Riding Filthy

by Abriella Blake

  Chapter Eleven

  Jesse rapped three times on the bedroom door. “Celestina?”

  “Go away!”

  Jesse glanced at Chitto, who sat propped against the thick adobe wall of the hallway, whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a whistle. Jesse watched the deliberate, small movements of the knife for a moment, mesmerized. Chitto caught his eye and lifted an eyebrow. “She hasn’t come out.”

  Jesse sighed, balanced the tray of food he carried on his thigh and leaned against the door. “Celestina open the door, mi amor. I have something for you.”

  “No. Don’t call me that.”

  “You should eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “At least drink something.”

  “Go die someplace.”

  “Please, let me take care of you. At least have some water.”

  The door opened a fraction of an inch. Jesse could see one smoldering eye through the crack in the almost-darkness. Her eyelashes and wisps of long black hair clung to her cheek, dampened with tears.

  “Take care of me?” she hissed in a tremulous voice. “I think you’ve done enough.”

  “Celestina –”

  “No! You’ve managed to destroy my faith in love and humanity in a single evening, attacked everything I’ve known and held dear for my entire life.”

  “Baby girl, listen, I –”

  “You killed my uncle! You killed him! Murderer! You’re a fucking murderer!”

  She launched through the door, pounding Jesse’s chest and biceps with her fists, tearing at his clothes with her nails. The tray of food and water he was holding clattered to the ground, broken. Chitto leapt up to help Jesse contain Celestina, but Jesse waved away the help. He closed his eyes and just let her hit him, rocking back on his heels with each punch, self-loathing tears burning treacherously at the corners of his eyes. He deserved it. He wanted it.

  “Yes, I killed him,” Jesse said over the thudding of Celestina’s blows. “And I felt no remorse. I’ve killed many men, quierida. I’ve told you; your men, they are gangsters like us. Like me. They are my enemies. Only because of you do I feel remorse. You make me feel human again.”

  “How could you? How?”

  Her barrage of angry punches died, and she sobbed, toppling into his chest. Stunned, Jesse cradled her head against him like a child’s.

  “How could you make love to me, knowing?” She whispered. “You knew the whole time, didn’t you? You must have. Why did you do it, damn you!”

  Jesse caught Chitto’s eyes, noted their lack of surprise. The other man cleared his throat politely and pointed at the mess of spilled food and broken cutlery.

  “I’ll go get another tray,” said Chitto, “And something to mop that up with.”

  Chitto disappeared soundlessly down the steps, leaving Jesse thankful for his tact and at a loss at what to do with the tigress in his care.

  As alone as he could possibly hope to be with her, Jesse took advantage of the moment and wrapped his arms around Celestina, kissing the top of her head. Her scent washed over him, filling him with insatiable longing. She smelled like the clean desert after a rain, like hope. Like sweet, long, heavy sleep filled with good dreams.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. He could think of nothing else to say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why, Jesse? Why did you make love to me?”

  He cupped her chin and tilted her face, gazing intently at her. “You know why.”

  Tilting her face, he brushed his lips over hers. He could taste her tears. For a moment she moaned and melted into him and their names and situation seemed to melt away like desert rainclouds, giving them a beautiful moment of forgetful togetherness, as if there was nothing else. But then the fire flared in Celestina’s eyes again. She remembered, and brought her knee up between Jesse’s legs as fast and hard as she could, slamming him in the balls.

  “Fuck!” He groaned, stumbling back and cupping his family jewels. He collapsed slowly against the wall, sliding down with exaggerated care. “Jesus, Celestina, that fucking hurts! God damn it!”

  “Good! I want it to hurt. I want to hurt you! I want to rip your heart out and eat it.” She spat at him. “You! You killed my uncle, you seduced me, you bombed the building where I live, you made me a prisoner! You’ve made my entire existence into a lie, my wealth into a blood-price, my father into a…” She stopped, her voice interrupted by a lump of tears. “What does that make me? If my father is what you say and if you are what you say, what does that make me, huh? A dirty outlaw puttana, that’s what! A goomah. It makes me one of you. Fuck!”

  She ended her rant by stomping epically back into her room and slamming the door. The frame of the building seemed to rattle, but maybe it was only Jesse’s composure. Wincing and groaning, he gingerly pushed himself to his feet.

  “Celestina,” he grunted, limping to the door, “You would have found out one way or the other. Don’t shoot the messenger. Try to understand.”

  There was the sound of something being thrown against the door. Jesse jumped back reflexively.

  “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you,” she shouted.

  Her voice sounded stronger now, husky and fierce. The sound of it echoed in Jesse’s bones. He wanted her even now. He heard her slide down and sit on the other side of the door.

  “You want me to understand?” she murmured. “It’s easy. I believe what you say about my family, about you. It makes sense, how you used me to get to my father. I understand. Maybe this way of thinking is in my blood after all. Maybe I am like you, too: Rotten inside. Maybe that is why I fell for you. That’s the worst part, because I can’t hate you. You took even that away from me. I can only hate myself.”

  In that moment, Jesse gave up. Exhaustion washed over him, bone-deep, skeleton-bending exhaustion. He had survived the Mexican drug cartel, heroin, gangs, and Afghanistan. But this woman was killing him.

  What was happening to him? She’d made him want to live and then stripped him of the possibility by the simple fact of her name. Her passion, fire, and strength were enough for him to blot out every nightmare he wrestled with in the dark, but he could never have her. It was impossible.

  “Don’t,” he whispered through the door, putting his hand against the rough wood. As if he could touch her. As if he could keep her. As if nothing stood between them. “Don’t hate yourself, quierida. Hate me instead.”

  He turned away and stared blankly down the stairs.

  “That’s it,” Jesse muttered to himself. “Fuck it.”

  He couldn’t take any more. He stomped down the stairs and stormed out the door of the house into the red rocks of the nighttime desert. He had to be outside, alone, so he could implode.

  Jesse paid no attention to the direction of his steps. As he walked he snatched stalks of creosote bushes, brittlebush and burro brush, hardly feeling the slicing and tugging at the calluses of his hands. Owls hooted, coyotes howled. Small creatures scampered out of his path.

  He hiked until he couldn’t wait anymore. His training moved his hands mechanically as he crouched in the dust, tossing the brittle sticks and stems he’d collected into a neat, tent-shaped pile. Out of his concealed vest pocket he pulled a Zippo, a folded square of aluminum foil, and a straw. He dug into another side pocket until his fingers closed around a pair of colorful balloons of black tar heroin.

  Spark. Flame. Annihilation.

  In the work of a moment Jesse raised a serviceable blaze. Fire was his specialty. With practiced efficiency and precision he held the straw in his mouth and emptied an entire balloon into the foil. Hunkering down carefully over the fire, he positioned his head and the straw over the foil and let the flames do their work. He sucked in the smoke expertly, wasting as little as possible. He sat back on his haunches.

  “Hate me instead,” Jesse shouted into the night. “Hate me! Fuck.”

  Jesse groaned, the final moments before the drug hit him filled with bitterness. H
e’d had such a good long streak of sobriety. All that was gone to ashes now, bubbled up in smoke. Rowan would certainly be disappointed. He’d surely hate himself in the morning. But that was all fine, he reasoned. His hate would be enough for him and Celestina both.

  Smoke. Wings. Freedom.

  A tear streaked down his cheek, a sob transfigured into a climactic moan.

  And then the heroin hit his brain. The black storm clouds above and below Jesse softened. A crack of light opened up in his chest. The warmth of the desert sun shot up from under the belly of the world and hugged him, expanding his brain and heart. No guilt. No war. No Nitro, just vaporous love.

  Jesse was tangoing with euphoria, the lonely desert of his mind filled with pleasure and touch. He laughed out loud, wondering why he’d stopped using in the first place. How could it be wrong when it felt so right? Perfection. The world let go its heavy load and Jesse’s body bounced up to heaven. He could forget everything and everyone, and hug himself until dawn. He was floating on bliss. It hit him hard. It had been so long since he’d been high, and he was ultrasensitive. His head started to nod, but he shook it off.

  Time warped and stretched, then stopped.

  A piercing scream cut through the air. The cry sliced through his clarity and laid waste to his illusion of peace, sucking him back to earth with a thud.

  “Jesse!”

  The sound of his name echoed through the watchful stone hills.

  Jesse bolted to his feet but sank back to his knees, his limbs heavy. Heart hammering, his high brain tripped gears trying to catch up with the adrenaline spiking through his system. Where had the voice come from?

  “Celestina?”

  He couldn’t quite place the direction of the voice but it seemed wrong somehow, threw him off. Maybe his equilibrium was confused. Which way had he come from? He couldn’t remember. He stood carefully, pushing through the leaden feeling in his legs. Turning in a futile circle, Jesse wondered if he had imagined the voice. He couldn’t seem to pinpoint the direction of the safe house, couldn’t see any light but his brush fire.

  “Celestina?”

  Stomping out the embers, Jesse ran aimlessly until he climbed a swell of stone and found himself on top of a hill. He saw the house sitting snugly nearby in the valley below. He was sweating.

  “Jesse!”

  He whirled around. Celestina’s voice was coming from the desert. He scratched his head. That was wrong. She had to be inside, where he’d left her only moments ago. Or had it been hours? He looked at the sky, disoriented, rubbing his eyes as if removing sleep. His nose was starting to itch a little.

  Down in the valley below him, lights flipped on in the house. Through the window to the living room Jesse saw shapes of men flailing and rushing, Rowan scrambling and handing them things. Then Bronson and Chitto burst through the front door with flashlights and guns, and something clicked in Jesse’s head.

  “Oh shit,” Jesse breathed.

  With the double clarity of his high, he realized he’d lost Celestina. He’d abandoned his post and something had happened. It was the type of sloppy mistake Jesse Cruz would never make, but that a heroin junkie would. He smacked himself in the face.

  “Stupido!”

  He watched Chitto and Bronson shouting and running in the valley, but from his perch on the hill he could see further than they. Crouching, he looked in every direction, where he had come from, around the house, to the east and west. Flickering in the north, not too far away, a beam of receding light caught his attention.

  That had to be where she was. The light was traveling fast. He couldn’t make out any human shapes. Was it a car? A bike? He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Bronson and Chitto spun in his direction.

  “Guys!” Jesse shouted, waving. “North, on the road! Go north! Get your bikes!”

  Bronson cupped his mouth and shouted. “Where the fuck were you!”

  “Just go!” Jesse shouted back. “Don’t wait for me I’m coming!”

  Chitto and Bronson scrambled to follow his directions, hopping on their bikes and roaring away. Jesse turned to ease backwards down the rocky hill, but before he took a step he saw a new development. More lights sprang up in the desert to the north and rushed toward the solitary beam Jesse saw in the distance.

  There was the sound of a gunshot, another scream, the rat-tat of more gunfire.

  And then all the lights went out.

  “Shit,” Jesse breathed. He dug frantically in his pocket and punched the speed-dial feature on his phone. “Axle, it looks like Armageddon has come to us in the Valley of Fire. Hurry!”

  Snapping the phone back in his pocket, Jesse blinked as if the small motion of his eyelids could break through the happy haze of his high. The timing wasn’t good; his first fuck up with drugs in years, and his first fuck up with Ruiners’ business. Ever.

  And of course, it was all over that woman.

  He gathered himself. He was too high and too busy to think now. Instead, he ran as fast and as straight as the heroin would let him. He ran into the black desert vacuum where Celestina’s light had been.

  Chapter Twelve

  The inky desert night covered a multitude of secrets. Celestina couldn’t see the vibrant red pattern of stone that swirled through the rock formations like tie-dye, the colors of blood and sunset mingling with beige. Darkness swallowed it all under a thick blanket. It was time for rattlesnakes’ lullabies, shy nocturnal cholla cactus blooms, lonely coyotes calls. In her half-conscious haze, the soundscape and darkness made her think for a moment she was in a spa or storybook. But the reality of desert night slowly seeped in on her senses, tearing away the pleasant fantasy. The air tasted too much like dry bones.

  Celestina was waking up slowly. The ground was hard and still emitted the heat of the day, rough and porous against her fingers. Not pavement. It felt like stone. When she moved, it scraped her. They were off the road then, in a ditch maybe? The engines of the cars that had cut off Dolce’s motorcycle were silent now, making it impossible for Celestina to orient herself.

  She pushed up on her elbows and craned her neck. She could smell the burning rubber and gas from the motorcycle crash mingling with the clean blue smell of the night, but couldn’t see where the bike had skidded after their fall. They must have been thrown several feet at least, judging by the spongy feel of the dusty ground.

  Before Celestina could locate the mangled motorcycle her head was slammed back down to the ground again, imprinted with bits of broken stems and pebbles. Dolce’s weight surged over her body, suffocating her. Her head ached where she’d been hit, and she couldn’t really feel her left leg. It was a small price to pay for surviving a spill on a motorcycle with no helmet.

  “Don’t move,” Dolce whispered. “I can’t see them. You ok? Fuck. I promised your father no scratches. I wasn’t counting on a roadblock.”

  “Who is it? Why did they shoot at us?”

  That was what had tipped them over. Celestina remembered the sudden rush of headlights out of the dark as if a waiting dragon had roused. There had been the blare of car horns and the sudden sharp pings of gunfire before Dolce had swerved to dodge, wavered, and lost balance.

  “I don’t know who the fuck that is,” Dolce admitted. “Nobody knows we’re here.”

  The hills were alive with noises and a pervading, sinister presence. Celestina could feel her very skin crawling ominously, but in the dim bath of starlight she couldn’t see any faces or recognizable beings, just the silhouettes of the stone hills and cliffs, and the dark gash of the open road winding it’s way through the desert. After a tense moment, Dolce shifted his weight.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  With a swift movement, he tugged Celestina into the air and sprinted to the side, dragging her and firing his Glock 41 Gen 4s into the night. Voices and movement scattered in response, somewhere to the left. There was one shot in response, fired into the sky.

  “Stop shooting, stop shooting!” Celestina sc
reamed.

  Dolce threw himself sideways, letting their momentum roll them in the dust until they landed under the edge of a boulder. When they came to a stop Celestina groaned, reaching a trembling hand for her leg. Something was definitely wrong with it.

  “Stop! You don’t know what you are shooting at!” She hissed.

  Maybe it was her father. Maybe it was Jesse. Either way, she couldn’t stand it.

  A rough hand closed over her mouth.

  “When I want your opinion,” rasped Dolce, his breath hot in her ear, “I will take a vote.”

  Dolce was breathing heavily, straining his neck to see anything moving around them. There was no visibility. It was impossible to be safe in the dark. Demons could come and go unmarked; dunes could silently shift and bury those who slept.

  Dolce raised his pistol again and fired blindly into the night, cracking uselessly at the infinity of the sky. Celestina winced at the painful sound, too loud and close for her unpracticed ears. It was too much, like an axe splitting through her skull. She wiggled and thrashed until her lips broke free from Dolce’s restraint.

  “Stop–”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Dolce jerked his hand over her mouth quick as lightning, silencing her. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Celestina bit into his hand as hard as she could.

  “Fuck!” Dolce seethed. “Knock it off! I’m trying to rescue you.”

  “Rescue me?” Celestina spat pebbles and the taste of Dolce’s sweat out of her mouth. “This is your big plan? You clock me in the head and crash your bike and lug me out into the desert? Now what?”

  “Yeah I admit there have been a few hiccups,” Dolce muttered. He sat up and leaned his head against the boulder, listening intently. Even the bugs had gone silent. “I wish I knew who the hell was shooting at us.”

  Celestina was trying to bend her leg. “You Ruiners are insane. You kidnap me then you kidnap me again. Make up your minds.” Celestina took the deepest breath possible and then shouted as loud as she could, “Jesseeeee!”