Jill Sorenson - Badlands

She followed Owen to a small outdoor terrace that offered a spectacular view of the San Diego Bay. It was closed in, with walls on both sides and a Plexiglas barrier in lieu of a guardrail. At sunset, the surface of the ocean rippled with golden highlights. Cruz’s eyes lit up when he saw the fountain in the middle of the terrace. Water bubbled from the top of a stone pillar, cascading down its smooth facade.

“Let me take off your jacket,” she said.

He endured the three-second delay with impatience, his little body leaning toward the fountain. As soon as he broke loose, he raced to the fountain’s edge. She watched him play for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest. He gathered leaves from a nearby plant to make an armada of floating ships, sinking them with pebble bombs.

Focusing on Cruz helped her regain a sense of calm. He meant everything to her. Strangers said they looked alike, but his tawny-brown hair came straight from Tyler. It was thick and tended to curl at the ends, brushing the collar of his shirt. Sometimes, when his hair was freshly washed, she hugged him close and buried her face in it. Her love for him was boundless, almost frightening in its intensity.

She’d die without him.

Taking a deep breath, she moved her gaze to Owen. He was a tall, unobtrusive statue beside her. Away from the crowds, he didn’t need to be on high alert. His manner wasn’t exactly relaxed, but he seemed...present. As if he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.

His appearance never varied: smooth-shaven jaw, close-cropped blond hair, inexpensive black suit. She knew from experience that there were hidden depths to his pale blue eyes, dark secrets lurking beneath his ill-fitted jacket and white button-down shirt. The faint scars on his neck and hand, remnants from laser-removed tattoos, told a very different tale than his clean-cut image implied.

Cruz thought Owen was some kind of secret superhero. She’d told him that Owen had rescued them during the earthquake, and helped track down criminals in Sierra National Park. Her son had started making up elaborate stories of Owen’s other assorted feats.

She wondered if Owen was aware of the latest rumors. A tabloid reporter had linked them romantically, suggesting he was Cruz’s father. Which was impossible, because he’d been incarcerated at the time of Cruz’s conception.

“My sister wants to pitch a family reality show to the cable networks,” she said. “Keeping up with the Kardashians meets The West Wing.”

He arched a brow. “Sounds like your dad’s worst nightmare.”

“Mine, too.”

“The White House would never allow that kind of filming.”

“Do you think he’ll win?”

“Yes,” he said after a pause.

The polls were even, but her father was gaining ground. He had momentum. If he continued to perform well, he could be the nation’s first Hispanic president. The thought made her heart swell with pride.

“Would you move to Washington, D.C.?” he asked.

“No. Cruz is starting kindergarten next week, and I don’t want to leave Palos Verdes.”

Owen nodded, scanning the space between Cruz and the door again. Owen was often too engaged in his duties to carry on a real conversation. At this secure location, she didn’t think that was a problem. Since accepting the role of bodyguard, he’d put up a wall between them. He was polite and distant, as if they had no personal history. As if he’d never kissed her, or assisted her in childbirth, or been her unlikely confidant.

Their interactions had become stilted.

Maybe he wasn’t interested in furthering their relationship. If he was, he wouldn’t have been so eager to work for her father. He had a college degree and firefighter training. Instead of applying to the LAFD, as planned, he’d settled for this.

She’d settled, too. Over the past five years, she’d been a dutiful daughter, grateful to her parents for welcoming her and Cruz back home. They’d taken care of her financial needs and spoiled Cruz rotten. Between getting her degree and being a single mother, she’d been too busy to disappoint them.

They’d never approve of her dating someone like Owen.

She fell into a contemplative silence as the sun set over the bay. It felt odd to be back in San Diego with Owen again. Before the earthquake, Penny had lived here for several months with her aunt, who had died in the freeway collapse. The convention center was less than five miles from the interchange, which marked the epicenter. Most of the damage had been repaired years ago. The city showed no signs of its former devastation.

Owen fashioned a paper plane out of a discarded advertisement for the convention and handed it to Cruz. Instead of launching it off the balcony, Cruz ran around in circles, lifting the jet high overhead.

“The clinic offered me a part-time position,” she said. “I’m going to be their new community health educator.”

He looked impressed. “Congratulations.”

She thanked him with a nod. Although she’d done a lot of volunteer work during her final semester of college, this would be her first paid job. She was freshly graduated, ready to make a difference.

“They’re asking for you backstage,” he said, touching the microphone at his ear.

Her stomach exploded with butterflies. She had the terrifying premonition that she’d trip over her dress, hyperventilate at the podium, or faint from an attack of nerves. “I can’t do this,” she said in a rush.

“You’ll be great.”

“Do I look like a clown?”

He examined her face, smiling. “No.”

“You look good, Mama,” Cruz said, gazing up at her. “As pretty as the ladies on Telemundo.”

Owen laughed at this compliment. Perhaps he was familiar with the scantily clad female performers on the popular Spanish-language channel. When he saw her worried expression, he sobered, letting security know they were on the way.

An event organizer escorted the three of them through a maze of passageways until they reached the backstage area. Penny found her mark and stood there, taking deep breaths. She would enter on one side while her mother waited on the other. She didn’t dare peek around the curtain to gaze at the crowd.

Cruz was supposed to sit with Leslie and Raven in the family balcony. When her grandmother came to retrieve him, he hid behind Penny’s skirt and refused to let go.

“You can’t walk out on stage with me,” she told Cruz.

“I’ll stay behind the curtain with Abuelita.”

Penny’s grandmother agreed to this suggestion; she rarely said no to Cruz. He stomped toward her, purposefully noisy in his shiny new shoes. She held his hand and let him wander around backstage.

Penny was too nervous to argue. She hoped he wouldn’t cause a scene during the introduction. Cruz didn’t throw temper tantrums as often as he used to, but he had a lot of energy and got into his share of mischief.

“He’ll be fine,” Owen said.

She practiced her lines, heart racing.

“Can I get you anything?”

For some reason, his polite offer bothered her. She didn’t want a bodyguard or a servant. She wanted a friend. A man. “Do I really look okay?”

“You’ve never looked better.”

“The dress isn’t...too much?”

His eyes traveled down the bodice and back up. “Not quite enough, I’d say.”

The words held no judgment, only mild admiration. He was making a joke to put her at ease, not giving her his sincere opinion.

“I feel like a fraud,” she whispered. “Or a whore.”

This sparked an honest reaction in him: anger. “Why?”

“They’re using me for sex appeal. Selling my image, my...tasteful cleavage.”

He said nothing, unable to deny the truth.

“Do you think it works?”