CHAPTER THREE
Teresa
Oh shit, I was late again. Class had gotten off five minutes later than expected and I’d missed my bus to Pacific Heights, where the client lived. I’d have to walk and that promised to be a demoralizing experience. San Francisco is a city of steep hills and trekking to Pac Heights from Civic Center was going to test my lung capacity and overall fitness.
Sighing, I hoisted my bag up and slung it over my shoulder.
“Heya pardner, need help with that?” asked a male voice behind me. It was Orlando, one of my fellow classmates at City College who fancied himself a big man on campus. Ugh, he was so greasy and slimy, he reminded me of the goons back home – just boys with guns loosely tucked into their waistbands, thinking that made them men.
But Orlando’s weapon wasn’t a firearm. His was his connection to the mayor. A nephew of Mercedes Diaz, Orlando constantly bragged about his famous relative, peppering each conversation with “Aunt Mercedes this, Aunt Mercedes that.” I admit, I was glad it was an election year. Even if Mercedes Diaz had done a decent job as mayor, I just wanted to shut Orlando’s trap once and for all.
“Um, no thanks,” I demurred, trying to make my way past him. “I gotta roll, okay? I’m late,” I said impatiently as he purposefully blocked my way.
“Hey chica, what’s the rush? Headed to the library? Surely you got a few minutes to spare for old bro here,” he drawled, his hands in the pockets of oversize jeans. I swear, why do men dress like clowns sometimes? I found the homie look unattractive and unappealing. Flat brim cap, big oversized sports jersey coupled with jeans that were three sizes too big, falling down his ass. Orlando looked ridiculous, his boxers showing as he tried to hoist the waistband up.
“No Orlando, I have a J-O-B,” I spelled out for him. “We don’t all have the luxury of having rich relatives.” It was widely known that Mayor Diaz owned an apartment building where she allegedly let Orlando live for free when he was in school. He was supposedly learning the ropes of property management as well, to take over for his aunt as she ascended further up the political ladder.
“Listen chica,” he drawled, not at all put off by my behavior and insinuations. “Where ya going? I gotta ride, I can take you,” he said thumbing to a rice rocket parked at the curb. I sighed. I really didn’t want to, but I was running late and it was unprofessional to show up to a job sweaty and disheveled, not to mention unprepared and apologetic. So I gave in and sighed, “Fine, fine. Let’s go.”
Orlando chuckled knowingly and held the door open. The car was slung so low to the ground that I practically had to crouch to get in, my bag throwing me off-balance.
“I gotcha,” he leered lasciviously, his hands on my shoulders and then trailing down my back as he “helped” me into the car. Shudders of distaste ran down my spine, but I swallowed hard and made myself get in. What was the worst that could happen? It would be a short ride, maybe ten minutes at most.
The homie got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door and turning up the funk. Oh great. We were going to be cruising in Pacific Heights, a tony neighborhood, as he blasted bachata and the latest reggaeton. Okay, this was already embarrassing me enough already and I thought seriously about throwing myself from the car.
But it was too late. He’d pulled away from the curb and I gave him directions towards my employer’s home. Fortunately, the music was pounding so loudly that conversation was impossible. I thanked my lucky stars and stared straight out the window as Orlando bobbed his head in time to the music, like a chicken darting its head back and forth.
Finally, we pulled up to a stately townhouse, perfectly decorated, the doors imposing.
“This where your job at?” asked Orlando, finally turning down the tunes.
“Yeah,” I said shortly, grasping the door handle and swinging one leg out. “Thanks so much for the ride, I’ll see you at school.”
But Orlando wanted to be thanked more than just verbally. He grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly to him, his face oily and pimply as I was forced closer.
“Heya chica, a beso for my efforts?” he said silkily before planting those rubbery lips on mine. And I screamed, my spine stiffening involuntarily, my body going into full panic mode. Sweat broke out and my vision started to blacken, I was in the midst of a nightmare, thrashing and struggling like a wounded animal until I felt heavy arms pull me out of the car, thrusting me out of danger.
Matt Sterling, my employer, stood there, a look of rage and fury directed towards the much smaller man before him.
“What the fuck?” asked Orlando plaintively. I swear, even Mr. Sterling’s shadow was scary to see.
But the big man didn’t say anything. He just … growled, if that was possible and Orlando got the message. The passenger door slammed and Orlando pulled away from the curb in a hurry, the rice rocket’s engine a cacophonous wail as he got the hell out of Dodge.
“So Teresa,” said the big man, turning to me. “Care to explain what that was about?”