Crazy Cool by Tara Janzen Page A

steamed—incredible food, Mexican food. They weren’t five steps inside the door before someone shoved a plateful in her hands.
    Behind her, she noticed Hawkins was already eating. With the subtlest of body English, he kept her moving forward, while listening intently to the wizened old doorkeeper give him a rundown of complaints in rapid-fire Spanish. Katya understood the old man’s tone of voice far more than she understood his words, and it sounded like Hawkins was being implored to right a thousand wrongs.
    “Sí, sí, qué asco,”
he agreed, interjecting other appropriate nods and condolences between bites. By the time they hit the doors into the dining room, he’d finished a fajita and half an ice-cold beer, and the old man was smiling, beaming.
    “Gracias, Superhombre. Gracias.”
The old man nodded and took Hawkins’s empty plate before shooing them out the door into the equally chaotic, but more dimly lit and far more upscale dining room.
    Superman?
What was that all about? she wondered, startled by the name, by hearing someone else call him that. She knew just enough Spanish to order lunch, and the old man had called him Superman.
    She didn’t have time to ask why, though she was pretty sure it wasn’t for the same reason
she
had called him by that name. The doors no sooner closed behind them than someone else called out.
    “Cristo!”
    “Daniel.” He lifted a hand in greeting as his other arm came around her waist, his body English suddenly far less subtle as he guided her over to the far end of the bar, as far out of the melee as they could get.
    Mama Guadalupe’s was packed to the rafters with a boisterous crowd of Denverites, young and old, eating Santa Fe gourmet and listening to a bluesy jazz quartet. In the bar area, people were dancing where they stood, and the waiters all looked like they’d been hired out of a Latin boy escort service—especially Daniel, who had followed them over to the bar.
    God, he couldn’t have been twenty-one on his best day, and he was simply beautiful. Silky black hair and a fifty-dollar haircut, flashing dark eyes and a blinding smile, honey-colored skin and a lean, muscular build.
    “Cristo,
¿qué pasa?
What’s happening,
hombre?”
Daniel’s questions were for Hawkins, but his gaze was on her, making it clear he was angling for an introduction. To top it off, he’d taken her plate and set it on the bar, produced a set of napkin-wrapped silverware from out of the apron tied around his waist, and signaled the bartender for a glass of water, all in the course of greeting Hawkins.
    Katya couldn’t help herself. She was charmed. He was adorable, practically jailbait but adorable, and in about two more seconds she was going to ask him to call her a cab.
    “I’m looking for Mickey Montana. Is he in tonight?” Hawkins asked.
    She could feel him standing close behind her, where she’d sat down on a bar stool, and amazingly, found she didn’t mind, not with Daniel’s adorably predatory gaze giving her a once-over—twice. She was also glad she’d taken Hawkins’s coat.
    “Mickey’s always in on Friday night, since he broke his leg,” Daniel said, shifting his attention to Hawkins.
    “Broke his leg?” Hawkins repeated.
    “
Sí.
At the Cataclysm Club three weeks ago. There was a band,
una banda muy mala,
and a little rumble in the alley.
Mickito,
he fell off the dock and broke his leg. So now he’s in every night, but especially on Fridays.”
    Well, that made perfect sense—almost.
    “I’ll be back in a minute,” Hawkins said to her, leaning in closer. “Rick.”
    She looked up and saw him offer the bartender a five-dollar bill over the bar. Without a word, the bartender reached under the bar and slid a pack of cigarettes back over to him.
    “No toques,”
he said above her, and she glanced up in time to see the very cool, very steady gaze he was leveling at Daniel.
    “Sí, señor.”
The boy’s smile disappeared, but only until Hawkins walked