Blaire's World: Volume One

by Box Set

  “Mama.”

  I look down as Cristo tugs on the edge of my shirt. I do my best to smile at him. “Yes, baby?” I ask brightly.

  “Not a baby,” he grumbles. “I’m hungry. Can we stop walking now?”

  I sigh and stop walking, looking around to get my bearings in the square. Cuba isn’t exactly known for its cuisine, but I’ve been to Havana a few times, and I know a couple of decent restaurants that will do. “Of course, Cristo.” I shift Sola in my arms so she’s sitting on a hip, one of my arms wrapped firmly around her. This frees up my other hand for Cristo. I reach for him, take his hand in mine and lead him out of the square toward a bistro only a few blocks away.

  We wind our way through a marketplace, Cristo marvelling at all the bright colours and friendly locals trying to sell their wares. I smile, but move quickly past, promising my children that we will come back and look at the souvenirs later. I don’t blame them for wanting something. We came to Cuba in a rush. Once my decision to leave Andres was made, we had to leave Mexico in a hurry with minimal baggage. I left most of the children’s toys behind. Now the brightly patterned wooden trucks, license plates and dolls are appealing.

  It takes only a few moments for us to be seated at the small bistro. The selection is limited, especially for children. A quick glance at the menu and I rattle off several items in Spanish. I flick a glance toward our unwanted companion, who has taken a seat across from me, unbidden. I don’t order anything for him. He can fend for himself.

  “Is papá coming today?” Cristo asks as I fuss with Sola’s bib.

  A shudder ripples down my spine and I ignore Pedro, whose eyes are boring into me. I run my fingers down Cristo’s cheek and murmur, “Your father is busy, my darling. It’s just us for now. We will have some fun though, travelling around and shopping. You will like that, hmm?”

  Cristo’s blazing blue eyes, sharp with intelligence, hold mine. He seems to look for something. He is only four yet he is so much older than his years, he always has been. As much as I’ve tried to make him my baby, he is more his father’s child than mine. Sola, with her dramatic ways and her big dark eyes, is one hundred percent my child. A shaft of pure pain pierces me, stealing my breath. I know what I’m doing is correct, the right path, but it hurts so fucking bad.

  There is no one on this planet that completes me except for the father of these children. And I walked away from him, turned my back on his home, knowing I could never go back. Tears glisten and I’m forced to glance away, into the malevolent gaze of Pedro. I narrow my eyes.

  “Come, children, let’s eat,” I say as the food arrives. “Then we will go back to that marketplace and pick up a few souvenirs. Some toys for you to play with while we’re on vacation.”

  Cristo grins and chatters about the brightly coloured trucks he saw and which one he might choose for himself while Sola grabs for a baked tortilla, shoving it in her mouth. Relief washes through me. Happy children are something that I recognize. Though serious, Cristo isn’t used to hardship and the last thing I want to introduce him to is a life of poverty or pain; both things I’d experienced in spades as a child.

  After a few purchases for the children in the marketplace, we finish our day in Old Havana with a visit to the Museo de la Ciudad. Exhausted but happy, we make our way back to the bungalow. Despite the unhappy circumstances surrounding our visit to Cuba, I somehow managed to make our day of sightseeing fun and educational. I’d also been able to push the pain of not having Andres with us to the side. He loves Cuba. He’s the reason I know Havana well enough to come here.

  I tell Pedro to stay out of the house as I unlock the door and usher the children inside. I slam it in his face and twist the lock, knowing that he could easily find his way in if he wants to. I place our purchases on the counter and hurry Cristo and Sola to their bedrooms at the end of the hall, urging them to change for the night. Instead of annoyance, I feel amusement as I listen to Sola’s stumbles and Cristo’s grumbles while they get ready for sleep. My son thinks he is too old now for such an early bedtime and my daughter is too clumsy to put her bedclothes on by herself. She usually has a nanny to help.

  Ignoring the wrinkles to my expensive silk skirt, I go to my knees in front of her, a smile on my lips. “You need help, my love?” I ask gently.

  “Sí, mama,” she pouts, holding out an arm with a footsie pajama bottom on it.

  I laugh, take it in my hand and tug. She goes flying back, landing on her diapered butt. I bite my lip to suppress my giggles until I see her reaction. She looks up at me with a suspicious frown marring her perfect forehead, her black eyes glowing retribution. “Mama…” she starts, her high-pitched voice on the edge of a tantrum.

  “Wow, is that a unicorn?” I exclaim excitedly smoothing the pajamas out and pointing.

  Her eyes flit over the top and she nods, reaching for it, her tiny fingers scrunching against the soft material. “Purple,” she informs me seriously.

  “Huh,” I say, snapping the pajamas out and holding them up for her to step into. “I really thought it was more of a lilac.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder and steps, first one leg in, wiggling her toes into the bottom. “No, mama,” she insists. “Purple!”

  I chuckle and help her with the other leg, pulling the arms on and zipping the pajamas up the front. Once she’s changed I swing her up into my arms and carry her into the washroom where I help her brush her teeth. I supervise Cristo, who can brush his own teeth now, but won’t without a parent or nanny around, then settle them both into bed with kisses and a story each. I’m a little surprised Sola isn’t insisting on sleeping with her brother since she’s in a strange house, but she seems to settle easily.

  After the children are snuggled into bed I wander to the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. I stare at it absently, my thoughts turning away from the innocence of my children. Though I desperately don’t want to, I know I must seek out Pedro to discuss our next steps. We’ve been in Havana too long. We have to move, change locations if we are to have half a chance of surviving the Decenas.

  I turn the stove element off and pour hot water over my teabag. I set the teacup aside, leaving it untouched for now. With a sigh of disgust I move to the back door, unlocking it and stepping out into the dark night. Acrid smoke immediately assails my nostrils, telling me that Pedro is stalking the yard. Though I hate the idea that he might have been watching me through the sliding glass door, I’m grateful that I don’t have to seek him out in the confines of the small shack he inhabits.

  “Pedro?” I say hesitantly. I may be able to smell him, but I can’t see him. I pull my long, thick mane of hair off my neck and look around, searching the darkness.

  I jump as he steps into the slight glow cast from the kitchen light.

  “Señora Decena,” he drawls.

  My hackles rise immediately. Since our arrival in Cuba, every word out of this man’s mouth has taken on a disrespectful tone. I want to verbally slap him in a way that only Luna Decena is capable of, but he’s a half foot taller than me and probably outweighs me by fifty pounds of solid muscle. He’s still half the man my husband is, but I’m not willing to spar with him, not when I could get hurt. It would leave my children vulnerable, without protection. I swallow my hatred and look away so he can’t see the venom.

  “We need to move,” I say.

  “Move?” he asks slowly.

  I grit my teeth. He’s playing with me. We discussed all possibilities before we came to Cuba. He knows the plan, knows we won’t be staying here long. “Yes,” I say calmly. “We need to leave Cuba so Andres doesn’t catch up to us.”

  He takes his time answering, though he knows we need to work out the details of our next move. I can hear music off in the distance. I try to work out if it’s a live band or a radio. It’s beautiful, uniquely Cuban. I sigh and cross my arms over my chest, rubbing at the bare flesh. I’m not cold, the evening is warm and humid. I’m sad, uncertain, fearful. Any number of emotions that I keep
trying to suppress, but now that I’m getting tired from lack of sleep and nervousness, I’m beginning to fail at hiding it. I want to stay in Cuba, somewhere familiar, somewhere with happy memories, but I know I can’t.

  “France.” His voice rumbles, cutting through the music.

  I shudder and shake my head. Though I can barely make out his shadowy form in the darkness I know he can see me in the light filtering from the kitchen behind me. “No, France will be one of the first place the Decenas will look,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I want to speak with strength, but there’s nothing left in me. I’ve given up… for now. I’ll find more after I sleep. I’ll do it for my children. “I think… I think… maybe, Malaysia,” I say, trying to get my exhausted mind to work. I know I should have worked this out ahead of time, but we departed Mexico so quickly, came to Cuba. It was probably stupid to come to a place that Andres knows and loves as much as I do, but I don’t think he’ll expect me to stay on this side of the ocean.

  “You think,” Pedro says derisively.

  I stand up straighter and glare in his direction. “I know,” I snap, turning my back on him and reaching for the door. “We leave for Kuala Lumpur tomorrow. Make the arrangements.”

  I feel proud of myself. Now I’m starting to sound like Luna Decena again. Self-assured, in control and a little spoiled. I open the door but before I can step inside Pedro grabs my arm, swings me around and pushes me back against the glass. I open my mouth to protest but he covers my mouth with his, shoving his tongue inside. I freeze, instantly afraid. All thought flees and I’m helpless against his onslaught as his hands snake over my body, squeezing and pressing.

  I’m terrified that he’s going to drag me to the ground and rape me right there in the back yard of our rental cottage. Tears prick my eyes and still I can’t move. I choke and cough into his mouth, the feel of his slimy tongue causing me to gag. The tiny involuntary resistance is enough to make him stop for a moment. He lifts his head and glares down at me. I can see him now as he stands over me, his face an ugly lust-filled mask.

  I want to scream and fight and claw him to pieces. An image of Blaire races through my sluggish brain. I know exactly what she would do. If Pedro had dared to touch her in such a way she would have murdered him with such violence that he would’ve been unrecognizable by the time she was done. I desperately wish I had even a little of her skill. Instead I’m as frozen as a statue, as weak as a kitten when threatened by a man like this. Pathetic. I’d done more damage in my youth when Marta Sanchez had called my mother a whore. But this is different…

  “You thought my services were free?” Pedro groans, turning my head to the side so he can slobber on my ear and neck.

  I frantically try to get my brain moving, try to tell myself to lie to him. I can deal with him later. Anything is better than what he wants from me. I do my best to channel my mother, one of the best actresses I knew. I suck back the sobs that threaten my composure, blink back the tears and find my voice.

  “I’m well aware of your wants, Pedro,” I say coolly, allowing a small purr of enticement to my voice. “But I’ve just left my husband, the Zetas are most likely hunting us and my children are only one room over. I’m really not in the mood… cariño.”

  His erection presses excitedly against my hip and I close my eyes, trying to mask my shudder of repulsion as a shiver. He runs a hand down my arm and I’m forced to grit my teeth. “You can come to my shack, chica. We can have a good time over there and your children will never hear.”

  I want to scream at this motherfucker and then slap myself silly for ever enlisting his services. Then again, I would never have escaped safely if I’d asked anyone else. I remind myself once more, Pedro had the connections and was the only man who wouldn’t immediately turn me over to my husband. I swallow the bile threatening to rise in my throat, turn the fakest of smiles up at him and say, “It will be so much better if I’m not worried about my babies waking up and looking for me.” When he opens his mouth to protest I place my hand against his chest and run it down to his belly in one smooth, erotic motion. “Trust me, darling, we will make love very soon and it will be more than you ever hoped for.”

  He groans out loud and places a palm at the back of my head, crushing me against him in a hug. I can feel his heart beating against my cheek. This time I can’t hold back the tears. I miss my husband, his warmth, the sound of his heart beating. Not this maniac. I mumble a goodnight and turn away, rushing through the back door. I slam it shut behind me and lock it. Of course he is well able to come through that door if he wants to. He might be disgusting but he isn’t stupid.

  I walk mechanically to my teacup, pick it up and lift it to my lips. It’s cooled down now, more than I’m willing to drink. A sob bursts from my lips and I hurl the cup toward the sink, feeling slightly better at the satisfying sound of shattering glass. I shut the light off and go to bed, checking on the children as I go.

  4

  Andres

  I don’t often smoke, but the occasion seems to call for it and Pedro is kind enough to leave a pack and a lighter out for me. Since I quit using heroin my cravings for other substances has increased; the need to take myself out of certain situations paramount. This isn’t one of those situations. I want to be here, in the moment, enjoying every moan of pain, every drop of blood spilled. This man will learn what happens when my family is taken from me. Unfortunately, he won’t live long enough to tell others not to fuck with me and mine.

  I inhale deeply, savouring the sensation as it fills my lungs, burning in the way only an ex-smoker can appreciate. I’m sitting in a chair, in the corner of his room. I haven’t bothered to be quiet, but he still hasn’t woken, the man who has betrayed me. This annoys me. If a man must go to his death he should wake up and do it on his feet, face me like a man. I stub the cigarette out in the ashtray and stand. I flip the light on and approach the bed, giving it a kick for good measure.

  Finally, Pedro gives me the response I desire, groaning and turning over to face me. I grin at him, letting my presence sink in for a moment. The second recognition hits, I let my fist fly, shattering his nose where he lays in his bed. His head flies to the side and blood sprays across the pillow and up the wall next to the bed. I take a fistful of his hair and drag him from the small bed onto the floor. He’s almost completely naked, except for a pair of worn boxer briefs.

  “Pedro, my friend,” I laugh down at him like we’re old buddies, dropping him at my feet. When he tries to push himself backwards enough to gain his feet, I kick him hard enough in the thigh to drop him again. He shouts in pain and, as he goes down, I kick him in the ribs, allowing the rage to flow through me. This won’t take as long as I’d hoped or planned, the anger is too consuming for me to play with this idiot. “You aren’t where you’re supposed to be.”

  He holds a hand out, a weak attempt to get me to pause my assault. I grin savagely. The moron just gave me something else to break. I take hold of his hand and break all five of his fingers in one swift move, crushing them in an punishing grip. He tries to pull his hand back to his chest in an attempt to cradle the injured appendage. I take hold of his arm and wrench it behind his back, bending until it breaks. I don’t need him for anything. I’ve found my family. His death became a forgone conclusion the moment he betrayed the cartel, therefore there’s no reason for me to pull my punches.

  He screams in pain, his agony rending the evening, interrupting the haunting Cuban music that’d been playing in the background. I release his arm to hang limply by his side, step around the front of him and send my knee into his face. He’s kind enough to hunch forward as I bring my knee up, increasing the impact. I’ve worked enough guys over in my life to know exactly what kind of damage I’ve done. His front teeth are now in the back of his throat and his navel cavity is caved in. I’m happy. His screams have become gurgles and I can hear the music again.

  “Better,” I say, sitting on the edge of his bed. I watch him try to crawl toward the door
and laugh derisively. “You think you’ll get far, Pedro?” I stand up and stride around to his front, taking in the hideous mask of his bloodied face. “No, hombre. There’s no going forward, no going back… no going anywhere from this.” I crouch next to him and place my hand on his shoulder, as if commiserating. “You took my wife and kids, Pedro. That’s a death sentence by itself. But tonight, I watched as you put hands on my wife. I watched you touch what belongs to me, covet my woman.”

  He garbles something completely unintelligible, spitting out a streak of blood, saliva and teeth. Savage satisfaction rolls through me and I reach over him toward the tiny card table, picking up the pack of cigarettes and lighter. I light another one, blowing a stream of smoke down at Pedro.

  “You know, I probably would’ve ended this quickly. Used a gun, put a bullet in your head while you slept.” I allow an edge of regret to leak into my voice as I speak. “You were a good man. With the Zetas for a lot of years. Instead, you touched my Luna. Laid hands on her.” Anger courses through me as I picture the way he pressed himself against her while she was forced to take his attentions. I’d stood in the back of the yard, hidden in the shadows, watching, taking in her reaction, making sure she wasn’t encouraging him. The manner of her death would be determined by her actions since she fled Mexico. I yank his head back, pull the knife from my belt and slice his ear off. Gurgling screams erupt from his throat and blood gushes forth in a fountain. I release him so he doesn’t get blood all over my jeans and shoes. I examine the blade, proud of the lethal edge I keep to my weapons. “Almost too bad I didn’t let you keep your voice, would’ve been interesting to hear your weak justifications for taking another man’s wife.”