Playing the Player Read online

  Synopsis

  Madeira Pacias has been happily coasting through life as a confirmed—and contented—single player. But the day she stops to help the victims of a highway pileup, everything changes. Madeira finds the woman of her dreams...dreams she wasn’t even aware she had. Grace Obregon is beautiful, vulnerable, and exactly the kind of woman Madeira usually avoids. But now, she’ll do anything to convince Grace of her sincerity

  Reformed wild child Grace might owe Madeira her gratitude, but she doesn’t owe her anything else. There was a time when she might have fallen for this irresistible charmer, but at the moment, Madeira just seems like the ghost of girlfriends past. These days, Grace is looking for stability and respect, and the kind of woman who won’t break her heart. Somebody unlike her seductive roadside angel...unless Madeira really has shed her devil-may-care past.

  Fourth in the Amigas y Amor Series

  Playing the Player

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Playing the Player

  © 2010 By Lea Santos. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 10: 1-60282-185-2E

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-185-9E

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition, October 2010

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Amigas y Amor Series

  Little White Lie

  Under Her Skin

  Picture Imperfect

  Playing the Player

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the following brave souls, most of whom, surprisingly, still take my calls, texts, and e-mails:

  —St. Louis medics Karen Fischer and Emily Rice, for the bouncy ride in the rig, but mostly for tolerating my no doubt idiotic litany of questions. (I’m smarter now, promise).

  —Paramedic Peter Canning, for penning the fabulously insightful books Paramedic and Rescue 471.

  —Elena Sandoval-Lucero, for schooling me in the basics of teaching those critters called…oh yeah, KIDS.

  —Stacia Seaman, for totally ruling in every possible way.

  —The ninth-century civilization known as the Mufti people of Aden, who first acted on the brilliant notion of brewing coffee—need I say more?

  —Last but not least, thanks to my best plotting pals and willing readers, LaRita, Terri, Heather, and Harold the Chicken, for helping me get it right and believing in my belief about the concept and trajectory of this book. Squawk on, peeps. Squawk freakin’ on.

  Dedication

  This one’s for Niner, my über-rockin’ Ninja adventure pal.

  So glad we reconnected. What’s…THAT?

  When fate throws a dagger at you, there are only two ways to catch it: by the handle or by the blade.

  Chapter One

  Some people wore their hearts on their sleeves. Graciela Obregon wore hers on her left inner thigh. Corvette-red with the words UNBREAKABLE angling through it, the racy tattoo had been half of a sweet two-for-one offer she hadn’t had the willpower to pass up. Tat number two? A yellow caution sign, outlined in black, that read EASY VIXEN—right on her chest.

  What was I thinking?

  She didn’t oppose tattoos in general. Many of them were hot.

  But Easy Vixen? Unbreakable?

  She couldn’t even blame alcohol or peer pressure for the damn things. The tattoo artist, a behemoth biker nicknamed “Burn,” was famous for her slick salesmanship, and Grace was a sucker for a screaming deal. The truth was simple—Burn’s bargain had reeled her in. She shook her head. More proof that making wise choices had never been, and would never be, her forté. Thinking things through? Looking at outcomes? Pros and cons? Ha! To her, “pro” referred to football, and “con” described about sixty percent of her lackwit ex-girlfriends. When it came to weighing consequences, Grace had to admit she generally acted first and regretted it later.

  The old Grace.

  That’s right, the old Grace. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. She had to remember that. As soon as the new and improved Grace could psych herself up to face the pain and fear, those damn tattoos—and all reminders of her former player persona—would be history. No more chasing the fast life to outrun her demons, no more having that one last nightcap or finding false security in the arms of women who were nothing but good times and bad news.

  No more easy vixen.

  A morose sigh escaped her lips.

  Too bad little Stevie Santiago had accidentally exposed her “inner vixen” to a roomful of parents during her very first Back to School Night. One misplaced tug on the hem of her sweater, and the gig was up. A shudder moved through her at the memory. She wanted her students’ parents to view her as a competent teacher, not the reformed wild child she truly was inside.

  Damn that tattoo.

  With one eye on the highway traffic, she adjusted her rearview mirror until it reflected her chest, then glared at the offensive yellow diamond. Unfortunately, it glared back. Almost every neckline exposed the ugly thing. This one hadn’t…until little Stevie had tugged.

  Mental note: buy more turtlenecks.

  Ugh. She hated turtlenecks. Yet how was she supposed to convince the world she’d turned over a new leaf when she wore a self-imposed value judgment just above her heart? Annoyed, she jerked up the zipper of her sweatshirt jacket until it caught a bit of skin at her throat.

  “Ay!” She loosened the zipper and rubbed at the pinched spot, irritated that she’d let the old feelings get to her.

  Maybe it was a sign.

  Her abuela, DoDo, believed strongly in signs of all kinds, and Grace had to admit, DoDo’s superstitious ways were contagious. Maybe little Stevie’s accidental exposure of her Easy Vixen tattoo was a sign that she belonged back behind a bar, swabbing spills and pouring poison, rather than behind a teacher’s desk influencing future generations.

  “It’s not a sign,” she muttered. “It’s not.” For good measure, she hastily crossed herself. Her life had changed so much over the past four years. For God’s sake, she had a brand-new teaching degree. It wasn’t like someone rolled up that diploma and slipped it into her G-string as a reward for a particularly energetic lap dance. She’d earned it, one grade at a time. So why did that familiar self-doubt still flare up at unexpected moments, threatening to incinerate her newfound pride until nothing was left but a charred landscape of past mistakes and bad choices?

  Let it go, Gracie. People can change.

  “Even me,” she whispered, with stiff-chinned determination. She’d show everyone. Didn’t she owe it to Mama to be the best person she could possibly be? Didn’t she owe it to herself?

  With a sigh, Grace made a conscious effort to change the maudlin direction of her thoughts. She whipped through the moderate traffic on I-25, releasing her tension to the feel of the cool September wind tousling her hair through the open window. Denver’s familiar skyline glittered against the backdrop of sunset’s colorful streaks, reassuri
ng her like a much-needed hug from an old friend. She had always found comfort in familiarity.

  In fact, earlier, as she’d prepared to meet the parents of her first class of students, she’d caved to the urge to bring along her very oldest friend. Totally lame, she knew, but no one had to know. She cast an affectionate glance at the threadbare stuffed animal safely belted in the passenger seat next to her. Lumpy, faded to gray, and nearly furless, her best teddy buddy, Ms. Right, slumped obediently against the upholstery.

  She’d been so much more dependable than all the Ms. Wrongs strung along the time line of Grace’s jaded dating history. Unlike them, Ms. Right had stuck by her through every bad decision she’d ever made and the repercussions that followed. The little bear had scars, stains, a missing ear, and a mismatched button eye to prove it, and still, she’d never let Grace down. That kind of loyalty didn’t come easy.

  Grace chuckled. Silly, she knew. A twenty-seven-year-old rookie teacher gathering courage from a synthetic stuffed bear? Eh, well, maybe it was childish, but truth? She didn’t care. She set her jaw. Loyalty went two ways, and Grace wouldn’t abandon Ms. Right just because she was respectfully employed and…almost thirty.

  Sheesh! When had that happened?

  No matter. Chronological age meant squat if you were living a good life. And she was, because—finally—nothing stood between her and the future she’d worked so hard for.

  Un-freakin-believable.

  Grace Obregon.

  Teacher.

  Head of her own class of bright-eyed third graders. She was…respectable. The very thought made her laugh out loud in the empty car. But it wasn’t empty, was it? She glanced again at her battered bear.

  “I’m sorry. You’re someone, aren’t you, baby?” She patted the bear’s head. “You’ll always be my best girl.”

  Focusing back on the road, Grace flinched at something she didn’t even really see. Not at first. Slowly, horribly, the phrase car accident registered in her mind, but by then, the semi had glanced off the cement barrier, tossing a cascade of sparks and leaving snakes of black rubber on the concrete. It jackknifed and swerved in front of her, like a huge, gray beast, wildly out of control. Everything ground to slow motion, while somehow at the same time racing through her brain faster than she could react. The world became a series of flashpoint images.

  The rear of the semi rushing at her face.

  Her hands jerking the wheel, but not quickly enough.

  The Explorer skidding, leaning, slamming.

  A power burst of adrenaline shot to her extremities with the first impact, and she realized, sickly, there was no avoiding this. The screeching brakes made an eerie background track as everything around her began to spin and smash, sky and earth flip-flopping in her vision. Her teeth slammed together, cutting into her lip. She tasted blood, saw stars, all on a tidal wave of unbelievable pain.

  Something plowed into the side of her head at the same time her leg twisted like it was stuck in a meat grinder. She tried to scream, but the airbag exploded against her chest, knocking the wind from her lungs. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was Ms. Right, glass-covered and blood-splattered, whirling out of the shattered windshield.

  *

  Madeira Pacias reread the address she’d scrawled on the back of a crumpled deposit slip. Concert traffic from the Pepsi Center clogged the highway from Alameda all the way through downtown. The jam was moving, but switching lanes in time to exit would be sketchy if she waited to merge until the last possible moment, like usual.

  She double-checked the directions against the green sign ahead, then tossed the paper aside and eased into the center lane. Plenty of time. Cranking up the stereo, she tapped her hands on the wheel in time with sexy Shakira singing “Ojos así.” Excitement for the night ahead welled inside her. If luck was on her side, she might even arrive at Karma, the brand-new lesbian dance club in LoDo, early enough to snag the best woman-watching table. The prospect of something fresh drew her out of the restless funk she’d been battling lately, a low-grade sense of discontent, the origin of which she hadn’t yet pinpointed.

  But new women always cured what ailed her, and since she’d pretty much harvested her usual spots for chicas, the opportunity to plow through a ripe crop of lovelies sounded delightfully distracting.

  Lately every time she walked into one of her regular haunts, she found herself surrounded by ex-dates and former lovers, which could prove a little uncomfortable. But, hell. She never pretended to be anything except exactly what she was: a lover, sure…but a leaver, too. She knew it. The women she bedded knew it.

  No promises and no disappointments.

  Women looking for the U-Haul and commitment-ceremony type gave Madeira a wide berth, which she mirrored. The others? Well, she enjoyed the others, but she made damn certain they enjoyed themselves even more. She left them, yes, but at least she left them smiling. That kept her slate full and her bed warm, which worked for her. As far as relationships went, all’s well that ends—

  Enough said.

  Now if only the rest of her life were half as satisfying as her sex life, Madeira would be in good shape. She expelled a breath of frustration. Maybe it was work. Who knew? She’d been in the States six years, always working alongside her hermana, Torien. Initially, the arrangement suited Madeira—she and Toro did what was best for the family. Always. But the family was thriving. Mamá and their twin sisters, Raquel and Reina, had chosen to stay in Mexico, but they no longer struggled financially, and they visited often.

  As for Toro and her gorgeous wife, Iris—since they’d cut the ribbon on their nonprofit foundation, OUR WORLD: Building Communities One Garden at a Time—Madeira had never seen two people happier. Working alongside them for the past three years had been an honor, and Madeira was good at her job. But facts were facts: OUR WORLD belonged to them. Madeira was growing a little bored. It wasn’t the job, it was her.

  She engaged the blinker and accelerated into the fast lane of I-25. Enough of this brooding. The sooner she slipped into her regular groove—cervezas y chicas—the better. Life wasn’t all about work, work, work. Hadn’t she struggled to convince her hermana of that, years back?

  “Gotta walk your own talk, sister, or you’re nothing but a good-lookin’ player talkin’ shit.” Madeira glanced up and gave herself a self-mocking wink in the visor mirror.

  A high-pitched screech yanked her attention back to the road, then everything happened at once. A semi slammed into the jersey barrier, jackknifed, and careened out of control across the congested northbound lanes. Cars and trucks knocked against one another like billiard balls, a destructive chain reaction. Flying glass, crunching metal, and billowing smoke cast the entire highway into pandemonium. Amidst it all, the semi burst open and lost its load—hundreds of flapping, squawking chickens.

  Madeira hit the brakes, swerving into the center emergency lane. She cringed against an impending rear-end collision, but luckily, the car behind her skidded to a stop inches before kissing her bumper. Cars ahead continued to crunch, crumple, and roll. Madeira’s heart lurched as a red Ford Explorer clipped the back of the semi and flipped end over end, twirling and casting a cone of debris like a tornado. She’d never seen anything like it.

  “Hijole madre.” She crossed herself, then kissed the rosary that hung from her rearview mirror as the Explorer came to rest on its demolished top.

  Madeira glanced through the settling dust at the other cars fortunate enough to have avoided the worst of it. People gaped, wide-eyed and frozen, as though the chaos were just another high-budget Hollywood spectacle.

  It’s real. Do something.

  Scrambling from her truck, Madeira ran into the center of the carnage, dazed and blinking. Jesus, there had to be thirty crumpled vehicles besides the semi. Where to start?

  She took a step, but a traumatized chicken ran headlong into her leg, spun, then bolted the other direction. Disembodied moans and loose feathers floated in the smoky air around Madei
ra. Chickens squawked and flapped. An injured but mostly frightened Rottweiler limped beside a totaled Chevy pickup truck, fear showing in the whites of its eyes, yelps frantic and high-pitched.

  Madeira swallowed past the lump of nausea in her throat. Some bystanders hung back, their ashen faces pinched in expressions of shock, cell phones pressed to their ears. A stout old man wearing work pants and a long-sleeved white shirt was the first to take action. He darted from vehicle to vehicle, peering inside each one. Squatting awkwardly beside the overturned Explorer, he banged what was left of the driver’s side and called out, then tilted his head to listen. After a moment, his face lifted toward no one in particular, but his eyes met Madeira’s. He beckoned her with a frantic wave. “Someone’s stuck in here!”

  Madeira scanned the scene even as her feet propelled her toward the old man. Where were the ambulances? What did she or any of these bystanders know about such a catastrophe? Sirens wailed in the distance, but no telltale flashing lights approached. No comforting police-band radios punctured the air with their unintelligible garble. In fact, cars stood in a motionless gridlock as far back as the eye could see. Madeira couldn’t bear to think about how difficult it would be for the emergency vehicles to get through.

  Despite an overwhelming feeling of ineptitude, Madeira kept moving. She jerked her chin toward the Explorer, chest heaving more from adrenaline than exertion. “Did you see anybody?”

  “Naw, but I heard someone groaning.” The man patted his sizeable paunch with a paint-stained hand. “No way I can squeeze in there. We can’t flip it over. Might hurt ’em worse.”