Leighton Mia: Hero

“Mouthy for someone who just lied to the man who holds her fate in his hands.”

“Fate?” I repeat.

“Your job.” He says job as though I’m the most incompetent person he’s ever encountered. He pivots away, tossing the envelope on my desk without a backward glance.

My muscles liquefy, a belated reaction to being within inches of the subject of my frequent daydreams. His scent lingers in my nostrils, intoxicating my already whirring mind. Or perhaps it’s just the memory of him? My urges morph between laughing and crying with each rapid heartbeat.

I might’ve stood there all day if not for Mr. Hale’s barking. “Miss Ford. Come in and shut the door.”

My shoulders square before I turn around and seal myself in his angry bubble.

“What the hell was that?”

“He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“He waltzes in here all the time unannounced. Just because he owns the company doesn’t mean he can do whatever he damn well pleases.”

“Actually, I think it does.”

“Then I guess I don’t need an assistant, do I? If you’re not there to take my messages or to prevent people from treating my office like their own, maybe I should just manage the desk myself.”

I cross my arms behind my back because my hands involuntarily curl into fists. “Yes, sir. You’re right. I won’t let it happen again.”

I meet Frida downstairs for lunch, gasping for lungfuls of air like they’re my last. Smog suffocates, and the sky has been clouded grey for a week, but I’m thirsty for all of it after the stifling fortieth floor.

“Let’s eat somewhere new,” Frida says. “I’m tired of Armando’s.”

“But I really like Armando’s.”

She takes my hand and pulls me in the opposite direction. “Didn’t you move to the big city to experience new things? Get away from suburbia and that awful excuse for a family?”

I hurry to keep up. “They aren’t as bad as you make them out to be.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Putting a roof over your head and making sure you didn’t starve to death wasn’t doing you a favor.”

My sideways glance is reproachful, but she doesn’t see it. “You’re exaggerating. Things could’ve been much worse. The Andersons were a gracious foster family.”

She snorts. “Graciousness cannot replace love.”

“I wasn’t their own,” I say.

She squeezes my hand in hers. “Here we go. Taco Shack. Still Mexican for you, and something different for me.”

The wait is longer than Armando’s, and it’s twenty minutes before we’re finally making our way to a booth in the corner. Mouth open wide, I lean in to take a bite of my chicken taco. Before I can, I meet a pair of clear blue eyes across the restaurant. They’re openly staring, which turns my cheeks warm, but I can’t look away. It’s a moment before I notice the vibrant tattoos that sleeve his arms. Sculpted arms, actually, that strain the sleeves of a button-down shirt the same golden-khaki color of his hair. Another man nudges him while balancing a tray of food.

Frida’s words snip the moment in half like scissors. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation a couple weeks ago. You know, where you admitted you needed a good lay?”

I scoff. “Might want to take it easy on the pot. Your memory seems to be failing you.” I take a mouthful of taco.

“I worry about you,” she says. “You’ve been in this city for years, and I’m your only real friend. Your last date was, like, six months ago.”

I roll my eyes at my taco as I chew. “Feigning an emergency and ditching me with a co-worker is not a date.”

She smiles proudly. “But it is sort of brilliant.”

“You don’t need to worry,” I say, ignoring her. “I just do things differently. Dating for the purpose of dating doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Your confidence is low, and your standards are high,” she continues. “You’re making excuses so you don’t have to put yourself out there.”

I bristle and drop my taco into its basket. “That’s not true. I am ready for a relationship, I just haven’t met anyone decent.”

“What about Cal—”

“Shut up,” I say, ducking my head and scanning the room. “What if someone from my office is here?”

“That’s it,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m setting you up with this guy from work who—”

I straighten my shoulders when I spot the blond man weaving his way through the tables, a tray in one hand and a soda cup in the other. “Hey,” I call to him, shooting Frida a triumphant glance. “Looking for a table?”

Frida follows my gaze and mutters, “Holy fucking bad boy.”

His blond hair is long enough to slick into perfect obedience, contrasting the chaotic colors that paint his tanned olive skin. Liquid blue eyes are soft, kind even, as they meet mine, but there’s something unsettling in the slow spread of his smile. Before I can decide how to feel about it, he’s nearing the table with his friend close behind.

“Nowhere to sit,” he says.

I nod, sliding deeper into the booth and gesturing next to me. “Lunch rush. Sit with us.”

Frida finally shuts her gaping mouth and smiles at the other man. “Please,” she invites. “We know what it’s like to spend half the lunch hour waiting for a table.”

“This is Juan,” says the man with mesmerizing blue eyes, nodding across the table. “And I’m Guy.”

I wipe my hands on a napkin to take his outstretched one. “Cataline.”

“Cataline.” He smiles as if the name itself is inherently amusing. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing a Cataline. Do you work around here?”

I nod, swallowing my mouthful. “A media company nearby. How about you?”

“Finance,” he says, adjusting the knot of his invisible tie. They both belly laugh over the hum of the crowd. “I’m kidding. We deal in body parts.”

“Body parts?” I exclaim.

“Yeah, the auto industry. Fenders, radiators, bumpers—boring shit like that.”

“Do you eat here often?” Frida asks while I stare at him.

“First time,” Guy says, winking at me. “Something on the menu caught my eye.”

Frida is watching my every move, so I hold Guy’s gaze, despite the heat creeping up my neck. “You seem a little out of place,” I say.

“Cat,” Frida admonishes.

“It’s cool,” Juan says. “She’s right. We’ve got business in the area.”

“You’re not from around here, Cataline, are you?” Guy asks.

“I grew up a couple hours away, actually.”

He leans back against the booth, studying me. “What brought you to New Rhone?”

I gesture toward the large window behind Juan and Frida. “I love this place. My whole life I’ve watched it from the outside, wishing . . .” I shrug. “I don’t know. Who wouldn’t want to be here?”

He inclines his head toward me and grins. “The crime rates don’t scare you?”

I shake my head. “We walk through downtown every night to get home. Never had a problem. We just steer clear of the East Side.”

His answering chuckle coats my skin with goose bumps. “Pretty girl like you ought to be more careful.”

“And there’s Hero,” Frida says.

Guy’s smile falters with a twitch. “Hero?”

“She’s sort of got a thing for our masked avenger.”

“Interesting,” Guy says.

“You see that thing on the news recently where he killed the Cartel guy?” Juan asks, his eyes darting between each of us. “That was fucked up.”

“Cataline didn’t think so. Justice being served makes her hot.” Frida looks at Guy. “Maybe over a dinner date she can tell you all about it.”

I mutter under my breath, and she scowls when I kick her shin.