Milo
THE SAN YSIDRO motel doesn’t have five-star luxury bedding, but you’d never know it from looking at the sleeping faces currently curled up in the beds. Laura and Mercy in one, angel and Philomena in the other, Dom on a roll-away, and me on a couch that’s about two feet smaller than my body. Not that the comfort matters much. I can’t sleep anyway.
We told our story—almost the entire story, leaving out Mercy’s necessary homicide. The authorities asked us to stay in town for the night, and because Laura is a certified foster parent and because she’s dealt with the fragile and unique situation of Mercy’s history, they gave temporary custody of all three kids to her. They want us to stay close until they raid the house of horrors, which they were gearing up to do even before we left the border office.
Eight hours later, I’m staring at the sunlight slicing through the slit in the blackout curtains, but my restlessness has nothing to do with the raid.
I’m looking for the Saints. No doubt Sancho and everyone else from Esteban’s crew has been commanded to find me. When they do, I can’t be caught off guard. I don’t want anyone in here getting hurt.
I decided late in the night I’d go willingly rather than force Mercy to watch me get gunned down—or worse. There’s no telling what they’d do to witnesses.
A shiver of terror slides down my spine.
I’ve been pissing off Esteban for so long, I’m sure he’ll get satisfaction from taking me out. If he’s man enough to do it himself. There’s a good chance, like my Mom, he’ll send one of his gamberros to do it. Keep his hands clean.
Coward.
A soft hand slides over my bare shoulder before Mercy appears at my side. Her long hair falls down the front of her body in a cascade of pure white as she rounds the couch and squeezes onto it with me.
I welcome her into my arms, the warmth of her skin seeping through her T-shirt and onto my bare chest. Her legs are between mine so that she’s practically lying on top of me, and her weight is like a warm blanket. I bury my nose in her hair. Even though it smells like cheap motel shampoo, her underlying scent is enough to soothe me. She nuzzles my neck and I groan softly, tilting my head to give her all the access she needs.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Her breath ghosts across my collarbone.
I want to kiss her, like really kiss her, but I can’t the way I want to in a room full of people, so I squeeze her tighter to me.
When I don’t answer, her back muscles grow tense. “Is it the thing you needed to talk about? The stuff you mentioned before that I might not like?”
How much longer can I string her along with half-truths and evasions? I’m tired of the deceit. Exhausted really. “Yes.”
She props herself up on her elbows. Her gaze bores into mine. “What is it?”
“We should go outside.”
She nods, and I help her off the couch before putting on my loaned T-shirt and quietly slipping outside. I squint into the late morning sun, thankful the air is still cool. I point toward a bench in a shaded part of the motel that isn’t near any windows. We sit down, and she angles her body to mine.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling a million years old. “I’m sure you figured out the work I was doing for Esteban wasn’t exactly legal.”
“I knew you were secretive, but . . . legal?” She shakes her head. “There’s still a lot I don’t understand about life.”
Fuck me if that doesn’t make me feel like the biggest asshole-prick ever.
“The night I came to get you”—God, was that only two nights ago?—“Esteban made me choose. You or an important job.”
“You chose me?” she says, even though that’s pretty fucking obvious.
“Of course I did. It was never a choice for me.”
“So he’s mad at you? Is that why you didn’t want to call him for help?”
A long breath seeps from my lungs. “He’s more than mad. He threatened to . . .”
Her eyes widen. If she weren’t so burnt, I know her face would drain of what little color she has. “He’s going to kill you?”
“He said as much.”
“Milo . . .” She grips my knee. “We need to tell the police. We have to—”
“My only option is to run, mi alma.”
“Then I’ll go with you—”
“I’m not doing that again.” I grip her face with both hands and rest my forehead on hers. I instantly calm despite discussing my own impending murder. I close my eyes. “I won’t put us through that again.”
“But if he finds you . . .” Her voice isn’t shaking, it’s firm, as if she’s gathering facts to make a deductive decision.
“I don’t want to know what’ll happen when he finds me.”
Her body stills, even her breathing, as if she’s holding her breath. “You said when, not if.”
I pull back and drop my hands from her face. “I’m sorry.”
Her crystal-clear eyes fill with tears that seem to surprise even her as she blinks and bats the moisture from her cheeks. “There has to be a way to make him happy, to get him to leave you alone.”
I shake my head and brace my elbows on my knees. “He’ll never leave me alone. I gave him my loyalty, and in return he gave us somewhere to hide. I’m indebted to him for life no matter what, and there’s no way around it.”
“You are not indebted to him. He saw your weakness, me, and used it as an opportunity to manipulate you.” Her hands fist in her lap and her jaw gets hard. “He manipulated me too.”
Everything in my body stills. As if all my internal organs are on a temporary shutdown.
“He threatened to kill you and throw me on the street if I—”
“When did he do that?”
A door slams nearby, and a couple glares at me while they walk to their car. I take the interruption to suck down a quick, calming breath.
“Before we went to the beach that weekend.” She shakes her head as if none of this matters.
Well, it fucking matters to me.
“He threatened to—”
“What if he dies?”
I flinch at the matter-of-fact way she suggests someone’s death as a logical answer. “Don’t talk like that. You’re not a murderer—”
She frowns and shakes her head.
“That was different!”
“It’s not different. Out here, it’s kill or be killed. If we get to him first, he can’t get to you.”
“No, stop talking like that. Listen, I’ll figure it out, okay?”
I won’t. There’s nothing to figure out. Esteban has never made a threat he hasn’t followed through with. My mom is a perfect example of that.
“I’m not going anywhere okay?” A lie. I pull her into my arms and hold her tightly. “I just got you back. I’m going to fight to keep us together.” Another lie. “I’ll never let the LS or Esteban near you again.” I’m going to have to go to them. “You’re safe now, and those kids in there need you. I’ll do whatever I need to make that happen.” That is the truth.
“THIS TASTES FUNNY.” Angel licks her sticky fingers courtesy of a pre-packaged cinnamon roll from the mini-mart on the corner.
After considering all our breakfast options once everyone woke up, I decided rather than bringing the kids out, it would be better for me to bring something in. Thankfully the mini-mart had a wide variety of overly-sugared breakfast items that are now spread out like a poor man’s picnic on the scratchy white sheets.
“Here, try this.” Mercy hands her a carton of milk. When Angel can’t figure out how to open it, Mercy shows her then hands it back.
I look toward the door Laura stepped out of a few minutes ago, my curiosity going nuts with who called her and why the call needed to be taken out of young kids’ earshot. The look on her face when she answered has my muscles tensing. I go back to watching the kids eat as they stare at the television, mesmerized by an old Looney Tunes cartoon.
Dom is on his second package of chocolate mini donuts, and Philomena makes a sour face with every sip of orange juice.
“So I guess the food they fed you guys was pretty bland, huh?” I ask.
They blink toward me absently then turn back to the television.
Mercy smiles. It’s small, but does huge things to my insides. “Yes. Mostly broth with noodles and some kind of boiled meat. And only ever water to drink. It took me a while to get used to the stronger flavors on the outside.”
Maybe I should’ve grabbed a few boxes of Saltine crackers. “I can run back out.”
“It’s all right. They’ll have to get used to it eventually anyway.” Mercy sips on her chocolate milk that leaves the sweetest milk ‘stache on her upper lip.
The mechanical lock on the door gets all five pairs of eyes in the room. Laura steps inside, her Styrofoam coffee cup in hand, and her face is unreadable.
“What is it?” I say under my breath as she passes me.
She stops, turns toward me, and takes a deep breath. “They’re asking us to go back to the station. They want to see if the kids can identify any of the people they got from the house.”
“They got them?” Mercy says.
Laura’s smile is soft and caring. “They did.”
Why would they want to question the kids? Do they think they were in on whatever illegal shit was going down in that place? “These kids were never subjected to whatever else was happening in that house. Why are they asking for them to be involved? They’re traumatized minors.”
Laura peeks at Angel, who seems very interested in what we’re talking about. Dom has gone back to his donuts, and Philomena looks almost guilty.
“We’ll go.” Mercy eyes me before I can protest. “We could be helpful, and the kids need this for closure.”
Philomena picks at the label of the orange juice. “What if they send us back? What if they lie or, I don’t know, we get sent back?”
Laura squats to her eye level. “No one can take you away from me, do you understand? I won’t let them. The State of California won’t let them.”
Something heavy passes between the two women, and Philomena stands. “Let’s get this over with.”