Not being able to see while the car drove over a road that curved more than it was straight made Emma feel sick to her stomach. Then again, maybe that was getting hit in the head. A nice head wound was bound to make a person queasy. She didn’t know how good her vision was, since everything was dark, but she was pretty sure she was nursing a minor concussion.
“How much farther?” she asked.
At first no one said anything to her. They had spoken, but almost all of it was in Spanish. She knew only a few very basic words like girl and home. Those were repeated often enough that she assumed they were talking about her.
She distracted herself by focusing on a line of visibility at the very edge of the bag. She could see her thumbs, and a sliver of her lap, but nothing else. It was at least something to focus on as she moved, a knowledge that the world wasn’t swallowed up by dark fabric. “Seriously,” she said, “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You’d better swallow,” Gabriel ordered.
She wondered if Gabriel ever just talked. Was everything he said a directive? She recalled a half-remembered statement that people who were too comfortable ordering other people around had sociopathic tendencies. That wasn’t a nice thought. It disappeared when they took another curve. She felt the burning taste of bile in the back of her throat.
Michael made a joke, and the others burst out laughing. There was another turn and then the car came to a stop. She held still while doors opened. Strong hands guided her out of the car. Her head smacked against the doorframe. The wave of sickness became worse.
The black bag stayed on as she was led over a driveway of crushed seashells and up a set of stairs so white they glittered beneath her feet. She heard more voices, all speaking Spanish. Gabriel’s domineering tone followed by recitations and information. It was amazing how much a question sounded like a question no matter what language it was said in.
She tried to concentrate on every sound she heard, every sensation she felt. The sound of a sliding glass door, the scent of chlorinated water, and the feel of air conditioning. The heat of the sunlight spilling across her back. Her bare feet walked over expensive flooring. She took it all in.
She was led up winding stairs, and away from the warmth of the sunlight. When the bag was finally yanked off her head she was shoved into a room with no windows. It should have been dark, but a series of three incredibly bright lights were fixed into a ceiling to bright for her to reach. The only furniture was a cheap plastic chair, like the kind that would sit around a colorful kiddie pool. There wasn’t even a bucket to do her business in. Not that she would have been able to do that anyway.
She took a seat in the chair and held her head between her hands. The pounding was so bad she thought her head was splitting open. Heat from the lights did nothing to help. The room seemed to spin. There was lead in her legs, she was sure of it. Delicately, she tried to stand. Her pulse seemed to pound in her throat. All she wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep. Small spots of light flickered across her eyes.
She definitely had a concussion. A few paragraphs in her biology book had explained that focusing helped a concussion. She dug through her repertoire of mental knowledge and began muttering names under her breath.
Sometime later the door opened and Gabriel walked in. “What are you doing, gringa?” The sound of the door closing behind him was so loud she winced.
“Reciting presidents,” she answered. “I think I have a concussion.”
He nodded and opened the door. She didn’t hear what he said, but a few minutes later he handed her an ice pack.
With a suspicious look she took it. The cold weight of it pressed gingerly to the bump on her head alleviated some of the pain. After a moment he handed her a bottle of water and a couple Tylenol.
“Why are you being nice now?”
“I got reasons,” he said. He leaned casually against the door. “Can I get you anything? Something to eat?”
She shook her head, and the world spun. “No, thanks.”
His eyes were dark and luminous. They roamed over her as she took the medicine, chasing it with a sip of water. She felt underdressed in her tank top and pajama shorts. She tucked her legs beneath her.
“I’m gonna take a wild guess here and say you know who I am.”
Emma blinked. It sounded like the line out of a bad action flick. “Gabriel.”
“That’s right. Did your papi tell you about me?”
She drew herself up as tall as she could from her seated position. It didn’t feel good, but it felt better than slumping like a kicked dog. “After your brother attacked me, yeah.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s Michael. Between you and me, he’s got some problems, you know? Up here.” He tapped the side of his head and spread his hands out like there was nothing that he could say or do about that. Emma didn’t entirely believe him. “He gets these thoughts in his head, and he can’t shake them. I mean, okay, we grew up in this piece of shit town near Nevada, right? Crappy little place. Had this mouse problem. So most people got a cat. Not us, my mom hated cats, so she got this ugly terrier thing, worked just as good.”
“Terriers are natural rat catchers.”
His smile was big and genuine. “They are, they are. We named the dog Fetch. Seemed like a good idea. Anyway, Fetch did what dogs do and dug up under the piece of shit fence between our backyard and the neighbors. No one had a whole lot of yard so everyone was really protective of it, right? This guy got real mad, real mad. He was a cat person, you know? He had, like, three of them. He shot Fetch.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma said with sympathy. Her thoughts drifted back to Rocco. She really hoped the dog was okay. He was a good dog.
“Yeah, me too. But, you see, Michael got real pissed off about it. He gets that way sometimes. Someone does something and he just starts obsessing about it. He can’t stop until he does something. He obsessed for, like, three weeks about this asshole shooting our dog. He said he was going to do something about it. I mean, I didn’t believe him. Kids say they are going to do all kinds of things like dig to China or fly to the moon in a box of something. Then, one day, he brings me this little box and tells me to open it. Guess what he’s got inside?”
Emma very much did not want to guess. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know.”
“He’s got, like, four cat legs. All of them belonged to this guy’s cats. And he goes and throws them on this dude’s porch.”
“Oh my god.”
“Right?” Gabriel slapped his leg. “I mean, he was serious about getting back at that guy. And you know what the real funny thing was? He brought the rest of the cats to our mom to show her what he had done. And you know what she did? Do you? I’ll tell you. She made them into a casserole. I mean, how screwed up is that?”
“Why are you telling me this?” Emma asked.
“I just think you ought to know that my family is pretty serious when it comes to retribution. I mean, just look what happens when our dog gets shot? Can you imagine what it’s like if a few million dollars worth of drugs vanishes?”
Emma nearly gagged on her own shock. “What?”
A single brow shot up. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “You didn’t know, did you?”
“No. God, I didn’t know.”
“Your dad never gave you any of that money?”
She shook her head slowly, trying not to agitate the headache that was pounding behind her eyes. “I’ve been working thirty or more hours a week just to put myself through college without going into debt. Do you think I would be doing that if my dad gave me any percentage of a few million dollars?”
He tucked his tongue inside his cheek. Apparently she had said something to amuse him, but she hadn’t the foggiest idea what. “He gave you a man.”
She rolled her eyes. “He thought Kellan would save me.”
“Has he?”
She glanced around the otherwise empty room. “Not yet.”
Gabriel made a low tsking sound and shook his head. The dark set of his hair moved back and forth with the motion. “You are a funny girl. Funny, funny girl. You don’t need to be afraid of me, little thing.”
She leveled her azure gaze at him. “Gee, I can’t imagine why I would think you might hurt me.”
He laughed. It was a surprisingly attractive sound, rich and warm. Again she was struck by the fact that she would have thought him cute in a different time or a different place. He slid down towards the ground, crouching in front of her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then why kidnap me? You hated my dad. Fine, I get that. Most of the time I hated him, too. But he’s dead.”
He nodded, still staying crouched. There was something vaguely bestial about the way he moved, sleek and elegant, as if he thought of every movement before he did it. The way his muscles stirred beneath his skin made her think of an animal that was circling easy prey.
“It’s not just your dad, little thing. I mean, it started off that way, sure. Your dad stole something that belonged to me. I thought giving his smarty-pants daughter a little scare might get me what I wanted.”
“Did it?” she asked.
He shook his head. His lips formed a bemused smile. “No. Your father was a stubborn man.”
The laugh that bubbled out of her throat was a dark and angry sound, full of frustration. “Yeah, yeah, he was.”
“He married you off to one of his little men and thought it would keep you safe.”
“You see,” she managed after another sip of water, “that’s why I’m not feeling totally comfortable in your presence.”
He nodded slowly. “I understand. You shouldn’t, not really. But you don’t need to be afraid of me.”
The words made no sense to her. Maybe it was the concussion, maybe it was the fact that English was his second language, maybe he was just being vague on purpose to be intimidating. No matter what, Emma felt the urge to sit back from him.
The lights had not been dimmed when he entered. They still blazed like a trio of summer suns out of the ceiling. Sweat was forming on her upper lip and her back. Maybe that was part of his plan, sweat her to death.
“Are you going to kill me?”
He shook his head languidly from one side to the other. “No, little thing, I’m not going to kill you. I lost a lot of money because of your papi and I plan on getting it back.”
“I told you, my dad is dead.”
“Yes, you did. I believe you. I saw his funeral. A lot of people were there, it was very touching.” His tone didn’t match his words. He said it like he was reciting from a very boring script, or an even more lackluster book. He rose to his feet in a wave of copper colored flesh. “You know, must have cost you a lot of money to give him that funeral. Money that should have gone to paying me back.”
She slid back another step, feeling her back bump against the wall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t, little thing, but that doesn’t much matter, does it? Your man knew. He wasn’t just another piss-ant member of your daddy’s crew, was he? He was his right-hand man, his heir, his little cock sucking bitch. He knew what was owed me, and instead of paying up, he got to marry you. He got to keep your pretty blonde head down in his lap every night.”
She swallowed. Gabriel was keeping his tone even, but his eyes were glittering with anger. If she didn’t know any better, she would have said Gabriel was jealous, but that didn’t really match their relationship.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get my money out of you.”
She felt the sweat drip over her cheeks, hot water on hotter skin. It evaporated before it got to her chin, leaving a crusty line in its wake. Her hair felt heavy, so heavy on top of her head. “How? Are you going to ransom me?”
He chuckled, and it was not a nice sound. “To who?”
“I—”
He held up a single finger, cutting off her words. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a phone. He turned it towards her, offering it up. A news video had been pulled up, a pretty woman’s face frozen in professional concern, a mic clutched in her dark hand. Emma hesitated. Over the woman’s shoulder she could see the familiar edge of The Saloon. A plume of motionless smoke was poised over the woman’s other shoulder.
“Oh god,” Emma choked out. “What did you do?”
He didn’t say anything. He just reached out with a single finger and tapped the screen. The video began to play. Emma didn’t really hear the words. They just rolled over her brain. In moments she knew a gunfight had broken out at a bar that was known for gang related activity. It was unknown how many were dead, but at this moment it was believed there were no survivors.
“Oh god,” Emma repeated. “Why? Why would you do that? They didn’t do anything to you.”
He snatched the phone out of her hands and closed the distance between the two of them. His face took up all of her vision, his dark eyes nearly on fire. “You don’t know what they did to me. You have any idea what the cartel does if I don’t pay them back? They had to know, everyone had to know no one gets away from stealing from me.”
“I didn’t steal from you,” she said softly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Too bad.”
He took a single step back, it wasn’t enough to make her feel any better, but it was enough that she could breathe. “I—”
“Bitch, I am getting really tired of hearing you talk about yourself. I think it’s time you understood a few things.”
She stayed quiet. Her heart felt too big for her chest and she desperately wished she could turn off the lights and lay down, but she said nothing. This conversation was lasting too long and the medicine hadn’t quite set it. “Besides that your family is super vengeful and eats cats?”
“Oh yeah, besides that. You see, it took a lot for the unwanted kids of migrant farm workers to come up in the world. It took a, what do you call it? A cultivation process. We had to cultivate ourselves to be these big scary things.”
“You mean like change your name?”
He nodded. “Yeah, like change our name. But that’s only part of it. We had to make sure we got respect, that people were afraid of us. So, that’s why we had to go shoot up your daddy’s bar, and that’s why I’m going to use you to get money.”
“You still haven’t told me how.”
He reached a hand out and ran it through her golden hair. His voice was low, and threatening when he said, “There are certain kinds of men who will pay good money for an uppity white girl to do whatever they say.”
“You’re going to sell me?”
“What? After the cat story, that surprises you?” He let her hair fall as he walked away from her. “Man, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“How long are you gonna leave me here?”
“Depends.” He opened the door and a blissfully cold rush of air came in, alleviating some of the oppressive heat.
“On what?”
“How long my brother wants with you.”
The door closed with a soft click.