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I raise a skeptical brow. “Are they?”
She swallows and darts her eyes away as the waitress approaches. We both order egg-whites and fruit and I sip on carrot juice while she sips on black coffee.
I can sense the nervous energy radiating from her, so I play on it, intensifying the silence with an expectant gaze.
“I loved Blake,” she says softly, staring through the open space next to us. “I fell in love with him when we filmed.” Her eyes glaze over as she speaks, submerged in a different time. “He was so…tempting? No, that’s not the right word. But whatever it was, it was alluring. I guess bad boys always are.”
I remain silent, giving her the segue. She wants to talk, that much is obvious. She looks over at me.
“We were kind of a thing.”
That I didn’t know. But I didn’t see Blake much during the filming of the second movie. It was when he was using the most, and after bailing him out of jail when we wrapped, I moved out and got my own place. We could both afford it. What I couldn’t afford was his lifestyle, it was wearing on me.
“You know dating an actor is insanity,” she says. “I can see why you married out. But the payoff with Blake, the fun we had.” She shakes her head in fond memory. “You know he filled my head with plans for us, I had actual stars in my eyes. It was perfect, until it wasn’t. You know how he was.”
I nod in silent agreement.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.” She looks up to me with tear-filled eyes. “And he loved you. It was so obvious with the way he talked about you. He was so protective…if anyone said anything negative, he got crazy aggressive,” she says, pulling the flimsy napkin from the wrapped silverware to catch a tear underneath her eye.
Ache begins to throb in my chest, and I resist the urge to rub it.
“Okay, so we all loved each other, right?” I ask, playing on her words.
“I thought so, yes.”
I clasp my hands together on the table. “Then why are you bringing his name into this?”
Silence. She takes another sip of coffee, and fearful eyes meet mine over the cup. She’s cracking a lot faster than I’d anticipated, and I need to strike.
“Gabriela, when is the last time you talke
d to Blake?”
She hangs her head and more tears fall. It takes every bit of strength I have not to lash out, and I know then my assumptions about her were right. She knows.
“The night he died?”
I barely catch the dip of her chin.
“I’m not angry,” I coax gently, doing my best to keep from jerking her out of her seat. “I just need to know what happened.”
She glances over her shoulder as more tears streak down her cheeks. “It’s nice out. I’m craving a cigarette, how about you?”
I grit out my response. “I don’t smoke.”
She nods her head toward the door slightly widening her eyes, and I take the hint. “Then keep me company?”
“Fine.” We signal to our waitress that we’re stepping out and then I follow her out the door into the alley.
Mila
I drive toward the Bistro noting the subtle changes in the landscape. I’ve spent so much time on location with Lucas often opting not to step out of the sanctuary of our home once he wraps. In a way, I feel like I’m no longer a citizen of my own city. In LA, there are some landmarks that will never change while construction rises and falls in a blur around them. Kind of like a fast-forward reel around a still image. Time marches on, and trends come and go, but the rich history of who is and who was forever remains the theme.
Though this sea of stars has many shapes, Lucas’s is the one I’m most fond of, though it’s getting more unrecognizable as the days pass. He’s changed his walk and is talking more with his hands, his movements more calculated than relaxed, his jaw set while his eyes dance with obscurity. His eating habits have also shifted, and he’s dropped a good amount of weight, his much slimmer build giving way to a more youthful appearance. He looks fresh out of boot camp but with longer hair. These things don’t alarm me, and I’m positive there are other less subtle things I haven’t caught onto yet.
With me, he keeps conversations short and only gets irritated at any mention of Blake. Instead of dwelling on it, I help him research and leave sticky notes on his desk of characteristics I’ve unveiled from a respectable source about the mobster. Rayo loved pistachios, and they were sometimes found at a few of his crime scenes, but it was never enough to convict him, especially in the sixties and the seventies when he carried out his own killing. Lucas thanked me for that little tidbit with a quickie and the next day, I was picking up shells all over the house.
We are a team.
