch.

“Hungover?” she prompted.

“I did a job for Esposito yesterday,” I explained as we both sat.

“Dios mio,” she muttered, the light dying out of her eyes and concern washing in, knowing me, knowing Tia and knowing and not liking what she knew about Esposito.

“No, actually, it was good,” I told her. “The man I had to deliver Esposito’s message to…he was nice. He was…” I looked away then back at her. “He was kind. He gave me a hamburger, a pool lesson, a lot of booze and good advice.”

She studied me astutely, and considering the time of day and the obvious fact I’d just returned home in yesterday’s clothes, more than likely knowing I left out the fact he gave me multiple orgasms, and remarked, “You could use some good advice.”

It couldn’t be denied, she was not wrong about that.

“I need to use your phone,” I said words she’d heard dozens of times.

I always used her phone. This was because I didn’t have the money to have one in my apartment or to carry a cell.

I promised myself, one day, when I was out of my mess, I’d return the many favors she’d done for me and take care of Mrs. Jimenez. I just hoped she stayed of this world long enough for me to do that because it seemed this mission of mine might take a while.

“Of course, cariña,” she replied as she always did.

“And I need to talk to you,” I continued.

Her beautiful, warm brown eyes focused even more sharply on me.