Ryan
I know I’m about to eat shit. I’m outnumbered by more than a handful of trained muscle. Just by assessing Dalila’s father’s demeanor I can tell he really does want to kill me.
I don’t have a problem with him hating the fact that I spent the night with Dalila. I can’t stand the fact that she tried to talk to him and he wouldn’t listen. He refused to give her a voice.
With Dalila safe inside the house, I head back to the truck. But two of Don Sandoval’s bodyguards block my path.
“I’m not done with you yet,” Don Sandoval says in an eerily calm tone.
“You do realize it’s six against one, right?” I ask him.
“Rumor has it you’re an impressive fighter, and I wasn’t about to take any chances. I made sure I have the upper hand.” He paces in front of me, probably contemplating how many ways he’s going to make me pay for spending the night with his daughter. Truth is, I deserve his wrath. His daughter spent the night in my arms and it wasn’t innocent.
With a nod to his henchmen, I’m grabbed and held with iron grips. I struggle against their muscle, but I realize quickly that while I might be able to wrest myself free of these two clowns, four more of them are waiting in the wings.
Don Sandoval walks right up to me, so close I have no choice but to be surrounded by the smell of his expensive cologne. “Listen to me, punk, and listen good,” he says through gritted teeth. “You will never talk to or look at my daughter ever again. Do you understand me?”
I look right into his sharp eyes without saying a word. I can’t promise that I’ll stay away from her. She’s become my lifeline. She sees the value in me that I don’t even see in myself.
He nods to the biggest dude of the bunch, a guy with oversize biceps and no neck. I remember him as the head of the security detail at Dalila’s birthday party, Gerardo.
Gerardo walks up to me and is about to throw a punch. Running on adrenaline, I wrestle myself away from the two clowns holding me back and duck his assault. On pure instinct I connect with a solid right hook to Gerardo’s big face before I’m grabbed again. The clowns grip me tighter this time as a furious Gerardo swipes at the blood running down his lip.
Without a word or grunt, he punches me in the gut. His fist feels like a steel mallet. Fuck, that hurt. I stand tall and show no expression, not wanting any of these guys to know how much that sucked. And it sucked. A lot.
So much for Don Sandoval’s promise not to hurt me.
Gerardo punches me in the gut with that mallet fist of his two more times. I don’t want to crumple to the ground when the clowns release me, but the pain takes over my resolve and all of a sudden I’m eating dirt. The only satisfaction I have is that the dude will have a big fat lip in the morning because of me.
Don Sandoval kneels next to me. “If I find out that you’re working for Las Calaveras and luring my daughter into some sick game, I will kill you.”
With those words still lingering in the air, they all leave me by the side of the truck and disappear into the house.
Once I’ve recovered I pull myself up, slide into the truck, and stare at the entrance to the compound. It’s got two statues of angels flanking a security gate. What’s really hidden inside those gates besides Dalila and her family?
I want to call out for Dalila to come with me, to leave this place behind and spend the rest of her life with me. But I can’t do it. Fantasyland isn’t real. The past forty-eight hours might as well have been a dream. It’s over. For Dalila’s safety, I should let her go. Dating me can only bring her more heartache and trouble.
The problem is, this feeling of dread that I’ve just lost a part of me isn’t going away.
I don’t even know who Las Calaveras are. Is it a cartel that’s threatened Don Sandoval and his family? And if Don Sandoval is an enemy to Las Calaveras, does that mean he’s linked to Los Reyes del Norte?
As I drive back to the gym, I don’t know what I’m going to say to Camacho when he comes to train me tomorrow. I’m definitely going to get chewed out for breaking his rule about getting involved with girls. When he finds out I’ve been with Dalila Sandoval, is he going to kick my ass? Or worse, stop training me?
When I reach the gym there are a bunch of cars parked in the lot, which is unusual. My veins fire up when I see my Mustang has its tires slashed and all the windows bashed in.
I step out of the truck and walk over to my car.
Damn.
All my little rusty beater needed when I left here yesterday morning was gas. Now she’s a hunk of metal.
“Welcome home, Ryan,” a voice calls out from the front of the gym. It’s Rico, the last person I wanted to see today. “Did you have a nice time with Dalila last night? Damn, bro. Someone sure did beat the shit outta you.”
Six guys are standing behind him, and I feel a sense of déjà vu. Dalila’s father might have let me go just to set me up for a showdown with Rico. Rico, as sophisticated and regal as he wants to come across, is just a thug. His designer suits and expensive car are just a cover-up. Underneath all that shiny shit is a piece of crap who thinks he owns people.
Well, he doesn’t own me. Or Dalila.
I’m gonna get my ass kicked again. Or possibly even killed. Mateo would have my back, but he’s not here. I wouldn’t even want to get him mixed up in an unfair fight. The only chance I have of getting out of this is to run.
But I don’t run. Not since Willie Rayburn chased me that last time in the seventh grade.
I stand tall even as my bruised gut tells me I can’t handle much more today.
Rico steps forward and spits on the ground. “There’s a code here in Mexico. Maybe you haven’t heard of it yet. You don’t go off with someone else’s girl.”
“She’s not your girl, man,” I counter. “And from what she told me, she never was.”
I casually lean up against my broken car and cross my arms, thinking it might delay them from surrounding me. At least I’ll have a fighting chance if they’re not sneaking up behind me. Who am I kidding? Rico has flashed his gun more than once since I first saw him. The chances that these cowards will resort to fighting with their fists, giving me a fair chance, is less than zero.
I’m going to die here. And unlike Max Trieger, I won’t be dying a hero.
“Rico, face the facts, man. She doesn’t want you or your douchebag sports car,” I tell him.
He steps closer and I can practically feel the hatred radiating off him. “When I was a little kid my father sat me down and told me I can have anything I want, Ryan. What did your father tell you when you were little?”
“Nothin’, man. He split before I was born.” Admitting it doesn’t even hurt anymore.
“Oh, that’s right.” He kicks the side of my car, making a dent in it with his steel-toed boots. “I heard you’re just a dirty bastard. Let me tell you something, Ryan. Bastardos like you are like dogs. Worthless unless they’re begging at your feet or following your orders.”
Enough of the insults. Let’s get this shit started.
I move off my car and stand toe-to-toe with him. “I must be worthless, then, because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna beg at anyone’s feet. Especially yours.” I gesture to the crew he brought to back him up. “And while these guys might follow your orders and help you do your dirty work, it’s obvious you’re a fucking coward who can’t fight his own battles. Fight me, Rico. Mono e mono.” I point to my cheek.
He chuckles. “It’s actually mano a mano, dumbass.”
“Whatever, man. Here, I’ll even give you a free shot.”
He punches me.
“Really, that’s all you got? I expected more from you. Hell, you pretended to know what you were doin’ when you tried to teach Dalila how to box.”
A big laugh escapes from his mouth. “Truth is, I knew exactly what I was doing. Getting close to her meant I was getting close to her father. Sometimes you’ve got to use people to get what you want.” He winks. “With you out of the picture, that puta will be all mine.”
I punch him so hard he stumbles backward. “Let’s go, man,” I say. “Right here, right now!” Nobody is going to insult Dalila and get away with it. As long as I’ve got an ounce of fight left in me, I’m all in.
But Rico saw what I can do to someone at the cage fight. He knows I can take on him and his friends, but not all at once.
So when they all come forward, I take a few of them out before I’m surrounded. I’m not giving up, not even when someone whacks me on the back with something other than a fist. The punches and kicks don’t stop, and slowly my body gives up. I think I hear one of them say not to kill me because the Texan wouldn’t want me brought back to him dead. I can’t figure out what he means. My mind is foggy at this point.
Black out, Ryan, my body tells my brain. But I don’t give up. Not yet. I’ve got to fight to the end.
When Rico bends down to punch my bloodied face one more time, I grab the front of his shirt through the fog. With the last ounce of energy I can muster I say, “If you touch her I’ll kill you.”
He laughs. “That’s funny coming from a dead guy.” Then, when he stands back up, he orders, “Put him in the trunk of my car.”
I fight them, but my body is drained and useless while I’m shoved into a trunk. I wish I were dead at this point. But my aching body reminds me I’m not.
The engine starts and suddenly we’re moving. I’m barely here, wanting nothing more than to escape into the darkness of my mind.
I wish I didn’t have any regrets, but I do.
I regret not telling Dalila that I love her. I held the truth from her, because I wanted to keep up a part of the wall I’ve built up over the years. But she should have known.
She deserved to know.
I also regret not being superhuman—if I were I could have fought off Rico’s gang and I wouldn’t be stuck in the trunk of a fucking car right now.
I hear mumbled voices, but I can’t make them out. I don’t know how much time has passed. It seems like hours, but at this point my brain is so foggy I have no clue.
After a while we stop. Okay, this is it. I wonder if they’ll shoot me first, then toss me in the Rio Grande. Or if they’ll weigh me down with cement like I heard Capone had his men do in the old days.
When the trunk finally opens, the brightness of the sun makes me wince. Rico and his crew yank me out. I try to stand, but my legs give out and I stumble to the ground. “Don’t ever come back to Mexico. Next time I won’t be so generous,” Rico growls.
After one last kick to my stomach with those damn steel-toed boots, Rico and his gang get back in their car and leave me alone.
I sit up against a brick wall and realize I’m in the back of an alley. Where, I have no clue. A stray black cat jumps off a trash bin and looks at me as if contemplating whether I’m a dead piece of meat. It walks past me when it realizes I’m still alive.
Figures. That black cat crossing in front of me is like a metaphor for my life. I’m doomed.
“Wait around a few hours!” I call out to the cat, but it’s gone.
I should be happy to die knowing my body will feed a homeless cat. At least my life, or should I say death, would mean something.
Oh, man, I’m in bad shape if I’m thinking of donating my body to a fucking cat. I chuckle at the thought and the movement hurts my face.
I don’t have anything with me, not my dead cell phone or my clothes or that amazing food Abuela Carmela packed for us. It takes me hours to gather up enough strength to walk down the alley to see where the hell I am. To my surprise, I’m back in Texas. Those jerks must have had some shady border agent skip inspecting the trunk of the car when they crossed the border before dropping me off less than a mile from Paul’s house. He’s gonna freak when he sees the mess I’ve become.
Wanting to avoid Paul’s interrogation, I walk in the opposite direction and head for Pablo’s house. It takes me twenty minutes to stumble my way to my friend’s house. Luckily Pablo is sitting on the front stoop and rushes over to me as soon as I come into view.
“What the hell happened to you, Hess?”
“I got jumped in Mexico.” A knot forms in my stomach as I say the words that don’t come easily. “Can you help me without askin’ questions?”
“Of course.” He puts his arm around my waist and steadies me as he leads me into his house. My entire body feels like it’s been through a meat grinder. “Mamá, I need your help,” he calls out.
Pablo’s mother greets us at the door. She’s a short woman with a kind smile who comes to watch every one of Pablo’s bouts at the gym. She supports her children as if being there for them is her greatest pleasure. Her eyes go wide when she takes one look at my condition. “Take him to your bedroom, Pablo,” she instructs like a surgeon in an operating room. “Javier, help your brother! I’ll get some kind of pain reliever for him. Claudia, prepare some food for Pablo’s friend!” she calls out to Pablo’s sister. They all work together without any complaints or questions.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Pablo’s mom as she rushes to my side once I’m in Pablo’s bed.
“What kind of animal did this to you?” she asks me. “This isn’t drug-related, is it?”
“No, ma’am.”
Satisfied with my answer, she hands me a glass of water and some pain relievers.
“You’re safe here,” Pablo’s big brother, Javier, tells me before leaving the room.
When everyone is gone and I settle into the pillow, I try to ignore the pain. It’s no use, I’m going to feel like shit for a long time. “I wish I had your family,” I tell Pablo. He’s sitting on a chair with his feet propped up on the bed.
“Sometimes they can be annoyin’,” he says. “They’re always interfering in my life and givin’ me advice about what college I should go to.”
“I’ll trade families with you.”
He smiles. “No thanks, Hess. I’ll take my meddling family over yours any day of the week.”
Claudia, Pablo’s younger sister who’s going to be a sophomore at Loveland High in the fall, peeks her head into the room. “I made soup,” she says. “Can I come in?”
With a shy smile, she walks into the room and stares at my bruised face as she places the bowl of soup on Pablo’s desk next to a big yellow book titled The Guide to the Best Colleges.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“De nada,” she replies, then walks out of the room.
“What have you gotten yourself caught up in?” Pablo asks me. “I want to help you if I can.”
“You can’t help me. I need to deal with this on my own.” I hold my aching side. “I’ll be out of here in the mornin’.”
“You can stay as long as you need to, Ry. Okay?”
“You say you have my back, but you never ask me for help. I’m always askin’ you for help.”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “I’m not keeping score.”
“You should.” I glance at the Mexican flag above Pablo’s bed and the American flag on the wall above his desk. “Where do you like it better?” I ask him.
He crosses his arms and thinks for a minute. “They’re both home to me. I guess my heart and spirit is Mexican but my home is the US. I identify with both and wish there were no such thing as borders. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.”
He raises a brow. “You should stay here, although be forewarned: when you wake up you might feel worse than you already do. Gather up enough strength to go back home when you’re ready.”
At least I can look forward to that scene when I walk into Paul’s house and announce in my bloodied state, “Surprise, I’m back!”