She laughs because we’re well-known and rich enough toconjure a stylist last minute, but Truett Valentine adjusts his schedule for no one. He’s the kind of Texas man who feels stereotypical but is actually quite rare. Broody and rough around the edges, with an artist’s soul. His attitude and muscled, tattooed exterior are a spikyKeep Outsign you’d be wise to obey.
Still, he lets slip his achingly gentle side in the way he cares for vintage things and takes to social media to wax poetic about the inequalities of life in that surly, earnest way of his.
Truett’s style can best be described as worn-in rockabilly. He’s a couple of inches shorter than I am, and stockier. He wears a heavily textured undercut, usually raked back and subtly highlighted by a love of the outdoors. Honey-whisky eyes that burrow into your very soul. Varying lengths of scruff, depending on his mood. Trucker hats and cowboy hats held together with frayed threads and spite. Carefully cuffed jeans and artfully worn pearl-snap shirts rolled up to reveal sexy, tattooed forearms. Symbols of love and war on his knuckles. Vintage Doc Martens, perfectly polished.
Fuck me sideways, please and thank you.
He could be a shit barber, and people would flock to him to have the hot, irritable guy hatchet their hair. But he’s not shit.
The way Valentine tames my rebel cowlicks with those talented hands of his…
“Earth to Rami,” Maya says, swallowing her amusement. “Jocelyn is headed our way, and she does not look happy.”
I blink back the steamy visuals in my head, and our catering contact is heading toward us like a guided missile through the crowded ballroom, her lips thinning as she nears.
“Jocelyn,” I say with all the false positivity I can muster, “how are things?”
She responds with the gravity of a White House aide informing the president that Los Angeles has floated into the Pacific after a massive earthquake.
“We are, I regret to inform you, running out of tortillas.”
Maya snorts. I send her a withering glare, then turn back to Jocelyn. “That is unfortunate, considering that your world-famous street tacos were a major draw for our donors.”
Yes, I booked a taco bar for a fancy event, but street tacos plus margs are fire, and as the newest generation of charity organizers, I refuse to serve the same stale-ass, rubber chicken dinner people have been putting on since the onset of colonization.
I check the massive ballroom just to be sure and, thankfully, everyone is having a good time.
Except for Jocelyn.
“I am sorry, Mr. Bash, but?—”
I hold up my hand. “It’s okay, Jocelyn. One of my high school friends manages the boutique H-E-B down the street.” I pull up my phone and scroll until I find the name. “How many do we need?”
“Couple hundred, to be safe.”
Nodding an acknowledgment, I set to typing. You might think grocery store tortillas are a serious step-down, or that a boutique store can’t handle an order that size last minute, but that’s only because you’ve never seen what Benji’s staff can do with flour and fat.
Me: I’ve got a tortilla emergency.
I haven’t spoken to Benji in a hot minute, but we’re the type of friends who can pick up as if no time has passed. His reply is immediate.
BenDog: Can I assume that’s not a euphemism?
Me: I’m down the street at the Winchester, big gala, bigger taco bar, and no tortillas.
BenDog: How do you run out of tortillas at a taco bar?
Me: Just tell me you can get, say, a dozen 20-packs of your mixed butter minis to me in the next 3 minutes.
BenDog: It’s like running out of limes and salt at a tequila tasting.
I roll my eyes. I love the guy, but I don’t have time for this.
Me: Do you have the tortillas or not?
BenDog: I’ll bring them over myself. Give me 10.
Me: You’re a true friend and a total asshole. Text me when you get to the main lobby.
