Her parents’ wise words sounded so simple when she shared them. A basic premise to live by. Only, not for someone who’d been conditioned to do the opposite. To never overshadow the one person whose approval he had always sought.
“But something else that helps calm my preshow nerves is my sister Mariana’s pep talks. Those are the best! And you know who else happens to give a pretty good pregame pep talk? This guy.” Catalina jerked a thumb in Patricio’s direction.
He pressed a hand to his chest and mouthed the word “me?” She nodded, but he couldn’t recall what she might be referring to.
Her expression encouraging, she peered up at him as she made her way back to his side. Today she’d left her hair loose, the wavy locks tumbling around her shoulders and down her back, a dark satiny curtain against her red, long-sleeved blouse. The bright color matched her short nails and the stain on her full lips—a stain he’d dreamed about wiping off with his kiss. Slow and languid. Hot and intense.
Mind-blowing and . . . and completely inappropriate for their business-only relationship.
And yet . . . it was like Catalina possessed some sort of magnetic force. One that compelled him to want to be around her. With her.
Yesterday, after she had bulldozed her way onto his bus, they’d sat at the table brainstorming together and he’d been blown away by her talent, marveling at how naturally her mind wove words and phrases with musical notes she hummed, beats she tapped out with her fingertips or with the butt of her hand on the table. The pure joy in her process had even convinced his recalcitrant muse to join the fun.
“Do the words ‘bravery’ and ‘fear’ ring a bell?” she prodded, pulling Patricio from his rambling thoughts of yesterday and back to their current situation with their interested audience.
“Bravery and fe—ahhhh, San Antonio, right?” he asked, remembering their talk in the hallway before Mariachi Las Nubes had opened his concert.
Her eyes brightened as if their shared memory brought her the same pleasure it did him. She motioned for him to share the story with the kids, and he obliged.
“We’re often told that we shouldn’t be afraid. In the mariachi world, in our Latinx culture and the world in general, there’s a lot of machismo pride. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard ‘sé un hombre’—be a man.” He pitched his voice lower and held up a tight fist. “Suck it up. Be brave. But bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s recognizing that fear and not letting it stop us.”
Unconsciously he reached for Catalina’s hand, unaware that he had until she threaded her fingers with his in a tight clasp. He slanted a glance at her and caught the proud tilt of her chin, the confident curve of her mouth. Buoyed by their united front, he continued. “Whether you’re a mariachi singer, a teacher, a military member, a nurse, a video game phenom, or whatever it is you choose to pursue, if you follow Catalina’s advice and try your best—if you face your fears, use them to help you make smart or at least informed decisions—bueno, you’ll be on the right track.”
“Excellent advice for all of us, and the perfect note on which to end our special visit.” The club’s director, a tall, wiry Afro-Latina woman with a beaming smile, short braids, and a reputation for fighting bureaucracy for her kids, stepped out from among a group of staff and volunteers gathered near the side doors on the right. “Muchísimas gracias, Patricio and Catalina, for taking the time to visit with us.”
Applause broke out in the gym. The students rose, moving like a shape-shifting blob toward center court, cell phones primed to snap selfies. Thankfully the volunteers and staff stepped in, directing the kids to form a line before pandemonium ensued.
An hour later, Patricio and Catalina still stood at center court, having agreed to answer a few questions from the press once the kids had left.
“I appreciate your patience with allowing the students to have priority,” Patricio told the small group—reporters and camera teams from two local stations, along with three freelancers working for various online entertainment sites.
In actuality, he wanted to ask how the hell they’d managed to find out about this unannounced event. But that was an issue for Alberto or George to dig into.
Instead, Patricio turned on the superstar charisma and fielded the usual questions:
How does it feel to be back on tour? “It’s been my second home for as long as I can remember. Feels good to visit with the fans.” Really, he meant: “Loneliness dogs my steps wherever I go, sometimes even my place in Puerto Vallarta; performing for my fans offers a sense of connection with others, even if it’s only surface level.”
Any chance of a combined concert with your father? “Not at this time. Our calendars are full and set far in advance.” Really, he meant: “No way in hell.”
When’s your next album coming out? “I’m working on that now. Anticipation makes the heart grow fonder, right?”
Will it be another crossover like fans have asked for, or are you following your father’s admonition that you honor tradition? This question made him pause. Rebuttals and denials jostled for position on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back, unwilling to put his personal struggles with his father on display.
Catalina, who’d been surprisingly silent during the barrage of questions aimed at him, hooked her right arm through his left, drawing the journalists’ attention to her. “I’ve actually been fortunate enough to get a peek at what Patricio’s cooking up for us, music-wise. Aaaand while I won’t reveal any secrets, I think it’s safe to say, if you’re a real Patricio Galán fan, you’re gonna be over-the-moon pleased.”
Patricio ducked his head to hide the what are you talking about glare he shot her from the reporters’ prying eyes.
It was a good thing one of them felt confident about his next album. Other than thematic phrases and plays on words, rhythms she had pounded against the table or shushed through her teeth beatbox-style yesterday, everything still felt unclear to him. Ideas more like whirls of wispy smoke that slipped through his fingers when he tried to grasp them.
It wasn’t just her he’d been avoiding the past few days.
The keyboard set up beside the mixing station on the bus? He’d given it a wide berth.
His favorite guitar? Still propped in the corner near his closet, untouched.
Hell, he hadn’t even bothered closing the foldaway bed in the mornings, turning his private space from bedroom to music room. Instead, the bed lay open all day, the sheets a tangled mess. Proof of his nights of restless sleep.
Used to be, his dreams were haunted by his father’s scathing comments to the press. Then Catalina had burst onto his bus with her come-hell-or-high-water-we’re-doing-this attitude, nearly tackling Alberto to the floor, and Patricio had reacted without thinking, scooping her into his arms to stop her fall. A move that brought him in pulse-pounding contact with her alluring curves. The slope of her hip burning his palm, her round ass cradled by his crotch. Lust had blazed a fiery trail through him leaving him singed and smoldering.
His restless sleep last night had a completely different, far more enticing, though equally bothersome, cause. Her.
“So, as well as singing a set during your concert, are the two of you working on the album together?” one of the local reporters asked.