Patricio scowled and grabbed a fresh copita from the wrought-iron rack mounted on the wall above the left side of the fully stocked bar. “Maybe I was wrong to suggest her. She’s too wet behind the ears.”
In the inkblot-shaped mirror hanging beside the rack, he caught Alberto’s slow shake of his head. Patricio’s gut clenched with unease. Worse than the old man’s nagging was the idea of disappointing him. The one person Patricio could count on to always have his back, no matter what.
“Maybe we moved too quickly. Going on tour is stressful enough without bringing along a first-timer,” he complained. “I need to write in my off time. Not babysit.”
“I call bullshit,” George fired back.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning there have been plenty of first-timers on the tour before. You’re going to have to come up with a better excuse. Especially since working with her was your idea in the first place.” George raised his copita to point at Patricio, his round face creased with a mix of worry and stress, proof of his difficult rock-and-a-hard-place position between brotherhood and business. “I can’t hold off the other executives much longer, güey. You’ve vetoed every other person we suggested. All of them. Pero you haven’t produced anything on your own. For months now.”
Frustration and a sensation he refused to acknowledge as fear clawed Patricio’s chest, as if the eagle perched in the center of the Mexican flag that was tattooed over his heart had bared its talons. “I’ve been writing,” he hedged.
“Show me,” George demanded.
Patricio’s jaw muscles tightened as he bit down on a curse.
“C’mon, let me hear it.”
“Nothing’s ready to—”
“Bullshit,” George repeated. He took a swig of the añejo, sucking in a sharp breath as the barrel-aged alcohol burned a path down his throat.
“So we bump the release date a bit,” Patricio pushed back. “No big deal.”
“What?”
“¿Qué?”
George’s and Alberto’s twin outbursts hit Patricio in a unified barrage. One man pushed away from the wall; the other flinched on the sofa like he’d been poked with a hot branding iron. Both gaped at him, slack-jawed and bug-eyed over Patricio’s unacceptable answer to the problem.
“You have never delayed an album, Patricio.” George’s confused glance skittered from Patricio to Alberto, who still loomed in the archway. Only now the old man stood with his hands stuffed in his suit pants’ pockets, mouth turned down in a serious frown.
“¿Qué te pasa?” George asked.
What was wrong with him? If that wasn’t the damn question of the hour. The past year. Longer, if Patricio were being truthful. But he wasn’t being truthful. Not to anyone but Alberto, and even the viejo didn’t know how screwed up Patricio felt inside.
For a while now, discontent had been chipping away at the facade he showed the world. The one hiding his struggle with the personality fans had come to know, the performer his father expected him to be, and his own dreams.
But George Garcia the record executive didn’t want to hear about his star’s existential crisis. Hell, Patricio didn’t want to hear about it. Refused to talk about it and risk breathing life into the maldita morass of confusion messing with his head. And now there was the added risk of Catalina figuring out how bad things really were.
Irritated, he strode to the bay window overlooking the front of the rental property. A circular brick-and-concrete driveway and parking slab cut a swath through the lush grass, flowering bushes, and shaped hedges. The house and grounds were majestic and ostentatious. Exactly what his father would have expected. Patricio didn’t need a ten-thousand-square-foot mansion with six bedrooms and an equal number of full baths for him and Alberto during their two-month stay in San Antonio. But the place came with a soundproof music room in the left wing. Complete with a piano, keyboard, and recording system that Padua Records had assumed Patricio would put to good use.
Ha! He’d spent more time in the saltwater pool and Jacuzzi out back. Staring up at the night sky. Thinking.
Brooding, as Alberto preferred to call it. A facetious remark Patricio chose to ignore.
Behind him, a phone vibrated. A welcome interruption.
“Ching—” George cut off his grumbled curse at the same time the vibrating stopped.
Patricio assumed his good friend—and boss—had declined the call, which had probably been from another executive at Padua. Checking in. Again. Stressed about what was wrong with El Príncipe. Hell-bent on keeping the problem out of the news and off social media.
At least they all agreed on that point.
Outside, a stiff late-April breeze shuddered through a towering live oak. Brownish-yellow leaves, decaying after winter’s chill, clung to the tree or floated toward the ground. Much like him, clinging to the belief that he could resolve this mental block on his own. Small green buds dotted the tree’s gnarly branches, getting ready to bloom and flourish. Much like Catalina Capuleta, anxious to burst onto a larger concert stage in all her glory.
The woman certainly knew how to own the stage. She was magnificent. Unfiltered and real. Pure, raw talent that intrigued him in a way little else had lately.
“Look, I can’t keep dodging their calls,” George said, exasperation weighing his words. “Whatever’s going on, if you won’t level with me, then, madre de Dios, I hope like hell that you’re at least talking to Alberto.”
“He’s not,” Alberto grumbled. The traitor.
“I’m fine.”
The words sounded hollow even to Patricio’s ears.
George’s scoff said he heard the lie as well. “You know the deal, güey. We have concert dates set for the next two years. With a new album promised in there. Fans are clamoring for it. The industry expects it. Top brass and your contract demand it.”
“And I’ll deliver.” Patricio pivoted to face the others, pointedly ignoring the oversize elephant squatting in the center of the room. Somehow its weight still managed to press on his chest, suffocating him. And his muse. Rendering him unable to write.
George’s eyes narrowed. His bushy black brows angled together with his dubious scowl.
Ire sparked, fiery flames licking at Patricio’s pride.
“When in all these years have I not delivered on whatever’s been asked of me, George? ¡Dime!” he demanded when the executive didn’t answer.
“Never.”
“Exactamente. So you have nothing to worry about.” Patricio took a swig of his añejo, relishing the liquid’s burn, the warmth that seeped down his throat, into his chest. Grateful to feel something other than the emptiness.
“Pero dime esto . . .” George scooted to the edge of the leather sofa cushion, his tone sharpening as he repeated, “Tell me this: Which was the last album that you didn’t spend months sending me random texts about at all hours of the day or night? Recordings of chords or lyrics you couldn’t get out of your head, ha?”
Patricio hitched a shoulder in an irritated shrug. They all knew the answer.
“None,” George supplied unnecessarily, pouring salt in the wound Patricio hid from those closest to him. “With every album since the first one, we couldn’t shut you up about it. ¿Pero con este?” Rolling his lips between his teeth, he slowly shook his head. “With this one, silencio.”