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She says, “Juan is a form of John. And Sean is the Welsh form of John. Your name when you played, soccer... ah, you call it football… was Sean Bradford. Clever.”
Not so clever. She’d picked that apart in two seconds. Tidy. And a sports fan. And hot as hell.And a nun. Shame. “I’m not interested in being that guy, Sister.”
“Dee.”
“Sister Dee.”
“Just Dee.”
Why does she have to be kind and lovely? “I’m not interested in being that guy, Dee.” I lower my voice, trying to emphasize the real point. “Ican’tbe that guy. Not here. Might seal my fate, if you know what I mean.”
Her eyes turn serious and maybe a little surprised. She fiddles with the tray. “Of course. Sorry. Pero don’t fear Señora Fate.”
“What?”
“She’s not destiny at first, you know.” She meets my eyes so directly that I nod as if agreeing, though there’s no cause for it. “She’s challenge. If you decline her challenge, Fate will write your story for you. If you accept her challenge, even if you don’t succeed at first… Well, then, everything changes.”
“That so?” I find myself smiling down at her.
“It is. I’ve learned to accept and jump at chances before I even recognize what benefit they might bring. In turn, I accept and muster through complications, knowing Fate will bend in my favor if I only persist.”
“Ah, so you take Fate in your own hands.” And because I’m an idiot, I add, “You’re not what I expected.”
A sly grin spreads across her beautiful face. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
That, I don’t doubt. We stare at each other, and every part of me feels enthralled by a woman as kind and positive as she is beautiful.
“Thanks for your help, luv—uh, Sister. I mean, Dee.”
Feeling like an absolute sod, I flee before I can get myself into any more trouble. I give one more bit of attention to Armand, hoping to nod in his direction or do something to let him know I won’t be intimidated by his glare.
But he isn’t looking at me. My fists clench when I notice who heiswatching. His glare, the daggers and ice look in his eyes, is riveted on Sister Dee.
3
ARMAND
Through the swirling smoke rising from the joint pinched between my nails, I watch the nun and Juan the Forger.
Acrid relief glides down my throat, then nestles into my lungs as I bite back breath. Ash floats from the joint to land on then disappear against my skin, and I blow off the white flakes with my exhale.
Even drugs can’t dilute this rage. Why is this woman dressed as a nun? My gut rejects the notion that she’s actually a woman of God. Not that it matters to me if she really is, because luck has delivered her to me, and I don’t ignore opportunity.
A man passing by on the street stops and blocks my view. “You can’t smoke here,” he says, pointing to the bar’s No Smoking sign shaded by the faded awning.
American, judging by his accent and his ugly shoes. Also, if he’d been from around here, he wouldn’t have said a word. Not just because I’m imposing and scarred, but because all here know me.
Giving the pendejo a look that would curl the blood of any beast with sense, a look that gooses the man and sends him shuffling off, I take another deep drag.
Across the street, the whore nun walks away with a tray tucked under her arm.
She doesn’t look my way, but, even if she had, she wouldn’t pay me any attention. Not like I pay her attention, but then again, unlike me, she is beautiful.
A beauty that makes me ill. It’s as Mother often said, “If there is character, ugliness becomes beauty. If there is none, beauty becomes ugliness.”
I know how to make sure the outside of this woman matches the inside. A desire to do so rises into my smoke-sore throat. My phone buzzes, and I take out my cell. Glancing at the number on the screen I wince. Walid.
There’s no way not to answer him. Grinding out the blunt with my fingers, I say, “Here.”
