Layla had been so certain she’d never be on the back of Jesse’s bike again. And yet there she was, her arms wrapped tight around his waist and her face pressed into his leather jacket as they glided down the road toward Camel’s old motel room, the wind ripping strands of her hair out of her ponytail and stinging her eyes even through her shades as the saddle rumbled beneath her.

There was no passion between them this time; no fingers under her waistband; no marijuana buzz flowing through her veins. This was strictly business, and a grim task that neither of them wanted to undertake.

But they would. They had to. It was what families did.

Layla peeked up over Jesse’s shoulder as she felt the bike slow. Ahead of them loomed the Henhouse Motel, a notorious venue for dime-a-dozen hookers and the men who couldn’t afford better.

It was the last place she expected to see the DEA.

Jesse swung the bike into the side lot and killed the engine while Layla stripped off her jacket, peering around the corner to get a better look.

Two agents wearing identifying t-shirts were questioning a pretty young Hispanic woman near the bottom of a dilapidated set of stairs. She had her long black hair tied up at the back of her head, a mess of fraying curls that spun around her ears and fell into her face each time she nodded. Her arms were clamped tight beneath her breasts practically spilling out of her tank top, a feature at least one of the agents hadn’t failed to repeatedly notice during the course of their conversation.

“What’s up?” Jesse said quietly, stepping behind Layla to follow her gaze.

“I dunno,” she said. “They’re just talking to that girl over there.” She looked over her shoulder at Jesse. “Do you know her?”

“No,” he said. “But that’s Camel’s room up there above her. We ain’t goin’ nowhere until they’re gone.”

Layla flinched as the woman caught her out of the corner of her eye, and though she wanted to withdraw back around the side of the building, Jesse was pressing so close behind her that she couldn’t. She bumped into his broad chest and firm abs, and as her ass met his groin, she felt a little twitch come from between his legs. She tried to ignore it.

“Take off your jacket,” she said. “Before they see you.”

“I ain’t takin’ shit off for them,” he answered. “And neither are you.”

Layla shook her head. There was no use arguing.

But judging by the woman’s expression, there was no reason to worry, either.

She looked away from Layla and back to the DEA agents, but not once did she indicate that she’d seen either her or Jesse. A few minutes later, the agents drove off in their conspicuous black Crown Victoria, leaving the woman standing in her pajama pants at the bottom of the steps, fingering a gold cross around her neck.

“I’m gonna talk to her,” Layla said, stepping away from Jesse’s hardening crotch before her could tell her not to.

“Hey!” she said, moving quickly through the lot. She offered a little wave and the woman looked her way, offering a scrutinizing glare in return.

“Hey yourself,” she muttered, her eyes falling to the jacket Layla wore. “Guess you’re here about Carl too, huh?”

“Carl?” Layla asked. She stopped dead in her tracks. It was hard to explain, but hearing his given name made her feel like he was really, actually gone.

“You must be new or somethin’,” the woman sighed, turning her gaze on Jesse. “You Jesse, right? I’m Maritza—Camel’s girl. You can come on in and go through his things. Figure that’s what you here for anyway.”

Then she walked upstairs, pushed open the door to the room, and disappeared before either Layla or Jesse could answer her.

“I didn’t know he had somebody,” Layla said quietly. She wasn’t sure she wanted Maritza to hear.

“Me either,” Jesse admitted. “Me’n Camel never hung out much. Maybe we should have.” He sighed, rubbed the back of his head with his hand, and then made a gesture toward the staircase. “After you.”

Layla obeyed, slowly climbing the steps toward the seedy motel room Camel had called home.

“I been with him almost a year,” Maritza said once they were upstairs. She was making Cuban coffee in the tiny kitchen just off the living room, a cigarette between her fingers as she fiddled with the hot plate. “Not surprised he ain’t mentioned me, though. I ain’t exactly the kinda girl you tell people about—he didn’t make me feel that way, but I know it’s true.”

She swallowed, then pointed at the couch. “Why don’t you sit down? It’ll be ready soon.”

Layla looked at Jesse. She wasn’t sure she wanted to sit on the busted old sofa covered in stains and grime. But Jesse had no such reservations. He sat at one end, shirking his jacket in the stale room and allowing Layla to finally do the same. She draped it over the cushion before sitting down herself.

“Ain’t surprised he’s dead, neither,” Maritza continued, sucking on the end of the cigarette and blowing the smoke through her nose. “Sad, but that’s the kinda shit you gotta expect when you fuck with someone who does what you do. Guess you could say the same ‘bout a girl like me,” she added with a rueful smile.

“You’re a prostitute?” Layla asked her. Jesse gave her a look, but Maritza just laughed.

“Girl, I’m a hooker,” she said, leaning back on the counter while the metal carafe heated through. She looked at Jesse. “Where’d you find this one?”

“At her mommy and daddy’s,” he grumbled, shooting Layla another sideways look. “It’s a long story.” Then he softened and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Maritza shrugged. “It’s okay. He gave me somethin’ nice to look back on. Saved me from a world of trouble, once upon a time. Though I supposed he never told you about that.”

“No,” Jesse said, watching as she rooted through the half-rotted cupboards and dusted off some Styrofoam cups. “He never did.”

“Same fuckers who got him almost got me,” she said. “I was only fifteen when Pablo Nuñez and his crew sold me to Los Muertos. El Coyote, man—he was a bastard. Lent me to all his men whenever they wanted. He took the very best parts of me. Might as well have cut ‘em out with a knife. Maybe he would have, too, if Camel hadn’t saved me.”

Layla blinked. “Camel saved you from Los Muertos?”

“Claro,” she answered. Then she wrinkled her forehead and looked over her shoulder. “You don’t even know why he was called ‘Camel,’ do you?”

“He always just said it was a long story,” Jesse said. Apparently he didn’t know, either.

Maritza brought over two cups and handed them to both Jesse and Layla. Only a very small portion of the bottom was filled with a black, steaming liquid that only faintly resembled coffee. Layla looked up at her.

“Is this it?”

“That’s all you need,” Maritza answered, then returned to the kitchen to pour her own small cup.

“Carl used to help out a lotta us immigrants,” she said, sitting up on the counter. “We’d get into trouble with somebody like Pablo Nuñez, and he’d help us get outta it. He was some kinda pastor’s son or somethin’, but when the church stopped givin’ everybody asylum, he started goin’ out on his own.”

She looked at Layla and Jesse over the rim of her cup. “They called him Camel ‘cause he could cross half the damn desert without takin’ a drink of water—he saved all that for the immigrants. Like a goddamn camel. You know?” She smiled. “He did a lot for me. He did a lot for a lotta people. When he took me away from El Coyote… I thought I was in heaven. I was sure he was an angel. I guess now he is.”

Layla felt Jesse shift on the seat next to her. When she looked over at him, his face was taut.

“So you used to fuck around with Los Muertos, huh?”

“Yeah,” Maritza said. “Fuckin’ cabrones.”

“Is that how they knew Camel was there at the Bottle Cap that night?” he asked her. “Did you tell ‘em he was there?”

“Jesse,” Layla began, but Maritza was way ahead of her.

“Maybe you weren’t listenin’, but me and Los Muertos got no love for each other. Me’n Camel, though?” She hesitated, then made a gesture to her abdomen. “Why would I do my baby daddy like that?”

Jesse balked. “You’re… you’re pregnant?”

“Yeah,” she said. Then, softer, “For now.”

Jesse stood up, abandoning his coffee to approach Maritza. “Look, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. The Marauders—we take care of our own.”

“I know,” Maritza answered, smiling as she shrugged her small, rounded shoulders. “But it ain’t gonna work without him around, you know? El Coyote got me hooked on smack years ago. Camel was keepin’ me sober. I ain’t so sure I can do that anymore. Trust me, it’s better this way. For everybody.”

Jesse stopped, gave a little nod, and ran his hand through his hair. “I hate to ask, but… do you have any idea who Los Muertos was distributing to?”

“More than a few, but…” She frowned pensively. “I remember the Sidewinders and Los Santos Negros, for sure. The Jackal’s Sons, too. The rest is just a blur.”

“No, that’s good,” Jesse assured her. “You’ve been a big help. Thanks.” He turned to Layla. “Can you go through Camel’s stuff while I make a few calls?”

She nodded. “Anything I’m looking for?”

“Just see what we can donate,” he answered. “Anything we can’t, you and Maritza can figure it out.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Oh, Maritza—those DEA agents. Were they for him or for you?”

“They were here for Los Muertos,” she said. “They think Camel’s death was drug-related.” She arched an eyebrow. “Was it?”

“Yes,” Jesse said softly. “But Camel didn’t touch the stuff.”

“Then he died for nothin’,” Maritza said, taking another long drag off her cigarette. “Good to know.”

“Not for nothing,” Layla said, looking up from her coffee. “He died protecting me.”

Maritza was quiet for a little while. As Jesse opened the door, she managed another smile.

“That’s good,” she whispered. “That makes it a little easier.” Then she looked at her belly, not yet swollen, and added: “It ain’t easy bein’ bad. And it ain’t worth it, neither. I wish I’d learned that sooner.”

Me too, Layla thought, though she dared not say it out loud.