Mercy
FOUR DAYS HAVE passed since we got home. I thought life would go back to normal, back to the way we lived before we went to Mexico. I was wrong.
Now that I finally have the freedom I’ve been fighting for, I’m afraid to leave the house with anyone except Milo. He’s taken me to church, but the religious symbols only remind me of how they were used to control me. He took me to the beach, but the crowds made me nervous and I hated feeling so weak.
I’m not the only one affected. Even Milo seems on edge, always looking over his shoulder and suspicious of anyone who makes eye contact or stands too close.
Going back to the way things were is harder than we thought, and I’m afraid we’ll never get back to the ease of life before Mexico.
We spend most of our time in Milo’s room, scouring the paper for possible jobs. He’s looking for something at a garage. Everything I consider I quickly talk myself out of because it involves working around too many people or requires a high school education. Milo has suggested I go back to school, but the thought of walking the halls without him there makes me break out in a sweat.
I fold up the paper and rub my eyes. Squinting to read the tiny words is giving me a headache. I flop back on Milo’s bed, and he reaches a hand out to soothe me.
He’s at his desk, circling classified ads with a blue pen. “You okay?” He lifts his eyes to me and the corners of his mouth turn up.
“Just a headache.”
His smile grows wider. “You, uh . . .” He motions to my face.
“What?”
I roll off the bed and go to the full-length mirror in the corner of his room. At first I see nothing different—bare feet, soft green shorts, one of Milo’s Raiders T-shirts, my hair piled high on my head. I step closer and squint only to see black ink smeared all over my face.
“Oh.” I look down. My fingers are even blacker. I laugh and turn around to see Milo smiling, his shoulders bouncing with laughter. “So you’re saying this isn’t a good look for me?” I bat my eyelashes and pose like the models in magazines.
“Come here.” He’s still chuckling and holds out a hand.
I reach for him as his phone buzzes on the desk, the loud, quick noise making me shriek. I cover my mouth with my hand. Milo frowns. I hate how much he worries about me, but Laura assures me this new jumpiness is all part of the healing process.
She suggested I go back into counseling to “work through traumatizing events.” I agreed to go because I can’t stand to see the worry in her eyes either. She assures me the sessions will teach me how to feel safe again.
He hits a button on his phone and presses it to his ear. “Hello? Yeah.” His gaze darts to mine. “Yeah, Chief Bastilla, I appreciate that.”
My heart thumps a little harder, and I lower myself back onto the bed with shaky legs.
Milo mumbles a series of “Uh-huhs” and “Mms” and I wonder if this has something to do with me? If they’ve found some fingerprints and are prepared to press charges for Papa’s murder. My head gets fuzzy. With the room deadly quiet, I try to pick up on Bastilla’s voice but can’t make out anything that would give me a clue as to the purpose of his call.
Without warning, Milo’s hand whips out and grips mine. I squeeze his tightly, but he still avoids my eyes, keeping his gaze to the floor.
This is it. They must know.
I imagine what I’ll say to Milo once he breaks the news to me and decide I need to be strong for him. If he thinks I’m all right, he’ll be okay.
“I understand. Thanks for the heads-up.” He puts the phone down and tosses it back on the desk but doesn’t say anything.
“What is it?” I swallow with a dry mouth.
He sets his eyes on mine. “They got him.”
My thoughts come to a screeching halt. “Esteban.”
“Him, Sancho, a dozen others. They’ve all been arrested and the estate searched. Bastilla says they got enough to keep them locked away for life.”
“That’s good, right?” I can’t read from his blank expression how this news makes him feel. I expected him to be more relieved.
He seems to mull over the question then grins. “Of course it’s good.” He pushes up from his desk chair to crawl on top of me. “Best news we’ve gotten in a long time, right?”
“I was scared. I thought . . .” I don’t even want to say it, fearing someone will hear and know the evil I’ve done.
“Bastilla said there was no body just blood. They think Papa was injured but got away. We know better. The guy was dead.”
“What if we’re wrong? What if he comes back—”
He presses a soft kiss to my lips that warms me inside. “He was dead, mi alma. He had no pulse.”
“Why would someone steal his body?”
He drops to my side and slips a hand up my shirt to rest on my stomach. “Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe the guys who took him were afraid his fingerprints could be used to unlock information. Who knows? All that matters is he’s gone forever, dead, out of your life for good and hopefully rotting in the Mexican sun.”
My lip curls in disgust.
Milo chuckles and runs his finger along my lips. His expression turns thoughtful. “Nothing in the world seems right, then we’re together like this and it’s like the planets align.”
I close my eyes and absorb the feel of his gentle touch. He’s right. When we’re alone together, everything inside me settles and everything that’s wrong rights itself.
“If anything happens to me—”
My eyes pop open wide, and the world drops painfully off axis.
“I want you to know that you’ve changed me. I know you don’t think—”
“Why would you say that?” I sit up and wiggle away from his touch. “What are you saying?”
“Mercy.” His eyes are cast downward, and liquid fear runs through my veins.
“What else did Bastilla say? Why are you talking like this?”
“Shh . . .” He grips my shoulders and pulls me on top of him, framing my face with his hands. “Kiss me.”
“Not until you tell me.”
“I already told you. He got Esteban. Now kiss me.” He lifts his head to brush his lips against mine. “I love you. That’s all.”
My skin warms. I try to keep my hands at my sides but give in to his seductive kiss and grab his shirt. He helps me lift it and pull it over his head, and we quickly get rid of mine. My bra is next, and he rolls me onto my back as he slips his hand into my shorts. I bite his shoulder to keep quiet, and his hips jerk forward as if searching in desperate need.
“I love you too, Milo.” I’m just not sure I believe you.
Milo
I’M WALKING INTO Tyler MacMillan Auto Repair, feeling hopeful about my future for the first time in a long-ass time.
Two weeks have passed since Bastilla called to let me know Esteban was put away. The information carried a double-punch of conflicting feelings. On one hand, I’m grateful the guy has been put away. On the other hand, I know the LS will be looking for the person responsible. I was guaranteed that because of Esteban’s cartel and gang affiliations, he wouldn’t be allowed to receive visitors or letters until after the trial, which could take years because of the amount of evidence gathered. But I’m not naive enough to believe that’ll keep anyone from figuring out I was the rat.
Though in two weeks, I’ve not seen a single suspicious vehicle or face around the house or when I jog around the neighborhood.
To top things off, Damien, who already started his classes down at San Diego State, got his stepdad to hook me up with an interview with one of the biggest auto body shops in LA. This location is in El Segundo, which means we could move out and get our own place nearby. That is, if I can nail this interview.
I head in through the bay doors. The place looks fairly new. The space is much cleaner than I’d expect from a garage, down to the gunmetal, gray epoxy flooring.
A guy in a blue jumpsuit lifts his chin in my direction. “Can I help you?”
I adjust my new white dress shirt and hope like hell the zipper on my tan slacks is zipped up. “I have an interview at four o’clock.” I hold out a hand. “Milo Vega.”
The man wipes his hands on a rag and returns the handshake. “You’re right on time. I’m Travis O’Neil. Frank had a lot of great things to say about you. Why don’t I give you a tour, and then we’ll go have a chat in the office?”
“Great.”
The tour and interview went better than I expected. Turns out, Travis and Damian’s stepdad, Frank, graduated from Washington High. Travis even said he had Mr. Yuki for science, and we shared stories about all the weird shit he keeps in jars.
After an hour of talking, he offers me the job at twenty dollars an hour to start, benefits, and a raise after ninety days to twenty-two dollars an hour. The pay isn’t much for Los Angeles living, but with forty hours a week plus the possibility of overtime, I could take care of Mercy and myself. I accept immediately and fill out all the paperwork.
As I fly up the 405 on my way home to Mercy, I decide that even though I’m excited to share my news, I’ll let Mercy talk about her day first. She went to the psychiatric facility to see Philomena and the kids and I know she’ll have stories, hopefully all of them good.
I head through the neighborhood, eager to get home and jump out of the car, and I see Laura’s car in the driveway. They’re back from their visit with the kids. Chris’s car isn’t here, but he mentioned if things went well at the facility, he was going to try to get Laura out of the house for dinner and a movie. With everything that’s happened these last few weeks, they both deserve a little R&R.
I park my car next to Laura’s and jog to the door, but I freeze when I get to the window that looks into the kitchen.
Mercy is setting the table, her back to me, her profile in view. She’s looking at Miguel as he stirs a pot of what I’m guessing is mac and cheese, and she laughs at something he must’ve said. My heart stutters as Jules shoves a piece of paper in front of her, and she puts down napkins and forks to give him her full attention. He’s smiling at her as though she’s the sun rising after a cold night as she points out details on his drawing. Her lips move and he nods and fuck . . . I grip my chest to try to relieve the building pressure that forms there.
In this moment, I have never loved her more, and the all-consuming feeling threatens to level me.
I clear my throat, feeling stupidly emotional as Mercy takes Julian’s drawing to the refrigerator and places it there with a magnet. He puffs his chest with pride. Mercy doesn’t know it, but Miguel is wearing the same stupid fucking grin I am as we watch her interact with our little brother. I lick my lips, my mouth dry with excitement to share my news and the anticipation of soaking in her stories of what seems to be a fantastic day with the kids.
I hit the first step, then the second, before the grumbling of a car engine and the low bass of rap music catches my attention. I turn on instinct, thinking it’s probably nothing. A car throbbing with heavy bass in LA is about as common as silicone, but my paranoia has me checking anyway.
My heart thuds when the headlights and hood of Sebastian’s Cadillac roll into view. My muscles tense to run, but my brain tells me it would be useless. I peek over my shoulder to see Mercy, Miguel, and Jules dishing up food, completely oblivious to what’s happening outside.
Good. Dread and sadness weigh heavy in my chest.
“Yo, primo!” Sebastian calls to me from the driver’s side.
I see Omar is riding shotgun, and there are two shadows in the backseat. I take one last look at Mercy, a fork midway to her mouth as she talks animatedly about something. God, I want to say goodbye but—
“Emilio!” he calls again.
With a lift of my chin, I jog to the car, hoping they don’t gun me down in the yard for my brothers to see. If that was their plan, they would’ve done it already.
I’m two yards from the vehicle when the back door of the car opens and ‘Nesto slides out. His shirt is tucked up behind the butt of his gun that’s shoved behind the flat metal of his belt buckle, and my feet slow.
Am I really going to do this? Walk into my death without a fight?
I stop more than an arm’s-length away. “So this is it, huh?”
“Entre el coche, Emilio.” Omar’s eyes are as lifeless as his voice.
“You expect me to just crawl in there and let you take me to—”
“Milo?”
My eyes widen at the sound of Julian’s voice.
I turn around as Sebastian mutters, “Fuck.”
Julian is standing just outside of the back door with Mercy and Miguel. Mercy’s squinting hard. Miguel looks similar, but he’s not trying to see; he’s glaring.
“’Bastian!” Jules takes off running, but Miguel snags him by the shirt and reels him back in hard enough that Jules almost comes off his feet.
“Go inside!” I try to communicate to Miguel how fucking serious I am about him getting Julian and Mercy behind locked doors. “Now!”
Miguel’s eyes glisten with moisture, but he ushers Julian inside. When he tries to do the same to Mercy, she throws his arms off her and stomps down the steps.
“Mercy, no!” I yell, but the words seem to get lost in the wind as she continues toward me. “Give me a second,” I say to the guys. I meet Mercy halfway across the yard, catch her face in my hands, and force her eyes to mine. “Mi alma, I need you to go back inside.”
She tries to look around me, but I keep her gaze on mine. “Who are they?”
“I’m gonna take care of it, but I can’t until you go inside.”
Her lip quivers and she closes her eyes, squeezing a tear from each one. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Mercy.”
Her clear blue eyes pop wide and she studies me as if trying to suck the truth from inside me. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” I press my lips to her forehead. “I love you, Ghostgirl. Never forget that.”
“Milo, no . . .” Her words dissolve on a gut-wrenching sob. “Don’t go with them.”
“We’re just going to talk. That’s all.” Lie. “Save me some dinner okay?” All lies.
“Are you sure? You’ll come right back, right?” She sniffs, and I wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“Emilio! Vamanos!” Omar calls, probably worried Miguel has called the cops and they’ll be here soon.
“I gotta go.” I press my lips to hers, tasting her tears, grateful that at least she has a chance at living free from the pain that comes with being in love with a gangster. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I release her and she reaches for me, but I jog and jump into the back of the car. ‘Nesto crawls in after me, and Sebastian peels away before the back door is even fully closed.
“That was fucking adorable, Milo.” Bastian meets my gaze through the rearview mirror, smiling. “I almost shed a tear, ese.”
I scowl at him, hiding the pain in my chest. “Fuck you.”