Men constantly beat their chest, crowed their own praises, or demanded their due. They were cheered for doing so. But when a woman did the same, she was labeled brash, aggressive, or worse. If Galán was annoyed by her outburst, too bad. He’d simply have to get used to her speaking her mind.
Frustration boiled in her belly. Along with a trickle of oh shit. After all, she had just spewed one of her infamous injustice rants at the mariachi who could make or break her career.
Regardless, she straightened her shoulders, unwilling to back down.
Galán reached her side. She held her breath, fully expecting a stern rebuke.
“But I can assure you,” he told her, “I am in your corner. I have no doubt that, one day, you will be holding your Grammy high.”
Startled by his unexpected praise, she swung her gaze up to meet his.
Unequivocal certainty stared back at her.
Her pulse tripped, then bumped into triple time. Cat rarely doubted herself. And her familia’s belief in her talent and passion had always buoyed her. But Galán’s confidence . . . it filled her with a burning desire to prove him right. So different from the driving need to prove her birth father wrong.
“Of course”—arms crossed, Galán leaned a hip against the baby grand—“I’m guessing that you’ll be telling the patriarchy what they can kiss in your acceptance speech.”
A loud cackle-laugh burst from her before she could stop it.
His sexy grin flashed.
“Probably,” she conceded.
“Ay, pero that temper of yours,” he lamented. “Quick to light and rapier sharp.”
“It’s part of my charm. Best thing to do is realize that I’m always right, so there’s no use arguing with me.”
His husky chuckle washed over her, warming her in places it really shouldn’t. One in particular: her heart. Something many men had labeled hard or cold because she stood up to them. Pushed back. Didn’t take their patronizing crap.
In hindsight, if she had heeded her older sister’s advice and paused before letting her indignation take the reins, she would have remembered that as a mentor and host of this year’s Battle of the Mariachi Bands, Galán had proven himself different. Cocky and self-assured but never condescending.
Even now, his smirk was a playful tilt at the corners of his mouth, teasing a similar response from her.
Relieved they had moved past the uncomfortableness her outburst had precipitated, she offered an olive branch he deserved. “I don’t trust easily, but I am willing to admit that you’re probably not the enemy I should be railing against. The fairness you showed my sisters and me during the Battle—it meant a lot to me. Bueno, to all of us, including my parents. Who, while worried about me going on the road for the first time, are so freaking proud that you and I are collaborating on your album.”
Galán flinched and pushed off the piano. A strange expression flitted over his face, but he ducked down to grab the guitar before she could decipher it. He slung the shoulder strap over his head and settled the instrument in his arms.
Moments later, she was counting out the song’s tempo, and any thoughts about his odd reaction were brushed aside. Instead, her complete focus turned to the unbelievable reality of Patricio Galán’s rich baritone giving voice to her lyrics, his guitar accompanying her on the piano.
The twelve-year-old fan with an all-consuming crush on the young mariachi sighed and batted her lashes in a knee-wobbly swoon.
The twenty-eight-year-old professional warned her to keep her eyes on the prize—success and financial security for her and her familia, vengeance against the desgraciado who had abandoned her to chase a dream that had never materialized.
A dream she would be closer to achieving if she ignored her niggling doubts and allowed herself to trust her enigmatic new partner.
Chapter Four
¿Qué estás haciendo, güey?
Patricio tightened his grip on his rental car’s steering wheel, the “what are you doing, man?” echoing in his head like a howl bouncing off the dusty walls of a deserted canyon.
An hour ago Alberto had rapid-blinked in shock at Patricio’s idea, the viejo’s brows raised high on his wrinkled forehead. A sure sign the old man agreed this was a pendejada of an idea.
Gracias a Dios George didn’t know what Patricio was up to.
Ha! If so, his description of Patricio’s idea would have been peppered with much more colorful words than “idiotic.”
And yet here Patricio was, seated in his rental car, the dark, tinted windows of the Escalade rolled up tight against the cool late-April weather and prying eyes. Parked in the lot in front of the run-down strip mall next to Casa Capuleta.
There was no good reason for his compelling need to allay Arturo and Berta’s concerns about their daughter packing her bags to live on a bus and in a string of hotels from Texas to California with a group of strangers. Catalina was an adult. She could make her own decisions.
Sure, he always felt a measure of responsibility for everyone on his tour. With Catalina, though, the responsibility felt different. Bigger.
Maybe it came from getting to know her entire familia so well during the Battle. Hearing the Capuletas’ Lifetime-movie-worthy story. Witnessing the tight bond among the sisters despite their varying personalities and backgrounds.
There’d been a time when he had hoped for the same type of connection with his papá. Ever since his father first brought him onstage during a concert in Mexico City and thrust a microphone in his hands. Patricio had been barely five, but he remembered that moment as if it had happened yesterday. Nervous sweat coating his face. His red tie choking him. The weight of his papá’s beefy hand on his shoulder, both comfort and pressure. The gleam of pride in Vicente Galán’s eyes as he introduced “mi hijo.”
Patricio hadn’t realized it then, but years later, his father’s emphasis on “my” proved telling.
Ultimately, music had driven a wedge between them. Unlike the Capuletas, whose love of music bonded them tighter than superglue. What happened to one affected them all. Assuming responsibility for Catalina as part of his team meant doing so for her entire familia.
The certainty of that fact had Patricio reaching for his cowboy hat and sunglasses, despite the overcast day, to exit his vehicle.
He scanned the area in front of the strip mall where he’d parked. Late Sunday afternoon meant most of the shops were closed. Good. The less foot traffic for him to avoid, the better.
His boots crunched on the gritty, cracked sidewalk bordering the short chain-link fence that lined the perimeter of the Capuletas’ property. Tall privacy hedges on the other side shielded his view of the back courtyard, the site of the sisters’ first official performance as Mariachi Las Nubes more than ten years ago—a moment captured in a photograph on their website that showed a teenage Catalina standing alongside the other four sisters around her age, all dressed in their charros.
At fifteen or sixteen Catalina had already begun to exude her signature confidence and sass. They bloomed in her proud stance, impish smile, and the sparkle in her eyes. A force to be reckoned with, even at that young age.
He reached the front of the building at the same time a beat-up Ford truck slowed at the light, then turned onto Commerce Street in front of Casa Capuleta. Patricio ducked his head, tugging the brim of his hat lower. The last thing he wanted was for someone at the corner mercado to spot him. One social media post geotagging his location could potentially lead to hordes of paparazzi trolling the premises and hounding Catalina’s familia. After everything that had gone down recently with one of the teens, protecting their privacy as long as he could remained of the utmost importance.