“It wasn’t really a lie,” he says. “I saw her that day, but we didn’t hook up.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t feel right. I didn’t want her.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing’s wrong with her! She’s fucking hot. She’s just not you.”
I’m disturbed by this confession, and by the lengths he took to stay away from me. I feel like a burden on him, rather than a positive influence. He’s finally acknowledged the connection between us, but we still can’t be together. Not with this monkey on his back.
“If you give the car to this girl, Omar will leave you alone?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I think so. I’m going to meet him later this week and work out a deal.”
“Why do you have to meet him?”
“Because that’s how we do things. I have to talk to him in person. If I go behind his back, he might feel disrespected and keep coming after me. I just want to lay it to rest, once and for all. Then I’ll be free, and we can move on.”
“Can we?”
“I’d like to.”
“What if he’s looking to avenge his brother’s death?”
“Then I’ll take another beating.”
I remember how he looked after the fight with Oscar. He was in the hospital for several days, his face bruised and misshapen. The thought of him going through that again makes tears spring into my eyes.
“Ay, mami, no llores,” he says, bringing my head to his chest. “They won’t kill me. I still have powerful friends. Omar wants a car, not a war.”
I’m not reassured by this claim. Eric seems more concerned about macho gang rules than his future or his safety. Two days ago he was freaking out when a lowrider passed by. Now he’s trying to convince me that the threat is minimal?
I don’t think so.
But I don’t argue with him, either. He has to live his own life and make his own mistakes, just like I do. So I put my arms around him and savor his embrace. His body feels hard and strong against mine, his heartbeat true and steady. When he touches me, our problems fade. When we’re together, the world stops.
We walk back to my car, hand in hand, and he opens the gate. Before I drive away, he leans in the car window to brush his lips over mine. It’s a boyfriend kiss, dutiful and affectionate. Neither of us says a word as he retreats. I don’t like what he’s doing, but I won’t interfere. If he wants to change, I’m here for him.
If he wants to self-destruct, I’m gone.
Chapter 30
Eric
I spend the morning putting the final touches on my Chevelle.
Memories of the night before keep washing over me, making me sweat. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of disaster. Meghan might be up for anything in bed, but she’s not going to let me drag her down into the gutter. If I don’t get a handle on my life, I’ll lose her.
I hose off the dirt and change into fresh clothes for work. Then I ask Scrappy for a pink slip to my Chevelle. He writes one out with his name as the owner. I can add Noemi’s information to the other side, as if she bought it directly from him.
The engine doesn’t purr like a kitten, but she starts up on the first try and drives smooth. I entertain a few fantasies about making a run for the border. I could go to Ensenada, eat some fish tacos. Lobster tail in Puerto Nuevo. Then I’d head inland, all the way to my mom’s house in Zacatecas.
Tears burn in my eyes at the thought. It sounds pretty sweet, actually. I might be able to eke out a living as a tattoo artist, catering to drunk American tourists because I speak English muy bueno. But I could never come back. I’d never see Meghan again, or Jenny or April. That’s too high a price to pay.
I park a few blocks away from Fine Ink and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I put a new bandage on my eyebrow before I left the junkyard. I haven’t shaved recently, which adds to my disreputable appearance.
Damn. I won’t be earning any pretty-boy points from the clientele today.
I lock up my car and head inside. There’s a hushed atmosphere in the lobby. Matthew took a few days off while Kelsea was at the hospital, and today he’s driving her to a doctor’s appointment. I hope he doesn’t return before I have to leave, because he’s not going to be happy about me cutting out early. I keep my head down and start working.
Two hours later I’m tossing some trash bags into the Dumpster when Tank comes outside. He grabs me by the front of the shirt and slams my back into the wall.
What the hell?
My first instinct is to start swinging, but we’re at work, and he’s a lot bigger than me, so I restrain myself. He keeps a tight grip on my collar to hold me in place. He’s standing with one foot forward, one arm fully extended.
“I heard you were a tagger,” he says in a flat voice.
“So what?”
“Maybe you’re the one who vandalized the college and hurt Kelsea.”
“Get the fuck off me,” I say, showing him my fists. They’re already scraped and swollen from my fight with Noah. “I didn’t do anything to her.”
He doesn’t let go, and I’ve had enough. I don’t care if he’s built like a linebacker, has a thicker beard than I’ll ever grow, and can probably kick my ass in three seconds. When I warn someone to step off, I mean it. I sink my fist into his stomach, which feels about the same as the brick wall behind me. The blow seems to annoy him more than anything. He yanks me forward and throws me at the Dumpster, like I’m trash.
I slam into the metal side, hard. The impact reverberates from my shoulder to my fingertips and rattles my teeth. Gripping the edge of the Dumpster, I wait for Tank to come at me. He doesn’t move.
Matthew bursts out the backdoor. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I was just questioning him,” Tank says.
“About what?”
“About your daughter. All of this trouble started after he came.”
Matthew gives Tank an incredulous look. “He wasn’t anywhere near the college at the time of the accident.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he lives with my friend, who’s a cop. They were both home in downtown Chula Vista.”
Tank crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Sorry,” Tank says, shrugging. “My mistake.”
“Jesus Christ,” Matthew says. “I can’t leave for one afternoon without my employees brawling in the alley. Who made you Kelsea’s protector, anyway? I’m a cripple, so you think I need you to take up for my daughter?”
Tank flushes at this criticism. “I didn’t mean any offense.”
“Get back to work,” Matthew says to Tank.
“Yeah,” I say, “go pierce a dick.”
Tank flips me off over his shoulder.
“Do you have a death wish?” Matthew asks me.
“Maybe,” I say, still pumped up on adrenaline.
“I’ll see you in my office.”
I adjust the collar of my shirt as I follow him inside. He sits down at his desk with a concerned expression that fills me with dread. I take the seat across from him, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.
“You’re making me regret my employment offer,” Matthew says. “I could’ve sworn you said you don’t like fighting.”
“I don’t.”
“Funny how fists keep flying at you.”
“I haven’t instigated anything.”
“Right. You’re just unlucky. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
His sarcasm rankles, but I stay silent. Getting defensive will only lead to more trouble, and I have to take responsibility for my actions. I might not like fighting, but it seems to like me. I react without thinking.
“Tank didn’t do that to your face.”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Noah.”
“Noah started a fight with you?”
“He threw the first punch, yeah.” After I ta
ckled him, but whatever.
“What did you do to deserve it?”
I shrug off the question. My relationship with Meghan is none of his business.
Matthew leans back in his chair, drumming his fingertips against the desk. “Anthony sent me a picture of your mural.”
“He did?”
“I thought it was good. Great, actually.”
My throat closes up at the unexpected praise. “Thank you.”
“I appreciated the fact that you came to the hospital and prayed for Kelsea, too. That’s why this is hard to do.”
Shit. Here comes the hammer.
“I can’t have a loose cannon for an employee. I can’t have you showing up with bruises and bandages and swollen knuckles every week. I don’t care how talented you are as an artist. It’s not professional.”
“I understand.”
“You’ve got a lot of potential. I hate to see you throw it all away.”
I want to assure him that it won’t happen again, but I can’t. I might have to take another beating later tonight. “Are you firing me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“There’s something else I should tell you.”
“What?”
“I have to leave early to take care of some personal business.”
“Personal business? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want to keep this job?”
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
He swears, raking a hand through his hair. “Go on, then. You look like hell, anyway. I hired you to bring in customers, not scare them away. Don’t come back until you’re presentable. And be ready to explain what you’re going to do in the future to avoid pissing people off so much that they keep punching you in the face.”
I get out of there before he can change his mind about letting me return to plead my case. Maybe I don’t deserve any more chances. I’m disappointing everyone. I made Meghan cry this morning. I knocked April down yesterday. I fought with Noah and punched Tank. I’ve broken the vow I took in group therapy. I’m risking my job, my relationship, my future…for what? To pay a debt that I never should have owed in the first place?
I want peace, not violence. I want to stay out of trouble. But I don’t think walking away is the right thing to do. I have to face this problem in order to solve it.
After weighing my options, I consider an alternative. Instead of negotiating with Omar, I’ll just move forward with my plan. I can leave the car at Brown Field with the keys in the ignition and the pink slip signed over to Noemi. Then it will be a done deal. Omar can’t refuse after the fact. He can’t beat me up to avenge his brother if I’m not there. He can steal the car, but he’ll be stealing from her, not me.
If he doesn’t like my compromise, too fucking bad. I’m not in the gang anymore. I don’t have to play by their rules or follow their code. It sucks to lose my Chevelle, but at least I’ll have a clear conscience.
And I’ll have Meghan.
I let my mind wander to the things she might let me do to her, sexually. Then I imagine telling her that I love her, and my heart stalls in my chest. I can’t expect smooth sailing from here on out, but maybe everything will be okay. When I was a teenager, I used to picture going straight as a lifetime of boredom. That’s not what I envision now.
Traffic is heavy but I arrive at Brown Field well before sunset. It takes me a few minutes to find the place where I killed Oscar. I park among the dusty hills and fill out the pink slip. Then I leave it on the dash. Part of me wants to linger over the goodbyes, to reminisce about old times and pet the new hood I just replaced. But I don’t. I stick my hands in my empty pockets and walk toward the road. Toward a fresh start.
I don’t quite get there. I’m about a hundred yards from the nearest bus stop when I see a group of lowriders coming down the highway. They’re early, too. I have nowhere to hide, and I don’t want to call attention to myself by running.
So I grip the silver cross at my neck and bring it to my lips.
Que Dios me bendigue.
Chapter 31
Meghan
I can’t stop thinking about Eric.
I spend every spare moment replaying the night before, remembering how good it was between us, wondering if we’ll ever be together again. Maybe I should have yelled at him or issued some kind of ultimatum. I could have told him that if he goes to this foolish meeting, he can kiss our relationship goodbye.
I’m not sure it would make any difference, though. I can’t make these choices for him. He has to want to change—for himself.
My classes keep me occupied until noon. When I’m done for the day, I stop by Kelsea’s dorm room to pick up some stuff for her. Then I go to her dad’s house and help her take a shower before she leaves for her doctor’s appointment. I buy an iced coffee on the way to work. I’m tired and anxious, which isn’t a good combination for a roller-skating waitress, but I manage to do my job without dumping food or drinks on anyone.
I take a break after the dinnertime rush and glance at my messages. Earlier this afternoon I asked Kelsea to check up on Eric for me. She just sent me a text saying he left work early for reasons unknown. Frowning, I call her back.
“What’s up?” she says.
“Why did he leave?”
“I don’t know. My dad said he had personal business.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Son of a bitch!”
He’s meeting Omar tonight, not later this week. He lied to me.
“I have to go,” I say, hanging up.
I tear off my roller skates and shove them into the locker. Not bothering to change out of my uniform, I put on my shoes and grab my purse. On my way out, I spot my supervisor, so I make a sick face and press my palm to my abdomen.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“Female problems.”
He cringes and waves me away as if I’m cursed. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.”
I hustle outside and jump in my car, hoping I can reach Eric before he does something really stupid. Letting him make his own mistakes no longer seems like an acceptable option. He lied to me again, and I’m pissed. If he thinks he can get away with that, he’s dead wrong. I’m not some meek little mouse who never speaks up or challenges her man. Maybe I didn’t assert myself enough with Chip, but that was mostly out of apathy. I didn’t care about making our relationship better.
Everything’s different with Eric. My feelings for him are all-consuming. I love him and I hate him and I’m not going to hold back anymore. I’m not going to stand down.
The junkyard is closed when I arrive. I park in front of the gate, muttering curse words. I have no idea where else to look for him, so I get out and walk around the perimeter, trying to get a glimpse of his trailer. I can’t see it, but I’m close enough to note the empty space where his car used to be.
While I’m standing there, seething, another car pulls up next to mine. It’s a sleek black Chevy Impala. Not exactly a lowrider, but a cool muscle car in a more incognito style. The man who exits the vehicle is about Eric’s age, with a shaved head and a goatee. He’s wearing tan pants and a white T-shirt. Although there’s no brown bandanna around his wrist, like Eric used to wear, everything about him says gangster.
My stomach drops as he walks toward me. He’s tall and stocky, with tattooed arms. I think I should probably run, in case he wants to hurt me, but I don’t move. I came here knowing I was putting myself in danger. I’ve committed to this course of action.
He stops about five feet away, studying me. My work uniform feels abbreviated and ridiculous in this context, like a cheerleader costume. His gaze lingers on my legs and breasts before rising to my face. Then he glances through the fence links at the same empty space I noted a moment ago.
“Looking for Eric?” he asks.
I moisten my lips, uncertain. “Do you know where he is?”
“I might.”
>
I’m not sure how to react to his cryptic attitude. Maybe he expects me to offer him something in exchange for information.
“I’ll take you to him,” he says finally. “But you have to do whatever I say.”
That sounds like a bad bargain. “Can I follow you in my car?”
“No, chula. You have to ride with me.”
I nod my agreement, though I don’t intend to go anywhere with him. “I’ll grab my purse,” I say, walking toward my car. My plan is to climb behind the wheel and drive away. Then I’ll wait for him to pass by and follow him.
Easy, right?
Not so much. He grabs me by the arm well before I reach my car. Then he shows me a switchblade, letting it glint in the fading daylight.
Oh shit.
“Get in,” he says, shoving me toward the driver’s side door of his car.
I think he might be bluffing, but I can’t tell. I can’t even think. My mind goes blank at the sight of the knife in his hand. The self-defense techniques I’ve learned fade into nothingness. I remember one piece of advice: never let an attacker take you to another location, because you’re more likely to die there.
“Get in,” he says again, and I do it.
I get in.
He pushes me across the seat and climbs behind the wheel, pressing a button to lock all of the doors. Then he puts his knife away, because now what can I do? I’m trapped inside. “Don’t fuck with me while I’m driving.”
“My brother’s a cop,” I say.
“I know,” he says flatly, starting the engine. He gives me another once-over. “You look like him.”
I stare out the window, too scared to carry on a conversation. I don’t want him to hear my wavering voice or see my hands shake. It’s surreal. I feel sort of disconnected from my body, as if none of this is really happening.
I think I felt that way when Jack attacked me, too. But I was so drunk and stoned, it’s hard to remember the details.
The gang member—Omar, I’m guessing—drives east on the freeway, while I try to focus on breathing and staying calm. I think he’s going to use me as a bargaining chip. I’ll be okay. There’s no reason for anyone to cut me up into little pieces.
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