by Karina Halle
I never want anything else but this.
Ever.
“Shit,” Vicente grunts, bringing me out of the haze as he delves into a string of Spanish expletives. His growling, animalistic noises, the slap of his sweat-soaked skin against mine, the creak of the bed, all fill the air, becoming a primal symphony.
Then he lets out a long, raw moan, shoulders shaking as he comes.
The pumping slows. His grip in my hair loosens.
He collapses against me his hair damp and dark and sticking to his brow. His eyes take me in, his breath heavy and hard.
“I love you,” he manages to say, voice breaking. He’s still inside me and I’m still pulsing around him, the torrent inside me slowing as does the torrent in him. We are connected, we are one.
And then it comes.
The words when I thought I had no words.
My hand goes to his face, shaking from the adrenaline running through me, touching his damp skin. “I love you.” God, and I feel it as I say it. “I love you so much. More than I could ever tell you. I just need you to know. Do you know?”
He gives me a shy smile, kisses my forehead. “Yes, my mirlo. I know.”
I didn’t think my heart could get any bigger.
But it did.
It has.
And it will for every moment I’m with him.
For this beautiful slice in time, Vicente and I are the only things to exist. Two broken and brave people sitting on the throne of the world.
Chapter Eight
Vicente
I am dreaming.
Again it’s a dream with legs, with life, the dream that you know is a dream and yet there’s that big, all-encompassing fear that maybe this is it. Maybe this dream is all you’ll ever know.
In the dream I am in a desert. It looks a lot like the one around us here in Palm Valley, but I know it's not California at all. It's Mexico, maybe the Chihuahuan Desert, maybe some place that doesn't really exist.
I'm walking and then I'm running, my feet moving urgently over the ground, dust rising in my wake. Rattlesnakes and scorpions and hairy insects hiding under crevices hiss at me as I pass but I don't pay them any attention.
I have to keep going. Time is running out but I'm not sure why I'm running or where I'm running to.
It seems to stretch on forever. The run. The wild animals. The desert.
And then I see it on the horizon, this low hill that sticks up like a volcano among the flat surroundings.
This is where I must go to, this is where she is.
Finally, I have to stop.
The volcano that I'm staring at isn't a volcano at all.
The desert has stopped abruptly, going from stark and rugged terrain to a lake, blue and calm and seeming to meld with the sky.
The volcano is an island in the middle of it all.
But the island itself isn't static. It's a moving, breathing thing. It's like the island has skin and scales, pulsing with a heartbeat, writhing with anxiety.
I know I have to get to this island, that if I don't get there soon, everything I love will be gone.
I know Violet is on that island.
I take a step into the water, ready to swim, but the lake hisses like the spiders did and steam puffs up from where my boot touched the surface. I can already see it begin to eat away at the leather. The lake is acidic, corrosive. I won't be able to swim without all my skin eventually melting off.
Beside me is a man in a small wooden boat made of peeling dark wood. His back is to me, a big white hat on his head. I don't know how long he's been there or if he's only just appeared, but I know he's waiting for me.
"Take you across for a peso," the man says in a voice that's hauntingly familiar, and yet I can't place it.
I find myself agreeing and step into the boat.
The man in the hat keeps turning his head as I get in and settle on top of a pile of rope. Even as he pushes off and begins to row, his face is shielded from me.
That's when I notice the Rolex.
That's when he starts to turn his head.
I wish he'd kept it hidden.
Leo Madano has no face anymore. He's just a mess of skin and bone and brain and other things I can't look too closely at.
I look away, back to the island which doesn't seem to get any closer.
"You've made some mistakes," Leo says as he rows.
"You sound awfully smug for someone whose face was blown off," I volley back.
He smiles. His teeth are still straight and white, the whole effect completely unnerving.
"You can't protect her, you know this. You know they are coming for you. If you'd only listen to your instincts for once, use your brain instead of your cock, you would realize this. You'd have realized this the moment you started fucking that girl. Now it's too late."
I ignore him. I don't want to listen. I can't afford to listen.
"But you must listen," he says to me. "Because I speak the truth inside you. These aren't my words. They are yours."
I twist around to get a better look at the island. It's still not closer. Yet when I turn to look at the shore we’ve come from, it's gone.
"It will be a long journey going forward and your blackbird will stay out of reach. On the top branch of the tree that’s too high for you to climb. Until you realize what you have to do."
"What do I have to do?"
"Kill your father," Leo says. "It is the only way."
I stare at his raw mess of a face, as if I could find some meaning in it, and close my eyes. I don't want this dream anymore.
"But it's not a dream," Leo says. "This is what will happen. And there she is."
He lifts up an oar and points over my shoulder. I turn and see the island.
We're right there.
Nearly bumping against it as it rises from the lake.
And it's not an island at all.
It's a wriggling pyramid of scorpions and snakes piled on top of each other, maybe fifty feet high.
And at the very top, duct taped to a chair, is Violet.
Behind her is a man in a jester's mask, a creepy plastic smile stretched across it. He plays a violin above Violet's head.
But I know who that man is, because his blood runs in me.
It is my father.
He’s playing Violet a sad song.
"You won't be able to save her," Leo says as I prepare to scramble out of the boat. "Not until you're ready to do what you need to do."
I can't focus on his words. I can only get to Violet.
I have to.
I scurry hands and feet up the mound, the snakes biting, the scorpions stinging. The pain is unbearable. A few times I cry out, slide back a few feet and have to start all over again.
Finally I reach the top, but no matter what I do I can't seem to come forward. Like there's a thick pane of glass between us.
Violet is staring at me and once again she's Santa Muerta, staring at me with frightened eyes, her hair in long braids frame her face.
But her face isn't a skull, it's still real and warm and true, painted as if for Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead.
My father laughs, a sound that haunts my bones like a ghost in a graveyard.
He raises the violin and it's then that I notice he's not playing with a bow but with a machete.
I can feel his grin underneath the mask.
He makes a move with the machete as if to play the strings of the violin, a sound that would come out sharp and abrupt.
But instead of hitting the strings, he brings it across Violet's neck.
The cut is deep, quick.
Blood flows from her neck as the lights go out of her eyes.
I scream.
But nothing comes out.
I cry.
And I'm empty.
I reach for her but I can't move an inch.
Her head slumps to the side as the blood flows over her and then down toward me like a raging river, bathing me in red warmth.
&nbs
p; Violet is dead.
My father killed her.
And now I'm tumbling backward down the slope, washed away in her blood, past the fangs and stingers, all the way to the water.
I sink. I burn. I drown.
I wake up cold and soaked to the bone. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, who I am.
I remember the dream.
I rub my arm, pinching it for pain, my skin slick with sweat.
My heart is going faster than I ever thought possible.
I slowly sit up and look down beside me at Violet. The sheet is covering her, she's on her stomach.
I'm too scared to pull it back.
I'm afraid I'll find her throat slit, the sheets red with her fresh blood.
My hand hovers above her and then with one swift movement I pull it back.
She moans, frowning in her sleep, the earplugs shoved far down her ears. Her hair is spread out over the pillow. Her naked back glows beautifully pale, only marred by the scabbing skin where I rubbed her raw earlier.
Holy shit.
Everything comes back to me, which is strange because it never left me before. But that's what sleep does to you, especially when coupled with an intense dream. You forget reality, for better or for worse. It's like files recovered after a reboot.
Now my files are slowly populating.
I look over at the neon glow of the bedside alarm clock.
It's only midnight.
After we had sex earlier, both of us passed right out.
Not that we could be blamed for that.
I've seen some pretty wild things in my life, done things I'm ashamed of.
But even as I knew that everything with Leo Madano would come to a head, I didn't think it would end that way.
I thought—no, I assumed—that Violet would have been kept out of the mess and I could have disposed of him and the others myself. I thought I could have spared her. That she would be in no direct danger. That she wouldn’t see anything she shouldn’t.
But I was wrong. I was very wrong.
To think that we could just disappear into the desert on a motorbike and have no one find us.
To think we took our sweet time shooting, fucking, as if Leo and his men didn't have other plans.
I thought wrong. Assumed wrong.
That all said, I am glad I taught her how to shoot. It was that fearlessness, that confidence with the gun that saved both of our lives.
I still can't believe what happened.
What she had to do.
But I'm eternally grateful she was able to do it.
Also grateful that Leo wasn't the great shot he says he was. Another inch and I would be dead.
I reach up and gingerly touch the tip of my ear, feeling it throb where the bullet sliced that top layer of skin off. To think this was the extent of it all.
We got lucky.
We got really fucking lucky.
And as much as I know that that's the end of Leo, that not he or anyone related to him will come back into our lives, I also know that the next time we need luck to be on our side, we won't be so lucky.
And there will be a next time.
There will always be a next time with me.
I sigh and lean back against the headboard. I want to rest my hand on Violet's shoulder, run my fingers through her hair, feel her in every way. My skin aches for hers, for that comfort of our contact. I don't dare wake her up though. The poor girl is going to need a lot of rest for a long time and she’s sleeping deeply.
And what do we do next?
I return her home.
And then she never talks to me again.
Fuck.
I'm in love with her.
I'm in love with her in a way that frightens me and should frighten her because my heart is calling the shots now and I'm not sure what it will do.
What it's capable of.
Until I met Violet, I wasn't even sure my heart existed.
I thought it was just a physical thing, pumping away in my chest. I thought it was something that kept my body alive.
But now it's keeping my soul alive.
When it's all said and done though, I know I don't have many choices.
I love her.
Period.
Full stop.
I love her with my dark and dangerous heart. I love her with my wicked and dirty soul.
I love her enough to raze the world around me to the very ground, just so we can be together.
But I know that love, real love, lives on truth.
I have to be honest with her.
I have to tell her how I found her.
I have to tell her who Javier Bernal is to her family.
And I have to tell her what I did to her mother.
She won't understand, I know this. Anyone would know this. But I don't have a choice in the matter. If I'm going to love her, be with her, it has to come honestly.
It has to be the only fucking honest thing in my life.
And still, there's this hopeful, naive, painfully pure part of me, like a little fucking child, that believes that maybe our love can survive all this.
Maybe she'll understand.
Her parents never will. Mine never will.
In the end, they don’t matter.
But maybe she can see through the muck and dirt around my heart and feel the truth.
I think she's been seeing it all along.
That's the only thing that keeps me going.
That tiny hope that even if I come clean it doesn't mean the end.
You’re a fucking fool, Vicente, I tell myself.
I hate how right I am.
Careful not to disturb Violet, I slowly get off the bed, needing to take a piss.
I’m about to push the bathroom door open when something makes me pause.
The skin at the back of my neck prickles.
The light in the bathroom is on.
I could have sworn I turned it off before we went to bed.
In fact, I know I would have since Violet can’t sleep without any sort of light source (in fact I often have to unplug my hotel alarm clock because it’s too bright, though tonight was a different story).
And yet the light in the bathroom is on, the door half open.
Even if she used to the bathroom while I was sleeping, she still would have turned the light off.
My gun.
It’s in the bathroom, with the rest of my clothes. So is her gun.
If I was a smarter man I would have made sure I had both guns by the bed before we fell asleep. But instead my emotions got the best of me. All I could think about was Violet. I let my guard down in order to have her.
Still…I might be overreacting.
That’s the best I can hope for.
Old-fashioned paranoia.
You can’t blame.
I take in a deep breath and steady myself.
Then push open the door.
The light above the sink buzzes but the bathroom is empty.
And our clothes are in a pile in the sink.
Not on the floor where we last left them.
A lightning bolt of fear strikes my heart just a half second before I hear a fateful sound.
The sound of a gun being cocked.
The dramatic way of letting someone know you have a gun to their head.
And in this case, I know the gun is aimed at me.
“Easy now,” the voice comes in Spanish. “This doesn’t have to be difficult, Vicente. We prefer to do this as easily as possible.”
It takes half a second to realize whose voice it is.
A man who works for my father by the name of Juan Parada.
They’ve finally come for me.
How insanely arrogant I was to not expect it.
“Turn around, Vicente,” he goes on, his voice low. “Don’t try anything funny.”
“I’m naked,” I tell him. “Don’t you think that’s funny enough?”
“Raise your hands. Turn slowly.�
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“How did you even get in here.”
I at least know I locked the door.
“You were gone all day. It was easy. We hid under the bed.”
Fuck.
All this fucking time and they were under the bed?
The shower.
Violet crying.
The sounds of our love making.
Me telling her that I loved her.
They heard it all.
It was never a moment between just us.
“It was very touching,” Parada goes on. “I almost shed a tear. Now put your fucking hands up Vicente and turn around.”
My mind is racing, thinking of alternatives.
They’re here for me.
They’re not here for Violet. She can’t possibly interest them.
Do they even know who she is?
I’ll have to agree to whatever they say as long as they don’t harm her and let her go.
I’ll lose her.
But I’ll find her again.
It’s the only way.
It’s me my father wants back home.
My vacation has come to an end.
I raise my hands and slowly turn around.
Parada is standing between me and the bed, gun in my face.
I breathe a sigh of relief to see Violet still sleeping.
That breath is taken from me, though, when I see the tall, hulking figure of a man standing above her, a gun aimed at her head.
The man doesn’t look familiar, but that doesn’t mean much because his face means business. It’s stone cold. A goon for hire, someone my father was able to get on this side of the border.
Parada, of course, is the same as always. A short, slight man with a thick mustache and head of hair that’s gone prematurely grey. He’s a smart man and I know his size often fools people, luring them to underestimate him when they shouldn’t.
But I know a few thigs about him, things I may have to use to my advantage if it comes to that.
God, it shouldn’t come to that.
“What do you want?” I ask him, keeping my voice low, then glare at the other man. “And who the fuck is that? Tell him to put his gun away. She’s done nothing.”
Parada smiles at me. I don’t think he’s ever liked me. He’s enjoying this too much, having a gun aimed in my direction. “Your father’s orders, Vicente. I just follow them. You should too.”