I think about lying just to avoid conflict. I’ve been doing that more and more these days. After a short pause, I push aside the urge and move his hands off my hips. “It’s a special occasion. One of April’s relatives just got out of prison.”
“Who’s April?”
“Noah’s wife.”
I know that Chip remembers her. He always takes note of pretty women. “I’m going with you.”
This is exactly what I was afraid of, but I don’t argue. I have to pick my battles with Chip. He can be hot-tempered, depending on his mood and the amount of alcohol he’s consumed. I tell myself it’s not his fault. He’s a dedicated athlete, big man on campus, born to a wealthy family. Guys like him expect their girlfriends to fall in line.
And I had. I did.
Chip follows me into the bedroom, where I choose a pair of ballet flats. He grabs a pair of metallic gold high heels instead. “Wear these.”
Saying nothing, I don the flashy shoes. He likes me to look a certain way when we’re together. I think he enjoys having a leggy blonde on his arm. Before we leave, I glance at our reflections in the mirror. He’s tall and handsome, with wavy brown hair. His jeans and polo shirt are sporty and expensive. We make an attractive couple, but there’s something missing between us.
We used to have fun together. When we first met, he was hard to resist. He followed me to my car after class one day, begging for a date. He was bold and brash and full of confidence. I felt flattered. He put a lot of effort into chasing me, and I liked the attention. I liked his persistence. Of all the girls on campus, he chose me.
Our relationship hit the skids as soon as I moved in with him. Then he stopped pursuing me and started trying to control me. It’s almost as if he considers me his property now that I live in his apartment. He seems to want a maid, a cook, and blowjobs on demand. I wouldn’t mind taking care of his needs if he returned the favor.
Maybe I’m expecting too much from him. He is what he is, an MLB-bound superstar athlete who bats .390 and fields like a dream. He’s got money to burn and family connections. I understood what I was getting into when I agreed to go out with him. There are dozens of girls who’d kill to be in my glittering sandals right now.
The problem isn’t Chip. It’s me. I haven’t told him that I’m not happy. I’ve stayed quiet instead of challenging him. We have a superficial relationship, and I’m reluctant to take it deeper. After what happened with Eric, I’m not up for another heartbreak.
I can’t bear to compare the two of them, either. That’s why I don’t want them in the same room together. There’s no contest between my live-in boyfriend and the love of my life.
Stupid.
After all this time, I still have feelings for Eric. I’m worried that seeing him again will bring up bad memories—or good ones. My desire for him might come rushing back. Or maybe the opposite will happen, and I’ll wonder why I ever gave him the power to hurt me.
Then I’ll be free.
We take Chip’s fancy sports car. He drives too fast, as usual. It’s a twenty-minute trip from Midtown to Chula Vista, a lively San Diego suburb that skirts the border. My brother, Noah, is a homicide detective on the local police force. I like the vibrancy and mix of cultures here. Chip calls it Little Tijuana.
He parks at Noah’s house, so close to the curb that I can hardly open my door. Getting out of the low-slung vehicle in a skirt and high heels is a challenge. Chip comes around to offer me a hand after I’ve already managed on my own.
“You look hot,” he says in my ear.
I adjust my hem and keep walking, flustered. He has this thing about PDA and making suggestive comments. I hope he acts like a gentleman while we’re inside. My stomach is tied in knots and I feel like throwing up.
We go in and say hi to April. She looks fantastic, as always. Chip lays on the charm but doesn’t overdo it. Noah and Eric are outside. Jenny gives me a big hug, which both distracts and soothes me.
“Eric brought me a present,” she says, showing me a colorful toy.
“Cool.” I smile and tug on one of her pigtails. She’s like a little sister to me. When I lived here with April and Noah, I took care of Jenny after school. We’d make cookies and do homework together. I miss hanging out with her.
April is fluttering around the kitchen. She’s got a red apron stretched over her cute belly. I wash my hands at the sink and offer my help.
“It’s all done,” she says.
“How’s my little sobrino?”
She smiles at my question. “Could be a sobrina.”
I predicted a boy, but I’m excited either way.
While I’m standing there, April makes a startled face and reaches for my hand, placing it on the side of her baby bump. Something moves beneath my palm and I gasp in wonder. It feels more like a somersault than a kick. She laughs at my expression.
Then Noah comes in from the backyard with a tray of carne asada. He delivers it to April, nodding hello to me and Chip. Eric follows close behind. My mouth goes dry as Eric and Chip size each other up.
God.
He looks different. Three years ago he was twenty, lean and dark and boyishly handsome. He’s not boyish anymore. His shoulders are broader. He looks taller, though not quite as tall as Chip. His hair is still black, longer on top and razor-short on the sides. He’s wearing new jeans with scuffed work boots and a gray button-down shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal his tattooed forearms.
There’s no sign of the brown bandanna he used to wear as a wrist cuff. He’s hard-edged and guarded. Not exactly a stranger, but not the boy I knew.
Chip steps forward to greet him. “What’s up, man? I’m Chip.”
“Ship?” Eric shakes his hand. “I’m Eric.”
“It’s Chip,” he repeats.
“Like potato chip,” Eric says.
Noah coughs into his fist, covering a laugh, and Chip bristles as if no one has ever made this comment before. Maybe they haven’t. Chip’s led a charmed life. I don’t think Eric is mocking him, but I can’t tell. Either way, it’s a rough start.
And it gets rougher the instant Eric’s gaze settles on me.
My breath catches in my throat and the moment freezes in time. There’s no lack of emotion between us, even after three years apart. Everything missing in my relationship with Chip is right here, simmering below the surface.
So much for letting go.
“Meghan,” he says quietly, his dark eyes skimming down my body. He curls his hands into fists and shoves them into his pockets.
I just stand there, too awkward to even say hello.
“Let’s eat,” April says in a bright voice.
The actual meal portion of the dinner goes well. Eric and I sit on opposite ends of the table, ignoring each other. Noah engages Chip in a conversation about baseball. My brother doesn’t like Chip, but he makes an effort to be friendly. The elephant in the room is my former relationship with Eric.
Chip is polite and pleasant, to my relief. He has an easy way with women, so April and Jenny respond well to his charisma. Noah is a tougher sell, and Eric is beyond reach. Chip doesn’t heckle Eric or mad-dog him. He doesn’t boast about his car or his batting average. He compliments the tacos and applies salsa too liberally. I hide a smile when his face turns red and he chugs his soda.
After dinner, Noah helps April with the dishes. My brother is a progressive type, though we were raised in a conservative Christian household. He’s been over the moon since April got pregnant. He’ll do anything for her.
Eric catches me watching them.
I glance away quickly, my cheeks hot. I think he likes the way I look. He always seemed to notice me above other girls, as if I were special, or prettier somehow. But that might be part of his game. After he had me, I wasn’t special anymore.
Jenny tugs on my hand, a welcome distraction. “Come see my room.”
I rise from the table and follow Jenny out of the kitchen. Chip comes with us, but he ducks into the bathroo
m before we head upstairs. The door to the den is open. Eric must be staying in there, sleeping on my old bed.
Jenny’s room is decorated with leftover balloons. She’s got more than a dozen of Eric’s letters on her dresser. He sent her handmade cards with beautiful, colorful drawings.
I remember the single letter I wrote him. He never responded. It was returned by the post office, unopened. I kept the scented envelope stashed in my desk. It’s probably still there, waiting to be discovered. My heart stalls as I consider the embarrassing contents. That letter was full of first-love angst and nineteen-year-old hormones.
I make a squeak of panic.
“What’s wrong, Tía?” Jenny asks.
“I have to do something,” I tell her.
Unfortunately, Eric and Chip are standing at the bottom of the staircase. I can’t slip by them and sneak into the den. They both watch me come down the stairs. My skirt seems to shrink with every step. My legs are too long, the heels too high and flashy.
I feel exposed. On display.
“What were you in for?” Chip asks Eric.
“Manslaughter,” Eric replies.
“Yeah?” Chip’s gaze sharpens. He’s got a mean streak that translates into aggressive play on the field. Off the field, it’s not an admirable quality. “Who’d you kill?”
Eric looks from Chip to me and back again. “A rival.”
Chip doesn’t miss the challenge in Eric’s tone. He might be a jock, but he’s not dumb. His neck flushes red, like a warning flag.
“We have to go,” I say, threading my arm through Chip’s. “I have a ton of studying to do. Midterms.”
Eric keeps his focus on Chip. “Sure. Thanks for coming.”
It’s rude to leave without saying goodbye to April or wishing Eric good luck, but I’m worried about my ticking time-bomb boyfriend. I practically drag him out the door.
Chip doesn’t appreciate my efforts. As soon as we’re on the sidewalk, he takes control by gripping my arm. His fingernails dig into my flesh. I can’t cry out in pain or pull away without causing a scene, so I grit my teeth and endure the rough treatment. Eric isn’t the only one who might object. Noah is even more likely to throw a punch at Chip for manhandling me, and that’s the last thing I want. Chip’s family is litigious.
It’s a short walk to Chip’s car. He opens the door and lets go of my arm so I can climb in. Tears blur my vision as he gets behind the wheel and starts the engine.
“Did you fuck that wetback?”
I blink several times, stunned by his wording. Chip has never before used a racial slur in my presence.
“Did you?”
“I’m not going to talk to you until you calm down.”
He drives in sullen silence, taking the turns too fast. After a few miles, his rage seems to dissipate, evaporating as quickly as it materialized. “I’m sorry,” he says in a gruff voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not. I’m more disturbed by the offensive language he used than the pain in my arm.
“I shouldn’t have said…what I said, either. That was messed up.”
I stare out the window, my throat tight. Chip is rowdy and immature. He’s a year younger than me and two years younger than Eric. He’s got a lot of growing up to do. His wealth and privilege have insulated him from the struggles that help build character. But at least he can acknowledge when he’s wrong and apologize.
“I was with Eric a long time ago,” I say, owning up to the relationship. “You’ve got no reason to be jealous.”
“Did he kill a guy over you?”
“Of course not. He killed a rival gang member in a knife fight. It was self-defense.”
Eric defended me once, when I was drunk at a beach bonfire. One of my male coworkers followed me away from the crowd and attacked me. Eric stepped in and beat the hell out of him. He was my hero, dangerous and exciting.
Ironically, I met Chip under similar circumstances. Some jerk was trying to take advantage of my best friend at a frat party. When I stepped between them to protect her, the guy shoved me backward. I bumped into Chip, spilling his drink. Chip dragged the offender outside and kicked his ass. Sometimes he uses his brawn for good. I’ve always wondered if he cared more about his spilled drink than me or my friend, though.
“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” Chip asks.
I sigh, shaking my head.
“I felt like a fool, Meg. He was laughing at me.”
“He wasn’t laughing at you.”
“He was looking at you.”
Chip’s friends also look at me, and he seems to get off on it, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything else.
Chapter 3
Eric
Fine Ink is in the university area, about ten miles north of Chula Vista.
April offers to give me a ride during her lunch break, but I decline. She only has an hour, and San Diego traffic can be a bitch. I’d rather take the bus and maintain my independence. I’m not used to counting on other people. Alliances are necessary in certain situations, but it’s better to stay out of debt and handle your own business.
I can’t hide behind Junior or CVL anymore. I’m on my own now, and I’m not going back to prison—ever. My dad died in San Quentin. My brother overdosed at Donovan State. I can’t pretend that I’ve made better decisions than they did, but I won’t follow in their footsteps. I already know where that path ends.
I take the bus to the transit center, where I study the map carefully. There’s a free schedule in a clear dispenser. I put one in my pocket and board the Midtown bus. I’m almost an hour early for my interview, so I duck into a restroom to check my appearance. It’s a hot day, and I’m sweating. I take off my shirt and blot my armpits with paper towels. Then I hold the damp fabric under the hand dryer.
Some puto walks in and does a double take at my bare chest. “What the fuck are you looking at?” I ask in Spanish.
He grunts a non-response and steps up to a urinal.
I put my shirt back on, cursing under my breath. I need to get a grip. The guy isn’t a threat to me. This is a public place, not my personal territory. I’m so used to acting hard, I don’t know how to be normal anymore.
I leave the restroom and spend the next twenty minutes in an air-conditioned grocery store. It reminds me of the place I met Meghan. We both used to work at Bonita Foods on Broadway. I was a stock boy and she was a bagger.
The dinner last night was awkward. Meghan’s boyfriend is a fucking asshole. I guess I shouldn’t have baited him, but screw it. Anyone with the balls to ask me who I killed shouldn’t be surprised that I have the balls to answer.
Meghan looked uncomfortable—and hot. She’s even more beautiful now than she was three years ago. More mature, with her perfect makeup and sophisticated clothes. Her hair is still kind of short, honey-blond, and chin-length. Her legs are long and sleek. I remember every second I spent between them.
I buy a bottled water and walk across the street to Fine Ink. It reminds me of an old barbershop, with one of those swirly poles out front. There’s a multicolored brick façade and big, spotless windows. The décor is sort of industrial-looking. I see black leather benches and polished wood chairs as I venture inside. The floor is smooth concrete. One wall is covered with framed photographs of tattoos.
My gut clenches with a mixture of anxiety and admiration. This place is way too good for a lowlife like me.
“Can I help you?”
The receptionist is Asian and high-class hot. She’s wearing a revealing tank top. She has long black hair, dark eyes, pretty brown skin. It’s a struggle to keep my gaze from drifting south. “I’m Eric Hernandez. I have an interview at noon.”
She looks me up and down, smirking. Her cheeks are pierced with silver studs, but I don’t see any tattoos. “Wait right here,” she says and disappears around the corner.
I sit on a bench in the reception area, taking my portfolio out of my backpack. Noah to
ld me to bring it along just in case. I’m sweating again. My fingers leave damp marks on the battered manila folder. I want to examine the photographs on the wall, but I stay seated. There’s a stack of magazines on a coffee table made of inlaid sea glass.
“You can come on back,” the receptionist says to me.
I jump to my feet, almost dropping my portfolio. She laughs at my overeager attitude. I get my stuff together and follow her to a back office. She gestures for me to go through the door. There’s a guy inside with longish, silver-threaded hair, a goatee…and a robot leg. A prosthetic, I guess it’s called. My eyes dart up from the skinny metal ankle and curved base.
“I’m Matthew Fine,” the guy says.
I step forward to shake his hand. “Eric Hernandez.”
“Take a seat,” he says, walking behind the desk. “Is that your portfolio?”
“Yeah.” I pass it to him and pull up a chair.
He flips through the pages quickly, making no comments. “How many tattoos have you done?”
“Hundreds.”
“Do you have photos?”
I shake my head. I assume he knows I’ve been in prison, doing amateur tats with makeshift equipment.
“I can’t evaluate your full potential without seeing your work on skin.”
I unbutton my cuff and roll up my sleeve, revealing my best tat. It says chula vista in block lettering with a cityscape background. I’m proud of the piece’s clean lines. For a jailhouse tattoo, it’s pretty tight.
He frowns in disapproval. “You should never do your own tattoos.”
I let my cuff fall back down, deflated. Everyone in Chino thought I was the shit. This guy isn’t impressed, but he’s a legitimate artist with a successful tattoo business. I’m an ex-con nobody. It’s a miracle I even got an interview at a place like this.
“Did you wear gloves in the joint?”
“I didn’t have any, but I was tested when I got out. I’m clean.”
He closes my portfolio. “Professional tats are a totally different ballgame. The equipment we use here is very sophisticated. There are serious health and safety standards.”
Against the Wall Page 2