Excerpt of Living the Vida Lola by Misa Ramirez

Chapter 1

When I was fourteen years old, I snapped pictures of Jack
Callaghan doing the horizontal salsa in the back seat of a
car with Greta Pritchard. That’s when I knew for sure I’d
grow up to be a private eye.

I’d hidden under the bleachers at the high school, followed
him to the levy, even disguised my voice and called his
mother to find out his plans so I’d know where to set up my
surveillance. It had taken a month of steadfast
determination, and at least four rolls of film, before I
got proof that Jack was messing around–no, having sex–with
Greta while he was supposedly dating Laura something-or-
other.

My mother called him un mujeriego–a player. I didn’t care.
I just wanted him to do to me what he’d done to Greta.

Back in high school, Jack and my brother, Antonio, made
their way through the cheerleaders, then the Future Female
Leaders of America. But Jack didn’t give me, little Lola
Cruz, the time of day.

“I’ll never get to do that with him!” I’d wailed to my
sister Gracie when I showed her the pictures I had of him
and Greta.

She’d looked longingly at the photos. “Yeah,” she sighed
heavily. “But at least you can look at him whenever you
want.” Then she got serious. “And, more importantly, you
discovered what you’re good at. Now you won’t be stuck
working at Abuelita’s for the rest of your life.”

If I hadn’t been determined to figure out why the hottest
guy at school, and my brother’s best friend, completely
ignored me, I might never have discovered my proclivity for
surveillance and undercover work.

Gracie was right. I’d never confess that I’d taken photos
of Jack, but once I had them in my hot little hands, there
was no way I was parting with them. He was my fantasy.

My favorite picture of Jack still had a place in my dresser
drawer, fifteen years later. He stood bare-chested, his
business with Greta was done. He was just seventeen years
old and his smoky blue eyes seemed trained directly on me,
as if he was staring through the shrubs to where I was
hidden.

I was pretty sure Jack Callaghan didn’t know I’d been a
teenage stalker. Even though I still had a secret longing
that he’d do to me what he’d done to Greta Pritchard, my
embarrassment at invading his privacy, and my anger that
I’d never be anything more to him than Antonio’s little
sister, kept me far, far away from him. I avoided him at
all costs so that I wouldn’t break down and confess in a
moment of guilty Catholic repentance.

I’d been in and out of relationships, but those old photos
of Jack reminded me of what I’d lost, even though I’d never
had it. Or him.

Still, while Jack–and his untamed libido–had never given me
an orgasm (well, at least not person-to-person), he had
done something earth-moving for me. I was Dolores Cruz,
a.k.a. Lola P.I. Thanks to him, I’d answered my calling.