“Yes.”
“How?”
She smiles at my question and waves me into the open room. There’s a body art book with illustrations and color photos.
“Holy fuck,” I say.
“I pierce the clitoral hood, not the clit itself.”
I’m not sure what the difference is, so she shows me a diagram. I feel like a dumbass but she’s nice about it. “We have coupons at the salon next door,” she explains, closing the book. “Ladies get waxed and come over here after.”
“Do guys get their dicks pierced, too?”
“Yeah, but not as often. Tank handles those. I’m sure he has some pictures, if you want to see them.”
“No.”
She laughs at my expression and we return to the reception area. There’s a phone greeting I have to memorize, and extension numbers to learn. She says I need to get familiar with the pricing book and the cash register. In addition to being the janitor, security guard, and errand boy, I’m supposed to fill in behind the front desk whenever Rose is occupied with piercings.
It’s a lot to take in.
The environment is electric, buzzing with energy and busier after dark. I want to watch the artists do tattoos but I don’t get a break. The first time I answer the phone I accidentally hang up on someone. Then a drunk guy vomits on the sidewalk by the entrance, and it takes three buckets of water to clear away the mess. I feel like the magician’s apprentice. During one of my trips outside, I bump into Tank’s arm.
“Watch where you’re fucking going,” he growls at me. He’s got a hot girl on his chair with her midriff bared.
My first instinct is to respond with aggression, but I catch myself. This isn’t prison. I’ve had my arm jostled while I was tattooing before and it sucks. So I don’t trip out. I just apologize for my mistake and move on.
My bad.
It’s not all unfortunate blunders and close calls. I’m pretty good at the front desk. I make myself useful by translating Spanish for a walk-in client. I watch the way Rose greets customers and try to follow suit. I like the creative vibe in the shop. It’s no hardship to admire fresh ink, and all of the artists do excellent work.
At the end of the night, Rose turns over the closed sign and we get ready to leave. Tank gives me a fist bump, which is better than I deserve. Gina leaves with another woman I assume is her girlfriend. Then Rose collapses in her office chair and Matthew stands at the counter, assessing me.
“He’s a natural at customer service,” Rose says.
Matthew doesn’t disagree, and I’m encouraged by the praise. I was worried that I’d be jumpy and combative, but I stayed chill. “You can come back tomorrow,” he says to me. “But don’t get cocky.”
“Yes, sir.”
He rolls his eyes and walks away. His mechanical lower leg makes a sharp contrast to the strong, suntanned calf on the other side. I wonder what happened to him, and if he was this grumpy before the accident.
Rose might tell me, but I won’t ask with him in earshot. “Can I walk you out?”
“I have to balance the books.”
I nod and say good night, grabbing my backpack from behind the counter. It’s just after ten and the bars are still hopping. Young women in skirts and high heels are chatting in the distance, their laughter boisterous.
I don’t have a curfew. I’m free to stay out late and do whatever I like. The possibilities are endless.
When I left Noemi’s, I didn’t ask for her number. I just took what I wanted and got out. She seemed to have a good time. I know I did. But I don’t plan on going back for more. She’s not the best choice for a no-strings hookup.
I walk to the bus stop, avoiding the temptation of bars and tipsy girls. Most of the guys I was locked up with were drug addicts or alcoholics. My brother and my dad both had issues with substance abuse. In the halfway house they emphasized the importance of sober living. A lot of parolees get drunk and fuck up within a month of their release. They go right back to prison. That’s not going to be me.
It’s almost midnight when I arrive at Noah and April’s house. The lights are still on in the living room. April is awake, folding laundry.
“Waiting up for me?” I ask.
“No,” she says, blinking.
I arch a brow at the obvious lie.
“Okay, yes. Kind of. I wanted to see how your first day went.”
“It went well.” I sit down and tell her all about it.
She watches me with a strange expression, sort of happy and sad at the same time. “You look so much like Raul.”
My gut clenches with unease. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says, shaking her head. “Jenny makes this face when she’s excited that reminds me of him, too. It’s the eyebrows.”
I realize that Noemi isn’t my only secondary victim. My absence hurt Jenny, too. We were very close before I went away. Now she’s shy with me, like I’m a stranger she only half-remembers.
My eyes start burning so I look down at the stack of clothes between us.
April puts her hand on top of the pile. “I thought you might be able to use some of Noah’s old stuff. The pants will be a little too long, but the shirts will definitely work. I washed a few things for you, too.”
The jeans I was wearing yesterday are in the stack. “You don’t have to do my laundry.”
She moistens her lips, nervous. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“About what?”
“I found some condom wrappers in the pocket.”
I fall silent, embarrassed. She’s not my mother. We’re not even related, and I’m an adult. My sex life is none of her business.
“I know Meghan came over…”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. No wonder she’s so concerned. “It wasn’t her.”
April appears skeptical. Maybe she should be. Meghan is a dizzying temptation for a recently released inmate, and I’ve crossed the line with her before. I was very close to doing it again the other day, despite my promise to Noah.
“I went to Oscar’s house,” I say.
“Oscar Reyes?”
“His ex-girlfriend was there.”
“Eric. You didn’t.”
I don’t say anything. Obviously I did.
“Are you crazy? You’re going to get Eastside all stirred up again.”
“It was just a one-time thing.” It was three times, but whatever. “No te preocupes.”
“Don’t tell me what to worry about.”
I put up my palms in surrender. The pregnant lady is always right. And this is why I need my own place. The last thing I want is for her to be wringing her hands and losing sleep over me. “I’ll try to stay out of trouble, or at least get rid of the evidence.”
She frowns at my joke.
“I’m sorry,” I say seriously. “For everything. For going away.”
Her eyes fill with tears and my throat closes up. We might not be blood, but she’s my family and I love her. I know the hurt and disappointment I’ve caused her. I don’t want to hurt her ever again.
I kiss her on the cheek and take my stack of clothes into the den. I’m tired, but too keyed up to sleep. I think of the assignment I’m supposed to do for group. Sitting down at the desk, I find a pencil and paper.
Of all the secondary victims, who should I address this to? Noemi, April, Jenny?
Meghan?
None of those options feel right. I turn the pencil over and over in my hand, considering the cycle of violence. Who pays the highest price when a family member gets killed or goes to prison? My mother was devastated by Raul’s death, and by my father’s death thirteen years ago. I was devastated, too.
Raul and I were on our own after my mom went back to Mexico. I was ten. My brother was eighteen. She couldn’t support herself, much less us. We had better opportunities in the US, but we needed supervision. Raul wasn’t an appropriate guardian for me. He raised me to be a criminal, and the gang became our family.
When I imagine Oscar’s children growing up without him, something clicks inside me. Those kids could be me and my brother. They could be the next generation of gang members. Boys tend to follow in their fathers’ footsteps.
That’s one of the reasons they call it a cycle.
Gut churning, I start to write.
Chapter 8
Eric
I wake up early to make breakfast.
I want to show my appreciation to Noah for helping me get a job and giving me a place to stay. I’m also hungry for some of the dishes I grew up with. My grandma taught me how to make chilaquiles when I lived with her.
It’s hard to be out and not see my family, but I can’t cross the border and they can’t afford to come here. Although my dad was born in the US, my mom never got citizenship or learned English very well. After he died, she went back to Mexico with a broken heart. Now she’s remarried and living in Zacatecas. I’ll visit her as soon as I’m off parole.
I find all of the necessary ingredients for chilaquiles. I brown the chorizo and scramble some eggs. Then I throw in the salsa and corn tortillas, sliced into small squares. My grandma served it with a dollop of crema, but April doesn’t have that. Instead I grate some cheddar cheese to melt over the top.
Noah comes in from his morning run when I’m finished. His T-shirt is damp with sweat and he looks pretty ripped. I know he has some gym equipment in the garage. I wonder what he’s lifting these days. I realize that I’m staring at him so I avert my gaze. He’s going to think I turned gay in prison.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Chilaquiles. Want some?”
He grabs a plate and helps himself. Then he takes the orange juice out of the fridge and pours several cups. April comes downstairs in a robe belted above her belly, greeting Noah with a kiss. They don’t use tongue or anything, but both linger over the contact. I watch them with a mixture of envy and embarrassment.
Jenny joins us in her pajamas, her hair mussed and her eyes bright. “It smells like my abuelita was here.”
April makes them both a plate and I serve myself the rest. Then we all sit down at the table like a family. Jenny loves the dish, Noah scrapes his plate, and April gets weepy for reasons I can’t fathom. Maybe she’s thinking of her own mother. I ask her in Spanish if the food is too spicy, and she says no.
“She cries when she’s happy,” Jenny says in the same language.
Noah squeezes April’s shoulder and takes her plate to the sink.
After breakfast he helps me load the dishwasher while Jenny and April get ready. “How’d it go yesterday?” he asks.
“Good.”
“You like it there?”
“Yeah. I’m stoked to go back.”
Noah gives me a curious study, as if he remembers me being a mouthy little punk and doesn’t quite trust that I’ve changed. I’m not sure I’ve changed, either. I was pretty close to making a move on his sister the other day, despite my promise not to. Instead of using Meghan, I used Noemi.
I’ve never been a nice guy. I don’t know if I can be.
I have an appointment with my parole officer before work. He barely glances at my paperwork before shuffling me along. This is the treatment I expect. Most people employed by the corrections system don’t have time to give any of us lowlifes their individual attention. It’s no wonder we end up back in the system. The waiting room is filled with gang members and violent offenders, like me.
I have a few hours to kill after I leave, so I decide to hit the library again. I’m walking across the parking lot outside of the community services building when a sleek black Impala slows down next to me.
Every nerve in my body stands at attention.
It’s not clear if the driver wants to ask for directions or open fire. Eastside isn’t gunning for me, as far as I know, but maybe April was right about Noemi. I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants, and now I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.
The passenger window is open. I don’t stoop to look inside. Lowering my head will give the driver a better view of me and a better angle to shoot. I just keep walking in hopes that it’s a case of mistaken identity or a false alarm.
“What the fuck, güey? You don’t call, and now you act like I’m invisible?”
I recognize the voice. It’s Junior.
Relief flows through me like fresh paint. I step toward the car window and lean in, grinning at my best friend. It’s good to see him again. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Who, Oscar? You fucking killed him, dumbass.”
I laugh at his dark humor.
“Get in.”
“I have to go to work.”
“When?”
“Pretty soon. I can’t party.”
“Who asked you to party? I said get in.”
Although I know it’s not a good idea to associate with a drug dealer and gang leader if I want to stay clean, I can’t resist. Junior is like a brother to me. He might be the devil on my shoulder, but he’s always got my back.
I get in.
He steps on the gas and roars through the parking lot.
“Who told you I was out?”
“Conejo saw you. He had an appointment earlier.”
“I didn’t see him.”
Junior shrugs, and I realize that he put a call out on me. Conejo is another member of CVL, and he’s a shady motherfucker. He didn’t approach me to say hi because he was instructed not to tip me off.
I study Junior while he drives, wondering if he has an ulterior motive for tracking me down. He’s stocky and muscular, with a shaved head and a goatee. He looks like the kind of guy who’ll beat you up and steal your girl, and that’s exactly what he is. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his aggression. He’s a leader, and sometimes a monster. Standing with him is safer than standing against him.
“You staying with April?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“How is she?”
“Married. And knocked up.”
“Still hot?”
I don’t answer; I don’t have to.
“Fuck, I’d do her anyway. Cram her even fuller.”
Junior has always had a crush on April, and he’s never been shy about sharing his sexual thoughts. Actually he’s not shy about anything. He has no boundaries whatsoever. “I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Tell her I said hi. She’ll get the message.”
I shake my head at the joke, picturing Noah’s reaction. He’d rearrange Junior’s face.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
My smile fades. “What?”
“You’ll see. It’s not far from here.”
“I only have an hour or two.”
“No mames, güey. It won’t take long.”
He drives fast enough to make me uneasy, but not so fast that I tell him to slow down. I know from experience that he’ll speed up if I complain. Although he appears healthy, he’s brimming with intensity, hyper-focused on the road. I suspect he’s wired.
“You gotten laid yet?”
“Yeah.”
“With who? La rubia?”
He means Meghan. “No. It wasn’t her.”
“Who?”
“Just some girl,” I say, looking out the window. It can’t get around that I slept with Oscar’s ex. Junior would love to needle Eastside by circulating the news. “I met her at the grocery store.”
He gives me a congratulatory fist bump. “How was she?”
“Good.”
“Tight pussy?”
“Why do you always ask that?”
“Why not?”
“She was a nice girl.”
He smirks at my answer. “What was her name?”
“Maria Elena,” I say, which is his mother’s name.
He grabs me by the back of the neck and tries to shove my head down on his lap. It’s one of his signature jokes, inappropriate and threatening and uncomfortably funny. I punch him in the ribs and break free from his grip, doublin
g over with laughter. He swerves a little but manages to stay on the road.
“Where did you get this car?” I ask.
“I bought it last month at a charity auction. Nice, right?”
“Hell yeah,” I say, envious. It’s a vintage muscle car, expensive without looking flashy. A pang of longing for my old Chevelle squeezes my chest. I miss being behind the wheel, independent and in control.
We talk about his family for a few minutes. He’s got a cousin in the hospital and he’s been pitching in to pay the bills. Despite his ruthless, reckless behavior, Junior is a caring person. He gives as generously as he takes.
Soon we’re headed south toward Border Field. He makes a right turn and we end up on a dusty road near the border. After a couple of blocks he pulls into a place called Scrappy’s. There are piles of junk and wrecked cars everywhere. It’s deserted. I shift in my seat, thinking this would be an excellent place for an execution.
The last time I went for a ride with Junior, he put a gun to my head.
That was the same day he shot up Oscar’s house, led a police chase, and crashed his car into a ravine. He was drunk at the time, and mourning his sister’s death, so I forgave him. He was out of his mind with grief.
Right now he’s in good spirits, and probably high on meth. I’m pretty sure I can trust him not to kill me, but I also know what he’s capable of—and who he answers to. It’s possible that La Eme gave him the order. They might want to test his loyalty. By trying to go straight, I’ve turned my back on the prison gang and made some dangerous enemies.
Blood in, blood out. That’s the rule. You can’t just walk away.
Junior parks among the rubble and cuts the engine. He smiles a little, as if he knows what I’m thinking. He likes scaring people, even me. “Look around.”
I study our surroundings and one of the cars catches my eye. It’s a ’72 Chevelle. It’s my ’72 Chevelle. I jump out and run toward it, examining the damage. The front end is smashed. It needs a new bumper and a new hood. Some of the windows are broken. I drop to my stomach on the grass and check the undercarriage.
Fuck. The chassis is busted.
I scramble to my feet, excited nonetheless. “How’d you find it?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he says. Maybe he does deals here.
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