Break Away (Away, Book 1) (17 page)

“Deepest secrets, huh?”

This time, I turned to look at him. “You're
not going to make me talk.”

He smiled, like a child that'd been caught in
the middle of a plan, and aimed his eyes on the road ahead. “So,”
he said again. “What are you in the mood to eat?”

The switch of conversation took me aback for
a few seconds.”Eat?”

“Your grandmother did tell me to feed
you.”

“Oh, my God, don't tell me you want to cook
for me.”

“Why? Do I look like a bad cook?”

“You
do
want to cook for me. Jesus, I
think Candace Spenser's tomato soup sounds like a good option
now.”

“Ha. Very funny. Actually no, I can't cook.
But Lola can, and you won't be disappointed.”

“Lola? The one that rocks the kitchen like
nobody?” I thought it'd all been a joke.

He nodded with a half smile. “Please tell her
that. She'll make me more brownies if she knows I've been
advertizing her food.”

Brownies? He loved brownies?
One more
thing to add to the list of shared likings
. Linda was going to
tease me on this.

The car stopped. I snapped out from the cloud
of my thoughts and looked through the windshield. Like a déjà-vu,
the black iceberg stood imperially in front of us, only this time,
it shined from the inside and not from the outside, making it look
like an incandescent volcanic rock in the middle of the night.

I pulled open the door and slipped outside,
thinking the house looked even more breathtaking in the hours of
darkness. I followed the limestone path that snaked through the
front yard and came to a halt before smashing my face into Ian's
back. He'd stopped in front of the sleek, knobless door, as if
hesitant.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “My dad
and Cheryl aren't in the house so…make yourself at home,” he said
and placed his thumb over what looked like a small, oval-shaped
dent in one side of the door. There was a
click
and the door
opened, all by itself, as if a ghostly butler had been waiting
behind.

Fingerprint recognition
, I thought
with my eyebrows pulled up as we walked into the house. Since when
had knobs and keys become a nuisance? For rich people they
certainly were, I guessed. And maybe security reasons had something
to do with it, too, which increased the chances of your hand
getting chopped and your thumb becoming a key. I shivered.

He dropped his car keys in a
futuristic-looking, S-shaped metal table and said, “Let's go to the
kitchen and—”

“My man,” said a sudden voice, cutting Ian
off.

A tall, muscled guy with blond hair was
walking our way. He looked like the self-important type who thought
any girl would be lucky to be with him. A powerful air of
confidence and arrogance floated around him. Without even knowing
him, I already disliked the guy.

“Brady?” Ian said surprised. “What are you
doing here?”

The guy tapped him on the shoulder in a manly
gesture. “Guitar lessons, remember? You were going to help me to
get into Kirsten's pants with mushy, slushy music?”

Ian cleared his throat and gave me a swift
glance. “Not the right time.”

“I know. I know,” the guy raised his hands as
if in surrender. “Lola told me all about it.” Then, he looked at me
with a wicked smile. “She didn't tell me about
her
, though.
Who's the bonbon?”

Bonbon? Who in the world uses that word?

“She's Dafne, Buffy's twin,” Ian said
reluctantly.

The guy whistled. “Lucky bastard. You have
Megan Fox's double and you never told me?”

“He doesn't
have
me,” I snapped.

“Is that an invitation?” The guy stepped
closer to me. “Because I'm more than willing to answer your call
and get lost into those mind-blowing eyes.”

“Excuse me?”
What about that girl,
Kirsten?
I wanted to ask.

“Your eyes are like two violets, so beautiful
they could bring an army to its knees.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Are you for
real?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing
because you surely look like a fantasy.” He scanned my body in an
X-ray once-over.

I was about to snap something back when Ian
beat me. “Brady, get out.”

“Come on. Aren't you going to share a morsel
of that sweet ass with your buddy?”

“I
said
,” Ian barked, his eyes glowing
a wild green, “Get. Out.”

The moron paused, studying Ian's anger-ridden
face and said with a knowing smile, “You want to enter her
Ice
Palace
, don't you?”

That was all it took for Ian to lose what was
left of his patience. He punched Brady in the face with a
resonating smack. The guy staggered back, holding his hand over his
right cheekbone, which would certainly be covered with a bright,
deep bruise tomorrow, spoiling his Abercrombie & Fitch ad
face.

I looked at Ian, dumbfounded. He was
breathing hard and glaring at the shocked guy who was still staring
back at him, his face a mask of incredulity. “You're a piece of
work, you know that?” the Brady guy told him.

“Don't make this any worse and leave,” Ian
said more calmly.

A silent conversation seemed to pass between
the two, a talk that only a person with high testosterone levels
could've grasped. Brady looked at me for several heartbeats and
then, as if he'd suddenly understood something, nodded at Ian. He
strode through the foyer a few seconds later and left, leaving us
in an awkward hushed moment.

“Let's go to the kitchen,” Ian sighed after a
while, overstepping the big fat elephant that'd settled between us.
“Lola must be waiting for us.” And without a second glance at me,
he started for the hallway.

I followed, noticing, even amid the
astonishment and bafflement in my head, the main color palette
dressing the house—white, gray, silver, red and black. My eyes
found a white, curved sofa in the living room on the way. It was
definitely one of my favorite pieces. A flame-like, red sculpture
in one of the corners was definitely eye-catching, as well.
Everything about the house was striking. I couldn't help comparing
it with Gran's house, the Lady. They were total opposites on the
spectrum of style and design.

The hallway soon opened onto a vast kitchen
where a small, round woman stood in front of a kidney-shaped
island. She was dressed in a black uniform with a white, ruffled
apron. Her wavy salt-and-pepper hair was tied up in a low bun. She
stopped pouring water into one of the glasses when she looked at
us.

“Ian
mijo
, the quesadillas are cold,”
she told him with a lovely frown that said she was anything but
angry at him. It was obvious she loved him.

“Sorry, Lola. We had a small…mishap before
coming here,” Hhe said, not elaborating on what the
mishap
had been.

“No excuses, just a kiss,” she said pointing
at her chubby cheek.

Ian smiled and walked up to her. “You're the
best,” he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a
kiss.

“You only say that because I make your
stomach happy,” she said, with what I believed was a charming
Mexican accent, and tapped him on the belly.

“You know it's more than that,” Ian said,
with a warm smile playing on his lips.

I guessed Lola had that effect on people,
because I couldn't help the warmth blossoming inside of me
either.

As if sensing I'd been thinking about her,
she turned to look at me. “You must be hungry,
mija,
” she
said, her slanted eyes crinkling in a smile. “Ian told me you're a
veggietalian so—”

“Vegetarian,” Ian corrected, amused.

“Nonsense,” she waved her hand and carried
on. “So I made three-cheese quesadillas for you and healthy
guacamole—with organic avocados because you never know what might
be inside of the normal ones nowadays. It is simply outrageous.
Humans shouldn't play at being Gods in nature.
Dios mío y la
virgen, ayúdennos con esta locura
.” She gave a soft shake of
her head.

I looked at Ian. He shrugged and said, “She
mumbles a lot in Spanish when she's pissed.”

Lola pointed her finger at Ian in a warning
gesture. “Mind the language or else I'll wash your mouth with soap
in front of this pretty
se
ño
rita.
”

I had to swallow back a laugh. She reminded
me so much of Gran, but in a smaller and fiercer version. Lola was
a force to be reckoned with.

“My dirty mouth is zipped,” he said, sliding
his fingers across his mouth as if pulling a zipper closed.

She smiled in approval and looked back at me.
“She really is beautiful
mijo
, don't you think?”

He threw me a quick glance and turned to grab
the dishes with the quesadillas and guacamole piled on top. “I
guess. We should eat these or they're going to get all cold,” he
said immediately, as if he wanted to get rid of the subject in
matter as soon as possible. “And there's nothing I hate more than
stiff corn tortillas.”

“Yes,” Lola agreed. “The tortillas are made
from scratch, so you should both eat them while they're warm.” She
placed the dish on the kidney-shaped island and motioned me to sit
down on a stool. She plucked Ian's plate from his hand and settled
it next to mine. “You know you shouldn't be eating while standing.
It's bad for you,” she chastised him and looked pointedly to the
stool resting beside me.

As if knowing he didn't have a chance against
her, he followed the direction she'd ordered him and sat down.

I focused on my quesadillas and rumbling
stomach. The dish looked beautiful, like something you'd be served
in a restaurant—a small mound of guacamole with pico de gallo on
top was surrounded by nicely-cut triangular corn quesadillas. Their
color a healthy buttery-yellow, and the melted cheese skirting
their edges a scrumptious sight. With the midnight black, marble
countertop underneath the plate, it truly was as if we were in some
fancy restaurant. The only thing missing the music.

I took my first bite and couldn't stop the
moan that escaped my lips. “Wow, this tastes amazing.” I didn't
know if it was the fresh corn tortilla, or the blend of three
cheeses, or the fact that I was starving and everything felt like
Fourth of July fireworks in my mouth, but this was certainly the
best quesadilla I'd tried in my life. And the guacamole…

“I told you she rocked the kitchen like no
one,” Ian said between munches.

“Mmhm,” I agreed, savoring the cheesy
explosion on my tongue. Lola rocked the kitchen like Santana rocked
his guitar. She was definitely something special.

She slid two glasses of water over to us.
“That's very kind, but you should know my skills are rather limited
on the veggietalian area.”

“Vegetarian,” Ian corrected her again.

“Nonsense,” she said for a second time, with
a wave of her hand. I smiled. “You should give me some recipes so I
can be prepared next time you come,
mija,
” she told me.

I didn't tell her there wouldn't be a next
time. I felt bad even thinking about it in front of her. She was
way too nice. That's why I said, “Definitely. I have some really
good recipes with Tofu, and eggplant—though you know making
eggplant dip is kind of tricky, right? You need to grill the
eggplants until the skins are charred all over and the flesh
soft.”

Ian looked at me. “You cook?” he said,
surprise coloring his voice.

Lola responded before I could think of an
answer. “Of course she cooks. I can see it in her. She must be
pretty skillful to not cook with meat. I bet she's good with
flavors.”

I smiled at her and felt Ian still watching
me. He must've thought I was a useless
veggie psycho
who
only ate the special food her granny made for her. I could feel the
waves of his thoughts brushing the edges of mine. He was
impressed.

I swallowed back a smug grin.

The truth was I learned to cook since my mind
and body decided meat was a big No No in my daily diet. I knew Mom
had to take care of a lot of things in the house, so adding an
extra burden to her tasks wasn't something I could've allowed to
happen. That's when I started learning the basics in the kitchen,
exploring and challenging myself with flavors and textures. Over
time, my cooking improved. Even Gran and Buffy, full-fledged
carnivores, liked my vegetarian chicken Marsala. Thus I did more
than okay with food, but I didn't consider myself one of the
best.

“I know how to deal with flavors,” I admitted
to her.

She smiled proudly. “A worthy woman always
knows how to move around the kitchen.”
She bent
and whispered to me, “
Para
llegar al corazón de un hombre, hay que llegar a través del
estomago.”

I looked at her wearing a big question mark
across my face, and secretly wished I could speak Spanish so I
wouldn't feel that lost, as in
stranded-in-the-middle-of-a-desert-island lost.

“Men,” she began to explain, “Love food. If
someday you wish to touch a man's heart, you should do it through
his stomach, with your cooking.”

“Aye,” Ian nodded, as if he was assenting in
name of the whole male population. “We pretty much live to
eat—among other things.”

Imagining what
other things
meant
already, I pushed the question away and said, “Then Buffy is toast,
she can't even boil an egg.” As soon as those words left my mouth,
a sliver of pain and regret slashed my heart. “I didn't mean it
like that. I mean…no, she's not toast…she'll never be toast. She'll
come back and show us she's toast, but just in the kitchen, not in
life. She's not toast in life…” I dropped my head.

Lola moved towards me and cupped my face with
her warm, motherly hands. I looked up to see her bright
chocolate-brown eyes. “Buffy is strong and smart enough to come
back on her own. She knows a lot of happiness and love is waiting
for her on this side.”