Shelter

by Gilley, Lauren

  He paused in the threshold of the master bedroom, hands on the jamb, surprised she hadn’t shut and locked the door in his face. She stood on the far side of the bed, arms folded, spine ramrod straight.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he said, wincing as he did so. It was a lie, and not even a convincing one.

  “Didn’t you though?” She turned around slowly, her eyes flashing with defiance. In an instant, one stupid slip on his part, she’d gone from the girl under his arm to the girl who looked ready to slap him. “Or, is it like you always said when we were younger? That ‘Sam wasn’t what I thought he was’?” The pain in her voice lanced straight through him, opened up the tender scabs left over from his visit to the abandoned building that day.

  “You know Sam was my family,” he said. “And not just some distant cousin.” She blinked. “Who supported you through everything? When your mom was being a psycho and your friends were disowning you? That was me.”

  He watched her suck at the inside of her cheek, could see her reevaluating those supportive moments through the new lens of “you always shoulda been with me instead.”

  “Babe,” he prodded. “It was just a slip. I just…things have been crazy. You know that.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears. Took a deep breath. “What happened to that girl you were seeing? What was her name? Jessica?”

  Carlos could sense the bait in the trap she was springing and wanted no part of it. He frowned. “Things didn’t work out.”

  “What happened? Sam died and then, poof, she just disappeared.”

  “We didn’t have shit in common.”

  “I think there was one thing you didn’t have in common.”

  “Don’t go there,” he heard the anger in his voice. “How are you gonna twist all this around so I’m the sad, sick freak just waiting to get you alone?”

  “Well,” she looked flustered, gestured randomly with her hands. “Well, weren’t you?”

  “No!”

  She took a step back, bumping into the built-in bookshelf against the wall.

  Carlos hadn’t thought he’d raised his voice that loud, but Alma seemed genuinely rattled. She brought a hand up and clasped it loosely around her throat, pulling in deep, shaky breaths. But there was an uncertain strength to her voice when she spoke. “Don’t yell at me. Sam, he - ” she cut herself off, shut her eyes, seemed ashamed to have admitted it.

  Carlos bristled. He may have looked up to the guy, may have held him in high esteem. But some things were never going to be okay in his book. And hurting Alma in any way was one of them.

  “Did,” he checked his tone, sighed, took the snarl out of his words. “He yelled at you?”

  “Not very often.” But it sounded like the pathetic excuse that it was. Her eyes came open again, met his. “Please forget I said that. It wasn’t worth mentioning.”

  He walked around the end of the bed, ignoring the dark look she gave him. He didn’t care if she wanted to push him away or not. “Is that all he did?” he asked, quietly but firmly. “Just the yelling?”

  “Don’t – don’t try to turn this into you rescuing me from Sam.” Her expression was so similar to one he’d seen on her before, that suddenly, they weren’t in the bedroom anymore, but in the garden behind her parents’ house.

  Alma talked with her hands when she was upset or pissed, and judging by the way she flapped her arms and whirled around to face him, she was pissed. They were on the pea gravel path that led between the tomato and zucchini beds, the sun setting fast, the air getting cold enough to turn their breath into wispy little puffs of steam. He’d been putting in the mums that afternoon, and had happened to be listening when Alma pulled her VW into the drive. Diane had been leaving, she’d already come around the brick walkway to the backyard to tell him that she had some errands to run up on the square, but would be back in time to pay him. He’d paused, leaning on his shovel, and heard mother ask daughter what she was doing running around with a “godforsaken hickey” on her neck.

  The hickey hadn’t been the worst of it though. He’d taken one look at the little mark on her lip and felt his blood start to boil. “Did Sam do that?” he’d asked, and thus the argument had been launched.

  “This is none of your business, Carlos!” she fumed. “Things with Sam are great, so don’t you dare try to act like the white knight!”

  “If things are so ‘great’,” he shot back, “then why the hell are you yelling?”

  She started to say something else, then clamped her lips together. “He’s good to me.” But she touched her lip. “He would never hurt me.”

  That day, she’d stormed back into the house, slamming the door in his face. She didn’t speak to him for three days, until she finally caved and brought him a pan of brownies out in the yard, offered a sheepish smile and a sincere apology.

  But this time was different. This time, Sam was gone and there was no chance for him to redeem himself. And Carlos felt like an asshole.

  “Alma,” he tried again. She didn’t flinch away when he reached for her, but she didn’t respond to the gentlest of touches against her cheek. “Please don’t push me away ‘cause I said something stupid. I’m a guy,” he forced a chuckle, “we always say stupid shit.”

  She turned her head just enough so that his finger was no longer touching her skin. “I think maybe I should sleep by myself tonight.”

  He gathered a breath with which to voice protest, but she held up a hand.

  “I’m tired. Think I’m gonna turn in.” His cue to get lost.

  Carlos imagined the outcome if he pulled her to him, didn’t take no for an answer, kissed her until her hormones won out and she melted against him. But experience had taught him that she wasn’t easily swayed, least not where it concerned Sam. With a sigh, he scrubbed a hand back across his buzz cut and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

  Her eyes went to the floor and he had no idea if she was already regretting her decision, or if she was wishing he’d get in his car and go all the way back to his apartment.

  He pulled her bedroom door shut as he left and leaned back against it. The movie was still playing, one of the poor teenagers in it screaming, the music swelling to a frenzied crescendo. It must have been nearing the end, getting close to the part where the monster had his big showdown with the heroes. That was how all horror movies went. Simple, predictable – nothing like this grown up relationship stuff.

  If you only knew, he wished she understood, how much I’m willing to do for you.

  13

  Carlos was still asleep when Alma tiptoed through the house the next morning. He was on his stomach, arm dangling down over the side, knuckles propped on the carpet. He snored like a freight train. And, she hated to admit as she scowled at his sleeping form, was really cute when he was dead to the world. Ass, she thought in an effort to make herself feel better about their night, slipping silently into the kitchen, work shoes in her hand. During the night, restless, staring up at the ceiling and hating the sterile, new smell of the sheets around her, she’d almost relented. She’d wanted to relent. A warm, comforting body was just down the hall and here she was all alone…but then a sobering thought had slapped her in the face.

  Was any of this really about Carlos? Or just physical comfort?

  She didn’t like asking herself those things, and she wasn’t ready to let his comment go so easily. It really had been a slip on his part, and she hadn’t batted at eye when he’d admitted that he loved her. But she refused to believe that Carlos was the one she was supposed to be with, that Sam had just been a detour. That, God forbid, losing Sam might somehow be construed as a good thing because Carlos was her fucking soul mate or some shit.

  She scowled at the microwave while her measuring cup full of water went round-and-round inside. There was no point in dwelling on those or any related thoughts because that only leant them credence, of which they deserved none. Right…?

  “Stop it,” Alma hissed to
herself. “Stupid Carlos.”

  Her water finished with a beep, and in slow, near silence, she pulled it out and poured it into the travel mug and instant coffee powder she’d already spooned up. Caffeine was a no-no, but even without it, the instant stuff was a warm, yummy little start to her day. She smeared peanut butter on one piece of bread, folding it in half, hoping the protein would keep the sugar from giving her a hypoglycemic episode, and screwed the cap on her coffee. The noise had disturbed Carlos, she saw, and he had flopped over onto his back, his snoring cranked up to a whole new level of loudness.

  For a moment, she wondered if she should wake him and tell him she was leaving. But she saw the flash of her wedding ring as she took a sip from her travel mug and decided against it.

  The café was relatively quiet on Sundays, or at least it was this Sunday. A handful of students with laptops were scattered among the tables, but Alma figured the larger crowds would come in after church. Her manager, Sharon, was in the back behind the bakery counter, and her shrewd little eyes locked onto Alma the moment she came through the door.

  Oh no.

  Sharon was a bear of a woman, as wide as she was tall, hair pulled back so tight it gave the impression she was squinting at all times. She had floured handprints on her apron and smelled like bread, and she scared the hell out of Alma.

  “Morning, Sharon,” she greeted as she headed toward the break room in the back where the employees clocked in at each shift.

  “Hold up, Morales.” The order was more of a bark, and had Alma skidding to a halt in front of the display case full of pastries and éclairs. “What are you gonna watch today?”

  “The balance of my tray,” Alma blushed at the memory of the sweet tea spill the day before.

  “And what are you not gonna do?”

  “Screw up?”

  The manager raised a thick finger. “One more day like yesterday - ”

  “Won’t happen, ma’am,” Alma assured, though she had no idea if she’d be able to deliver. “I’ll do you proud today.”

  Sharon just harrumphed and waved her away.

  **

  Carlos was in the stairwell again, staring down at Sam’s lifeless body and the tidal wave of blood that was washing over the concrete, lapping at the toes of his boots. Only this time, Alma was there too. She was in her wedding dress – which was crazy because she and Sam had gotten hitched at the courthouse and she’d worn jeans – but it was a slender, elegant white column of a dress with crystal beading around the neckline. Blood had soaked up to her knees, staining the beautiful fabric, and her eyes were accusing.

  “Was this your plan?” she sobbed. “You just had to have me for yourself?”

  His cell rang.

  Carlos jackknifed into a sitting position. It took a moment for the dream to fade and the room to stop spinning, then he remembered that he had slept on Alma’s couch. Daylight flooded the living room through open curtains and his phone was actually ringing.

  “’Lo?” he managed groggily once he’d answered the thing.

  “You sound like shit,” Sean said and, instantly, Carlos was alert.

  “Sean?” he swung his legs over the side of the couch and scratched at his scalp. “Jesus, what time is it?”

  “Noon, dumbass. Wake up.”

  “Sorry, I - ” he caught himself when he realized that the dealer wasn’t technically his boss, and that, given it was a Sunday, he could sleep as late as he wanted to. “What’s up?”

  “How’d the search go yesterday?”

  He sighed and began the arduous process of fishing a cigarette out of his pocket one-handed while he held the phone with the other. “Total waste of time.” He got a Marlboro out of the pack and stuck it between his lips while he reached for the lighter. “I learned that crime scene cleanup crews do a shitty job on bloodstains. And that, like I thought, no cameras means no way is there anything to point us in a direction.” He clicked on the Zippo and lit up, took his first beautiful breath of nicotine and stretched back out on the sofa.

  Sean made a contemplative humming sound on the other end of the line. “Nothing?”

  “Well,” he almost said ‘nevermind’, but decided that there was no such thing as too much information in a scenario like this one. “I found the front stairwell and, right before I ducked out, I heard someone else come in.”

  “Heard them come in how?”

  “Somebody was walking around out in the main room.”

  There was a loaded pause. “And you didn’t look to see who it was?”

  “Lemme see, the last time I did that…my cousin got fucking killed!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sean relented. “Calm down.”

  Carlos took a hard drag on his smoke and let it out in a rush, nerves good and rattled after a fifteen second phone conversation. You don’t have the stomach for this, he told himself and knew it was true. “I woulda thought it was a hobo, but…” his observation seemed stupid now that he was about to say it.

  “What?”

  “I definitely heard dress shoes.”

  It was silent a beat. “Coulda been a real estate agent scoping out the place for a potential client,” Sean theorized.

  “A real one, or your-kinda agent?”

  He snorted. ‘Take your pick. Atlanta ain’t so backward as Hollywood makes it out to be. We got plenty of thugs to go around.”

  And I’m one of them. “Sean, what the hell are you gonna do with this guy if you find him?”

  “If we find him.”

  “Sure. We.”

  Paper rustled around in the background of the call. “Whoever he is, he’s a risk to my business model. I can’t have a buncha big-headed fuckers thinking they can take out my guys.”

  Carlos took another drag, swallowed hard. “Revenge. That means kill him, doesn’t it?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Damn it, I’m tired of all this shady ‘maybe’, ‘maybe not’ shit, Sean. I’m not a hired gun. And I told you I wanted outta your business model.”

  Sean’s voice changed. He sounded more like the guy Carlos had met twelve years ago than the man he’d become. “I told you I’d get you out, didn’t I? You gotta remember, Sam was my friend. I brought you and him on board as a favor, to help get you guys the money to open up your own business, right?”

  Carlos sighed. “Right.”

  “This isn’t just about business anymore. Somebody killed Sam, and now it’s personal. And like I told you – you help me get this guy, I’ll cut the strings. Fill your pockets and send you on your way.”

  Full pockets sounded heavenly. Even if the idea of popping a bullet in someone made him queasy.

  “You wanna get your cousin some justice, don’t ya?”

  He did. “I do.”

  “Take care of that girl like you promised?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I’ll call you later.”

  The line disconnected and Carlos lay there a moment, working on the last bit of his cigarette, listening to the dial tone.

  **

  Through the rear windows of his Escalade, Sean watched graffiti-covered brick walls and yawning mouths of alleys flash past. An H&R Block capped off the corner of one block and the engine whirred as his driver gunned them through the crowded intersection under a yellow light.

  He hated being driven. He was a driver, a Type A, take charge kind of guy who liked to be in control of his own destiny. As a beat cop, his partner had driven the squad car maybe once, and that had been because Sean had been shot in the arm and was busy pressing a towel over the bloody hole in his bicep.

  But big-shot “businessmen” like himself didn’t drive their own Escalades with darkly tinted windows, so PD had hired Jerome, who, God love him, had no idea Sean was undercover or that it was cops who paid his salary. He was a big, quiet guy, who never said more than “good morning,” or, depending on the time, “good afternoon.” He was smart that way; he saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, and Sean felt confid
ent he’d never give him a reason to arrest him.

  Beside him, Meat filled up a seat and a half, hands in his lap, looking like the human equivalent of a Bull Mastiff. The bulge of his gun showed through his leather coat; the guy was down for anything, especially protecting his boss. Sean idly wondered what would happen if he and Roscoe knew that their boss was a cop.

  Today’s destination was a divey little sandwich shop that cost less than the suit he was wearing. But Diego, as he’d called himself over the phone, wanted some privacy. He’d bought a sample for his so-called associate from Carlos a few weeks before and now wanted to come straight to the source to talk about a larger order.

  Jerome wedged the Escalade into a parallel parking place along the curb and nodded an agreement when Sean told him to wait, that he wouldn’t be long. Meat made a move to come, but he left him on the sidewalk as a lookout.

  The shop – Ma’s Old Fashioned Sandwiches – was a relic off the radar of the corporate lunch crowd downtown. There was a liquor store on one side, a dry cleaner on another, and the brick faces of the buildings were fast crumbling into dust. Sean adjusted the halves of his trench coat and pushed through the swinging door, on the alert for his customer.

  It was one of those places with the kitchen situated behind a counter, and steam was licking up off the grills and pouring out of the ovens, painting the windows with frosty patterns that made it impossible for passersby to see inside the restaurant. Good hiding spot and less conspicuous than that dark-as-midnight interior of the Mexican cantina down the block. This Diego guy was smart, if nothing else.

  A construction crew had taken up residence at the counter, and there was a mother and her two children at a booth down the left wing of the restaurant. To the right, a lone guy sat at a booth flipping through the paper and facing the door. Sean registered him as being in his early thirties probably, about 5’10,” Hispanic, light-skinned, with obnoxiously gelled hair. His blue button-up was rolled neatly at the cuffs, a Polo logo above the chest pocket. Nothing about him screamed junkie, but he had to be the man who’d called him.