Steel My Soul (Motorcycle Club Romance) (Sons of Steel Motorcycle Club Book 4) (8 page)

Gabriela

My three-year-old nephew was standing at the door, his cheeks stuffed full of food like a chipmunk, completely naked. 

"
Hola
, Sammy, where's your
abuelita
?"

Sammy pointed with a chubby fist, just as my sister came flapping up the hallway, gathering discarded toddler clothes as she came. I had to grin, like I always did, when I saw my big sister as a mother.

Ada looked up at me sheepishly as she bundled her wayward little nudist into her arms. "
Hola
Gabi," she sighed tiredly, kissing me on the cheek. "Mama's in the kitchen, of course."

"Of course," I echoed as I stepped over the threshold into my parents' house.

It was only recently that I started to think of it as my parents' house and not my own. It still felt the same, still the same little Cape with the blazing yellow door. My mother's taste for bright colors was still evident everywhere, as were the pictures of my sister and me through the years. The whole house was a cluttered joyful mass, strewn with Sammy's toys, the importance of family, and legacy written in every treasured object.

Sometimes it felt like the whole house was expecting something of me, and I wasn't making it proud.

My father came down the stairs, making as much noise as possible, like always. The man had never learned to walk. He stomped.

"Hi there, baby," he smiled, kissing my cheek. He pulled back and looked at me piercingly, his dark eyes darting back and forth. I immediately blushed, certain that my dad could see every illicit thing I had done over the past twenty-four hours. "You look… Happy…," he ventured.

I ducked my head away from his close study. "I'm fine," I said, trying to deflect attention away from myself. If one or both of my parents decided to focus their attention on me, there was no way I would be able to keep from telling them all of the sordid details.

Crash had left with the man in the suit. I had offered to go with him, but he insisted that this was not my problem. "It really shouldn't be mine either," he had added, and the casual disdain for the woman that raised him had hurt my heart. I knew he had no memories of Marion, but I just couldn't understand how he wasn't mourning. I think I was more shaken up than he was.

My general unease had sent me over to my parents' house like a homing pigeon returning to the roost. My mother had seemed utterly thrilled at my sudden desire for a home-cooked meal, and had thrown herself into a frenzy of cooking that, from the smell of things, had gone on all day. My sister and her husband were invited of course; my mother watched Sammy most afternoons and my nephew was probably more comfortable here that he was in his own apartment.

Six people was about the maximum capacity that this house could fit comfortably. We were always bumping into each other, always underfoot. There was no privacy, and that was what had sent me fleeing to the sanctuary of my own apartment the minute I found the job at the bridal salon. But now I was finding I missed it. The sadness that hung in my heart for Ben, no, Crash, had me feeling extra appreciative of them this evening.

"Good to see you,
papi
," I told him, kissing his stubbled cheek.

He gruffly smiled and gave me one of his signature pats on the back, whacking me so hard that I had to stifle a cough. I always suspected that my father had tried from an early age to groom me into the son and heir he never officially had.  "Go say hi to your mama," he told me, giving me another thwok for good measure.

I took a deep breath. Entering my mother's kitchen when she was in the middle of a cooking spree was always a dangerous proposition. She may be in a sentimental mood, deep in the maternal bliss of preparing a feast for her precious offspring.  That was always a good time. But just as likely was the possibility that she had overdone it, causing her back to go out and consequently we were all ungrateful vultures who didn't properly appreciate our sainted mother.

I hovered in the doorframe and watched her bustle around her tiny kitchen. It was ten degrees hotter in here than in the rest of the house and I could smell the
sofrito
as it hit the oil.  Her hair was pulled back from her face and I got to watch her lips purse and twitch. She was thinking deep thoughts, and I felt a rush of affection for her.

My mother was still beautiful, possible moreso now that age had softened her and life had etched its joys and sorrows into her face. She married my father the minute she graduated from high school, their whirlwind interracial puppy love still as intense as ever. Her Puerto Rican parents initially balked at my father's black skin, and I think that only made my mother cling to him harder. Everything and everyone eventually gave up in the face of my mother's stubborn will, and her parents were no different. All traces of racial strife were wiped away by the time I was born, and the whole extended family bonded over a shared love of loud music and copious amounts of food. And the fact that he still carried a Dominican last name from years back was just a bonus.

Growing up, I had thought my mother hated my dad. After all, she was always yelling at him for some failing, real or imagined. But when I got older, I realized that was how they loved. She and my dad were like teenagers together, in all the best and worst ways. Intense fighting, intense passion and intense drama that she loved to pour out onto the shoulders of her grown daughters whenever my father stepped out of line. I used to worry that they'd kill each other when I moved out, but now I realized they would die if they didn't have each other.

I was twenty-three and I had felt that kind of passion only once.

Last night.

That realization hit me like a ton of bricks to the chest. I must have made a noise of shock, because my mother whirled around in fright. "Ay, Gabi, what are you doing sneaking up on me like that? Are you trying to kill me?"

My attempted reply was absorbed by her shoulder as she pulled me down into her crushing embrace.  She murmured in Spanish, stroking my hair, and I prepared myself to be there for the duration. Hugs went on for exactly as long as my mother wanted them to, and not a minute earlier. If she wanted to hug me for ten minutes, well then I had better be ready to stand here for the next ten minutes.

It took three minutes by the digital clock on the stove, not a record by any means. She pulled away and looked up at me. "How are you? You look thin, you need to eat more. I told you moving out was a bad idea. You're wasting away." She didn't let me get a word in edgewise, as she plucked at my clothes, pinching the fabric in her hands, implying that it was hanging off of me in an unflattering way. I hugged my arms around my waist.

"I'm fine, mama," I smiled, trying to diffuse the maternal onslaught. "Something smells really good."

She smiled wide. "I hope you're hungry, I've been cooking all day, ever since you called to say you wanted to come see your parents." She cupped my cheek with her hands. "
Mi hijita linda,
" she cooed. Then her face snapped down seriously. "Go help your sister with the baby," she barked and turned back to the stove.

I sighed, trying not to roll my eyes.  My older sister had given her a grandson. and as such needed to be deferred to at all times. I know my mother silently boiled with resentment that I wasn't over babysitting every free moment. I knew my time was not valued at nearly as much because I was not a mother.

But then again, I did love my nephew. So I nodded. "Sure mom," I agreed, and headed around the kitchen to the sunken living room.

"
Titi
Gabi!" Sammy shouted, now fully clothed.

"
Hola mi sobrinito,
" I smiled, bending down and grabbing his chubby body. "Oof, you're a chunk, what has mama been feeding you?"

"Anything he can shove in his face," Ada smiled, "not to mention all the sweets he can con out of his
abuelita
." She shook her head, then stood up from the couch and gave me a big hug. "How are the brides?" she asked me, a knowing smirk in her voice.

I sighed and pulled away. "Thankfully most everyone still believes in the illusion of a fairytale wedding," I smirked back.

Ada chuckled ruefully. She and Manuel had gotten married in the courthouse in jeans, an offense that my mother would probably never forgive. I was deeply aware that I was her last hope of having a daughter all bedecked in a dazzling white gown at a huge church wedding, and so far I had been nothing but a disappointment in that regard.

"More power to them," she sighed. "Fairy tales can be fun."

There was a strange, wistful note in Ada's voice, and I noticed for the first time that Manuel was not here with her.  My older sister was born practical, the kind of serious child who saved all of her birthday money and announced her pregnancy by telling us she was looking forward to a new tax deduction. She and Manuel enjoyed that kind of steady companionship, no drama, more like roommates than lovers. I had always thought this pleased her. "I thought fairytales pissed you off?" I asked, sitting down on the couch and letting Sammy clamber up onto my shoulders.

Ada leaned back and sighed heavily, not looking me in the eye. "You and Manuel okay?" I asked softly.

She darted a quick look at Sammy, and shook her head slightly. "Yeah, we're okay," she said. Then she widened her eyes significantly. "We're always… Okay."

I wanted to ask more, but my mother appeared in the doorway. "Time to go wash up," she announced.

My sister and I exchanged glances. Here we were, two grown women, but my mother still felt the need to remind us to wash her hands before dinner. She was never going to change, no matter how much we did.

I helped to get Sammy clean, marveling once again at how sticky toddlers can get just by living. Then I checked myself in the mirror over the tap.

My cheeks were losing the flush from last night, but I could still see the faint marks of Crash's lips on my throat. The sight of them gave me a delicious little shiver down my spine, right straight down to my panties. I did a little hopping dance at the memory.

Cool it. Get your head together.

My mother directed me to my customary seat at the table, across the way from Ada, just like when we were little girls. The table was groaning under the weight of my mother's efforts, and I felt my mouth water at all of the usual Puerto Rican comfort food.

"I was so happy that you called," my mother began. "I wanted to make all of my little Gabriela's favorite foods, maybe that would encourage her to come by and see her mama more often."

I was about to close my lips around a bite of
asopaito con tostones
but the full force of her passive aggression made me set my fork down. "Mama," I started. "I talk to you all the time. I'm here at least once a week."

"What your mother is saying is...," my father tried to interject.

"Don't you tell her when I'm trying to say," my mother lashed out, "I know what I'm trying to say."

"She's fine, Pilar, she's a good girl."

"I'm not saying she's a bad girl, Dre, I'm saying that I worry."

I ducked my head, as my parents began discussing me like I wasn't there. Ada shot me a sympathetic look, but I knew she wouldn't dare raise her voice in my defense. The last thing she'd want them to do was to turn their laser focus on her.

"All I am saying, is that I don't think that you're happy. Living on your own, that's so lonely. Why would you do that to yourself?" My mother asked, her voice veering from angry into cajoling.

I looked up from my food. "Oh, are you actually talking to me, instead of about me?"

Her nostrils flared. "Don't sass me."

"It wasn't sass, just a question." I tried to act innocent.

"And I asked you a question, Gabriela."

"What was it?" I asked, trying to buy myself time.

"She's asking," my father interjected, unable to keep from adding his two cents. "If there are any special young men in your life."

"Oh God." I set my fork back down again. "This was a mistake."

"Not a mistake!" My mother reached over and closed her hand over mine, in a gesture she thought was comforting, but felt more like she was trying to hold me firmly at her side. "We just worry, that's all."

I felt my voice starting to rise in hysteria. "What the heck are you worried about?"

"You seem lonely, Gabriela."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's got to be hard," my mother said, changing tactics." Working at the bridal salon, all those happy brides, settling down, starting their lives..."

"My life is starting just fine."

"Okay then, what do I know? I'm just your mother." She reached over and took a sip of her drink, signaling that the conversation was now closed. She had had the last word, and any more discussion risked incurring her eternal wrath.

I bent down to my food, my cheeks flaming. I could feel Ada's sympathetic stare, but I dared not meet her eyes for fear I might start crying.

My slightly more perceptive father cleared his throat. "These
tostones
are delicious, Pilar."