by Max Henry
I grunt at the thought. “I saw his bike in my spot.”
“That’s just Apex messin’ with your head. Ignore it.”
“Who is it? Fingers said he’s a new guy/old guy. Makes no sense.”
Beefy nods as he straightens up again. “He’s both, Fingers is right. Nomad. Been through the clubs like a roulette ball doin’ the rounds. Hence to say, not many people around here like the guy.”
“Apex say why he invited him here?”
Beefy stares at me, en eyebrow cocked. “What you think?”
“He’s an Ace, though?”
“For now.”
I shake my head, confused. “Who the fuck would keep lettin’ him back in if he’s a hopper?”
“Brick.” President of our Californian chapter.
“Jesus.”
“Even he won’t help this time,” Beefy says with a chuckle. “I’m puttin’ you up for Twig’s spot.”
He drops the news as if it’s nothing. VP—after all the bullshit I’ve been caught up in? “You think you’d get the votes?”
“I’m workin’ on your campaign strategy,” he sasses. “But yeah, I think if I get the right people whisperin’ in the right ears I might be able to sway the vote.”
“Why would you do that?” Backing me is one thing, but to put me in a position of such power?
“You’ve made mistakes,” he says. “You’re in love. But what have you actually done that’s a direct insult to this club?” He turns his head to stare me down, daring me to answer. “You let her go when we asked you to. You’ve put your life on the line for your brothers several times over now. You follow rules and procedure when there’s conflict. And even after all this shit, knowin’ that your pres guns for your head, you still walked in here intent on sortin’ it out.” He sighs and leans forward with a hand to his knee, his elbow popped. “If the members can’t see that you’re a man of the club, then they best be checkin’ where their own priorities and loyalty lie.”
I lean back to huff out a heavy breath between loose lips. “It’s a big ask.”
Beefy grins, his eyes alight. “You gonna sit there and lie to me, tell me that you haven’t been thinkin’ about it?”
I smile back at the smartass. “Yeah, you know I have.” One of the old ladies exits the laundry-room door a ways to our left, a basket of clothes on her hip. “Just been preoccupied is all.”
“I bet.” He heaves a sigh and watches as the blonde wanders down to the clothesline to drop the basket to the ground. “There’s no easy way to get her back. You know that, right?”
I nod absently as sheets get pegged to the line. “Well aware of that. Just wish I knew a way that made me comfortable about it, you know? A way that didn’t involve a fuckin’ unborn kid as collateral.”
“Nobody’s safety is ever guaranteed when you mess with the kind of people we do.”
“Yeah.” Twig and Gunner are heavy proof of that. “I can’t do it though; I can’t lose Elena and fuckin’ survive that. I can't lose our kid.”
“Well,” Beefy states as he pushes on the arms of his chair and fails to stand, “best we be makin’ sure you don’t.” He attempts to get up again and succeeds. “Starting with voting you into a position where you get some say in how this fuckin’ circus is run.”
FIVE
Elena
“I’ve got friends coming over tonight and I’d appreciate if you could show your fucking face for a change.” Carlos sips at his after-lunch coffee, eyes glued to his phone while he sits at the far end of the dining table. “I don’t waste my money on you for you to be no use to me.”
“Showing off your fake marriage is impressive to your ‘friends,’ is it?”
His gaze drifts to meet mine, his finger poised over the smartphone’s screen. “You know, you keep being a smart cunt enough, I might grow to like it.” He grimaces and then lets go of a low growl in the back of his throat. “Feisty.”
“Doubt that would ever happen,” I mutter under my breath before shoveling another piece of melon into my mouth.
Maria enters the room and beelines across to Carlos. “Sénor. There is a delivery here for you. They require you sign for it.”
He frowns at her, seemingly confused before the expression flattens and his stone-cold glower slowly turns to a pleased smile. “Well, that was quick. I’ll be right there.”
Maria’s eyes flick across to me, and something akin to pity crosses her features before she dips her head and walks out of the room. My heart beats a little faster as Carlos turns his smarmy grin my way. What’s going on?
“You might want to come see what it is, Elena. I think you’ll enjoy this.”
Enjoy it? Hardly. He never does a single thing for me out of kindness or the desire to see me happy. Why would he think I’d enjoy this? Unless . . .
“I think I’ll decline your invite. Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a request.” He pushes his chair back and stands, his palms gliding over the fabric of his shirt. “Come.”
I wipe my mouth with the crisp white napkin and then cross the room to where he waits for me at the door. “I’m not in the mood for games, Carlos. If you want me to play the part of doting wife tonight, then drop this.” My voice wavers despite the low resonance of my warning.
“You think this is a game?” He reaches out and fingers the light scarf I have loosely tied around my neck.
Thankfully he hasn’t questioned why I’ve started wearing them. Thankfully the autumn days have grown cooler as the seasons start to turn so I have a valid excuse to be wearing more layers. Thankfully our relationship isn’t a physical one . . .
“Everything’s a game with you.” I turn away before he can carry on the debate, and storm across to where Maria stands on the top step, visible through the open front door.
She turns as I approach and the fear on her face when she realizes it’s me, not Carlos, is damn near palpable.
“What’s going on?” I stop beside her and take the hand she offers in mine. A small delivery truck is parked at the foot of the steps. A man in high-visibility work clothes waits beside it with his gloved hands tapping a rhythm on his thighs.
“Elena . . .” Maria’s eyes dart from my face to behind me and across to the truck in an errant pattern.
“Brilliant!” Carlos claps his hands loudly over my shoulder, making me jump. “Maria, open the other door so he can get our delivery inside easier.”
Maria gives my hand a squeeze before she darts over to unbolt and swing the second entrance door open wide. I return my gaze to the truck and note the writing on the side that marks it as property of the Kansas City International Airport.
“I was hoping for this last week,” Carlos muses, taking the steps at an agonizingly slow pace, “but the connecting flight was delayed.” He huffs. “And then the paperwork.”
My thoughts dart to the document he had me sign this morning as he rolls his eyes at the apparent inconvenience of it all. What the fuck did I sign for? I should ask what the hell he’s talking about, but I can’t bring myself to utter a single word. The flesh on my scalp prickles as the uniformed man disappears behind the truck and lifts a long control box off a hook. The whine of the small motor fills the air around us as the back lowers to make a platform for the guy to stand on. He steps onto the steel and reaches up to swing the rear doors open. Only his feet are visible as he climbs into the back.
The motor whines again as the platform raises to level out with the bed of the truck.
“I haven’t been this excited for a delivery since I bought my first new car off the showroom floor.” Carlos grins, his eyes glazed as he watches the show before us.
The heavy breaths of the delivery guy as he drags something along the truck floor precede his feet reappearing. His boots make the gravel crunch as he drops back down, control box in hand. My heart is in my throat as I watch him lower the platform to the ground, the cargo slowly revealed as he does.
A long box sits on a wooden tray, w
rapped in what looks like industrial cling film—the sort they wrap new appliances with. Why does Carlos want me here for this? So he can show off his latest “toy”? Why did he need me to sign for it? Do I own it?
“What is it?” I frown as the delivery guy walks toward us with the packing notes he’s pulled from the wrap.
“I need the delivery documents also signed by the nominated next of kin,” the truck driver states, handing them over to Carlos. “I assume that’s you?”
“Actually, it’s her,” Carlos sneers.
Next of kin? I glance back at the long, rectangular box again and fight back the need to vomit as the driver hands me the papers. The country of origin for the consignment glares at me in bold black lettering. But she died months ago. Carlos told me she was buried by the state—that it was all taken care of. My hand shakes as I sign off on the delivery, my mind preoccupied with trying to work out a reasonable explanation that doesn’t involve Mama.
I draw a blank.
The driver takes the signed documents back and separates the different colored sheets to hand a pink copy back over. He hesitates as Carlos snatches it from me and reaches into his pocket to produce one of his gold-embossed business cards for the guy.
“Pass this on to your head of department and get them to send through bank account details for yourself and anyone else involved in the delivery. I’ll ensure your families receive a bonus in time for Christmas.” He nods tightly at the wide-eyed guy.
“Very generous of you, Mr. Redmond.” The middle-aged man takes the card and pockets it before he returns to the rear of the truck and closes it up. Does he care? Does he wonder what’s going on here? Or is he just happy to have a little extra for his family?
Maria appears at my side as Sully and our groundskeeper pass by, heading down the stairs to where the box sits on the driveway. The truck driver helps them lift it off the tray, and the three men start the arduous task of getting it up the steps. I seek out Maria’s hand as they pass our position and entwine my fingers with hers. She gives my hand a squeeze as the men reach the top step, and I glance up to find Carlos watching me over the top of the delivery.
“Why?”
If it were Mama in there, he wouldn’t have done it out of compassion for me. Oh no, this man only does something if he’s to benefit from it. Question is, what the hell could he benefit from by having Mama brought to the States for burial?
“I take by that look you’re giving me you’ve figured it out, dear?”
“It’s Mama’s remains, isn’t it?”
He nods; the whites of his teeth show as a sly grin spreads.
Sick. I’m going to be sick. “I haven’t worked out why, though.” I tilt my chin to this bully, this manipulator of emotion, and show my resolve not to let his games break me, despite the acidic unease that swirls in my gut.
Maria rubs my arm with her free hand as Carlos approaches the two of us. “Come inside. We’ll have an ‘unboxing’, shall we?”
Twisted fucker would probably film it for YouTube as well. “Lead the way.”
The truck driver heads out of the house, narrowly avoiding a collision with Carlos’s shoulder as the two men cross paths in the doorway. The poor guy gives me a sorry once-over and nods tightly at Maria and I. His boots hammer a beat down the steps toward the waiting truck, only amplifying my own fear of what’s to come. The engine starts, and I take my first step over the threshold, still clutching Maria’s hand whilst I suck in a deep breath to steel myself for part two of Carlos's twisted game.
I could cry and run to my room. I could scream at him until my face turned blue. But what good would any of that do? With or without me, Carlos will carry on with whatever fucked up thing he’s organized. The least I can do is be present for it and do my best to ensure Mama is treated with dignity.
Sully steps back from the box as the groundskeeper—I still don’t know his name—produces a pocketknife and flicks the blade out. The plastic wrap makes a horrible screech as he walks around the circumference of the cargo, tearing the wrap from the box. He pops the two plastic straps with the knife, and then proceeds to lift the lid of the cardboard box. My eyes are glued to the blue stenciled letters on the side that spell out “extreme care”.
Her coffin is simple. No embellishment, scrolling or fancy woodwork. It’s everything I would have expected out of Carlos: cheap, to the point, and functional. He stands in my peripheral and eyes me as the groundskeeper cuts the corners of the bottom half so that the box folds down to reveal the coffin fully. There’s no hiding my panic now; my chest rises and falls rapidly, and the sickness spins in my gut like an eddy of regrets.
Why didn’t I swallow my pride and return to Cuba? Why did I try so hard to stay, thinking it was my only chance at a relaxed retirement for Mama? Why was I so naïve? Mama didn’t need some fancy house in a safe neighborhood. She didn’t need a bountiful feast every Sunday, cooked in a spacious kitchen. She needed love and appreciation. She needed to be told that she was amazing, that she meant so much more to me than words could ever convey.
She needed her daughter by her side through the thick and thin, to hold her hand and tell her that no matter what, we had each other. That I appreciated every sacrifice she’d made for me to see me smile, to see me happy and healthy.
We may have been poor in the eyes of strangers, but the truth was we were rich. We had the kind of wealth money couldn’t buy. I never took the time to see it that way until now—until it was too late.
Maria’s arm snakes around my waist as the groundskeeper pockets his knife and leaves, pulling the front doors shut behind us. I’d love to think I’d be afforded a moment alone, a moment to grieve again and talk to Mama. But what kind of paradise do I think I live in? It comes as no surprise then when Carlos dives on the twist locks at the top like a child told he has free range over the presents under the Christmas tree.
Sully clears his throat and steps back, his hands clasped behind his back. A vein in his neck ticks as he watches Carlos strut around the coffin, my husband humming to himself as his fingers do their work. My rage also grows with each dull click until it burns inside my chest like a hellfire. I step out of Maria’s hold, worried she’ll wear the brunt of my anger if I don’t physically distance us.
“Elena?” She takes a step toward me, one arm outstretched.
“No.” I hold a hand up to halt her.
Carlos clicks the last latch and moves his gaze between us, one eyebrow cocked. “Show time.”
“No,” I repeat a little louder.
Carlos’s fingers curl on the edge of the coffin lid, prepared to lift. I dash forward and slam my hands down over his as I yell, “No.”
He shakes me off with venomous contempt. “This isn’t your show, whore. Back up.”
“Leave it alone,” I warn. The promise in my growled words surprises me for the briefest of seconds before it brings me power. I can do this. He won’t win this time.
“Maybe we should let—”
“Stay out of it!” Carlos cuts Sully short. “See this house?” he says to me, as he circles his hand at the extravagantly decorated ceiling above us.
I nod.
“Mine. And this?” He slaps his hand on Mama’s coffin. “Mine too.”
I beat his arm away from her and push him in the chest to make him stumble back. “The coffin might be yours,” I snarl, “but what’s inside isn’t.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, his jaw slack as he laughs heartily at me. “Really?” he manages to whoop out between breaths. “You think so?”
“She’s my mama!” I screech, unleashing the frustration of months under his oppression via my flailing fists.
Sully restrains my arms, gentle yet controlled. It’s as though he tries to hug and comfort me as much as pin me down. “It won’t help,” he murmurs close to my ear. “You won’t stop him.” His soft reminder does nothing to quell my resolve to stop this madness.
“Leave her alone,” I plead with Carlos. “Don’t
. Just don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he taunts as he saunters to where he was beside Mama’s coffin.
“Whatever you’re about to do.” It could be anything, but the one thing I’m certain of is that it’ll be bad. “Don’t’.”
He shakes his head, snickering as he pries the edge of the lid from the base. “My house, Elena. My rules. My game.”
Sully holds me as I collapse in his arms, sobbing as Carlos opens Mama’s coffin and slides the lid over the back. I want away from here. I want to be anywhere, in any time but now. I long for the innocence of childhood, of the lost memories of Mama and me, of safer, surer times. I want my mama back. I want her to hold me and tell me that this is only a nightmare.
I want what I can’t have.
A scream tears from my throat as Carlos produces a box cutter and reaches into the coffin. Sully’s strength is no match for my adrenalin-fueled force as I wrench from his hold. Carlos leans over the side of the wooden box, unperturbed by my hands that tug at his sleeves, and my nails that bite into his flesh. Tears blur my vision, but I can see enough to know without a shadow of a doubt it’s Mama’s stomach he cuts into.
“What are you doing?” My words are barely comprehensible as my vocal cords crack under the strain. “Stop it. Stop!”
Maria cries. Sully shouts. And still my husband hacks into my mother without a singular care in the world. Or perhaps he does care? For himself, for what he’s doing to me. For the permanent scars that will invisibly brand me for life after this.
One by one, he drops plastic-wrapped parcels to the floor with what I can only guess is cocaine inside.
I vomit on the tiles at our feet, too taken by the moment to move away. Even so, I scream at him, begging and pleading for him to show mercy and stop.
Package after package hits the tile with a dull slap. Blood stains the grout. The drugs pile up.
Dizziness envelops me, but I do what I can to stave off the darkness. I refuse to black out and give up the fight. Flesh under my nails, fresh wounds to Carlos’s face . . . none of it matters.