Milo
THE BUSY STREETS of downtown Tijuana at two o’clock in the morning have a distinct smell. I scrunch my nose as the combination of beer, weed, piss, mildew, and cooking meat assaults my senses. A group of college co-eds in tiny skirts and tall shoes stumble past me, giggling, talking loudly, and bringing a mixture of powerful perfume. Their bright dresses leave little to the imagination and attract the wrong kind of attention. I say a little prayer that they end up on the right side of the border before they pass out.
I’m leaning back against the hood of the El Camino, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, waiting to meet my contact. There’s no telling when the guy will show. Reminds me of the days in Los Angeles when Laura would bitch about the cable guy coming between ten and two. You got no choice but to sit it out and wait.
My mind takes me from the wet streets of Tijuana back to the warm home of my foster parents. Julian watching the Disney channel and Miguel with his headphones, effectively ignoring the world. I feel the corner of my mouth lift before I realize what I’m doing and force a frown. I never know who’s watching me when I’m making a run for the Latino Saints, and happiness of any kind can be seen as vulnerability. After all, happy people have something to lose.
I tell myself that’s what I am—happy. How could I not be? My brothers are safe in foster care, and now that I’m gone and back in the Saints, my younger siblings will be left alone.
And then there’s Mercy. Mi alma. She’s the reason I sold my future to El Jefe. She’s the focus now. It’s not enough to simply keep her safe. I’ve heard the cries in her sleep, watched the life in her eyes dim as each day passes. I thought protecting her body was enough. I was wrong. In order for her to be free of the visions that torment her, for us to move forward together, I need to help heal her soul. There’s only one way I can do that. She needs retribution. She has to bury the monsters from her past in order for her to find hope in our future.
A blunt force hits the tip of my shoe.
“Ow!” A woman stumbles after snagging the toe of her high heel on my foot. Her torso lurches forward, arms flailing, and I grip her waist before she gives herself a concrete facial.
“Easy.” Once she’s steady, I release her.
She turns toward me with bloodshot eyes. She looks young. I’d be surprised if she’s eighteen, but seeing as she’s clearly shitfaced on booze and whatever else, she either has a fake ID or a baby face.
“Gracias muchacho.” Her ridiculous attempt at a Spanish accent makes me want to drive her ass to the border and throw her over to the US side. Girls in her condition could easily stagger into the wrong kind of person.
A little voice whispers that I am that wrong kind of person.
I went from Milo the high school senior foster kid, to Emilio Vega, son of Esteban, prince to the LS—active gang member, drug and gun smuggler, and enforcer. Hell, I have a key in my pocket that will start a large moving van packed full of heroin. Everything about me, including the nine mil tucked in the waistband of my jeans, says I’m not the kind of guy you want to meet in a dark alley. Drugs and guns are what keeps El Jefe in the rico lifestyle he’s become accustomed to—the same lifestyle that keeps my Mercy safe. I don’t have to like it, but I sure as fuck have to play like I do.
The girl sways on her feet. I lean back, watching her, ready to swoop in if she falls again. She probably thinks coming to Tijuana is all about underage drinking and dancing until the sun comes up. What she doesn’t know is this city is a hotbed for human trafficking.
That’s the second reason why I’m here.
Not to buy and sell bodies, but to find out who the big players are in that trade. To gather information that’ll lead me closer to finding out who’s responsible for Mercy’s captivity, and to finally make them pay.
“Dondé . . . um . . .” She rubs her forehead, and the movement makes her list to the side. “Estás el street-oh to the border . . . oh?”
This girl is in bad shape. “Where are your friends?”
She blinks at me through mascara-smeared eyes. “You speak English?”
I’m pretty sure I just did, so I don’t answer and only tilt my head, waiting.
“I don’t know.” She flings an arm out to motion somewhere. “We got separated at Coko Bongo. I’ve been walking around forever. My feet are killing—”
“Chica bonita . . .” Sancho, my lookout, strolls up with two hands full of street tacos and offers me one while keeping his gaze on the young girl. His dark eyes light up as they move over her body.
“No.” I wave off his taco offer and look to grab the nearest cab. I tell myself I’m doing this because it’s what Mercy would want me to do, even though I’m not sure if I’m buying my own bullshit anymore.
“Holá,” the girl says back to Sancho. “Um . . . gracias and uh . . . um . . .” She chews on her lip then bursts out laughing. “I got a B in Spanish this semester. I think I’m just really drunk.”
Clearly she’s as street smart as she is at Spanish, but a bad grade in smart choices here could mean life or death.
Sancho licks his lips. “Fresco. Joven. Apuesto que sabes igual de dulce—”
“Chale!” I shake my head in a firm “don’t even fucking think about it” as I wave down a cab.
He glares at me, the prick. Sancho used to be el Jefe’s right hand, and he hasn’t liked me from the second I stepped into the Vega compound. Esteban explained where my place is in the hierarchy and Sancho got demoted.
But he’s a stubborn ass. He grins and turns his eyes toward the girl. “Hungry, bonita?”
“We don’t have time for this,” I growl under my breath.
Her eyes widen, and she takes the taco. “Yes, thank you.” She downs the thing in three bites, and Sancho gives her another as a cab pulls up to the curb.
“Come on.” I hook her by the elbow and lead her away from Sancho toward the back door of the cab, which I swing open and motion for her to step inside.
I try to get the driver’s attention, but his eyes are firmly set on Sancho. I look between the men, wondering if we’ve been made or if maybe they know each other from I-don’t-fucking-care. It’s then I notice a quick jerk of Sancho’s chin.
The cab driver’s eyes come to mine. “No la meta, señor. Estoy fuera de servicio.”
Off duty?
The girl falls back onto the sidewalk when the cab speeds away, but she seems content, chewing on her taco. I swing my head around and glare at Sancho as he slips his cell phone back into his pocket.
“I got a ride on its way,” he says in heavily accented English. “He’ll drop you at the border, bonita.” Sancho shrugs. “It’s better this way. Less witnesses that we were here,” he says in Spanish.
“That’s bullshit.” I attempt to flag down another cab but find them all either tied up with a fare or they speed by without even looking.
A blue two-door pickup truck pulls up, and Sancho meets it in the street. He says a few things to the driver then pops open the passenger side door.
“Cesar will take you to the border, no charge.”
The girl smiles and seems a little more sober. Maybe I’m misreading Sancho and he’s really trying to help. Still a little uneasy, I follow the girl to the truck.
Once she’s inside, I lean in through her open window and set my eyes on the driver. “She goes to the border. No stops. Nothing. Straight there.”
The guy blinks at me in recognition. He clearly knows who I am, but he acts as though he doesn’t understand English. I repeat my demand in Spanish, then just in case intimidation isn’t enough, I throw a thousand pesos into his lap.
He plucks up the bill and shoves it into his pocket with a nod, agreeing to get her there safely. The girl waves as the truck pulls away and merges back into traffic.
Sancho leans against the door of the car. “Just because we’re on a job doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun,” he mumbles in Spanish.
Whatever. I ignore him, resume my position, and continue to scan my surroundings. All I want to do is get home, shower the criminal grime from my skin, and crawl into bed with Mercy.
I imagine her curled up on her side, her hands shoved under the pillow and all that long, pale hair catching the moonlight as it streams through the window. A sense of peace washes away the constant pinch of disappointment that has become a regular in my gut. The ache I live with daily after walking away from my old life and plunging myself face-first into the life I despise.
I mumble a string of curses and pull back up the image in my head of Mercy sleeping easy and safely in el Jefe’s mansion, surrounded by armed guards. My sacrifice is a small price to pay for her safety.
“That’s him. Ernesto,” Sancho says in Spanish then walks away to get some distance and keep his lookout.
A short man who looks to be in his sixties comes along beside me. “Cervesa?”
Rather than answer, I nod toward the small hole-in-the-wall-style cantina two doors down from where I parked. It’s dark, out of view, and the owner is on el Jefe’s payroll so there are no cameras or Fedarales inside.
We take a seat at the bar and order a couple of Modelos. I don’t like drinking, especially when I’m on a job. I prefer to stay clear-minded. But for the sake of appearances, I swig back a mouthful of bitter beer.
We chat briefly about the latest dog races and which boxers we support, but the small talk makes me antsy. With the key in my palm, I slap it on the bar and slide it to him only to have him snag it quickly and effortlessly.
“One more thing,” I mumble in Spanish with my lips to my beer bottle before taking a swig. I lean on my forearms and keep my eyes forward. “You know where I can get a woman?”
He gives me a list of different whorehouses in the area, none of them new or uncommon.
“I’m looking for something a little more . . . unique. Underground. Where they keep the real special product.” I turn to look at him and frown when I see he’s genuinely confused.
Shit. Dead end.
“No, ese. I don’t know anything about that . . .” He goes on in Spanish about how beautiful the women are at Mirabonita and about how a guy like me shouldn’t have to pay for pussy.
I’ve heard enough.
I slap fifty pesos on the bar to pay for our drinks and nod.
He goes back to drinking his beer as I stride out of the bar and to the El Camino. I give Sancho a few seconds to get in before I fire up the engine and we head back to the compound.
“All good?” he asks in Spanish.
“Yeah.”
I turn on the radio and zone out for the hour-and-a-half drive home. The closer I get, the more anxious I am to get to Mercy.
I know she’s well protected. I know Mikkel Vanderburg is no longer a threat, but a sense of doom lingers over us like a dark cloud, as though at any minute, someone from her past will swoop in and steal her away in the night. The only thing that calms me is the weight of my foot on the gas pedal as I speed toward her.
When we get to the compound gates, the guard lets us right in. I drive into the underground garage and slide out before Sancho gets a chance to waste my time with small talk. The sun is already coming up and I need my girl in my arms for a few hours before she wakes up.
The mansion is quiet for now, but in an hour or so, it’ll be busy with activity. Servants live on property, some with their children, and before meals, the kitchen here is the closest thing to home I’ve seen since before I lost my mom.
You mean before el Jefe murdered her.
I grind my teeth and jog up the stairs, taking them two at a time until I’m at the double doors of our bedroom. I push inside slowly, quietly, my eyes hungry for Mercy. The moment her sleeping form comes into view, I exhale a breath it seems I’ve been holding the entire time I was away. I should go shower, but tonight was fairly mess-free and I can’t bear wasting valuable time. I close the door. The whisper of the lock has her shifting in bed, her pale white legs tangled in crisp white sheets. It’s hard to tell where her skin ends and the decadent bedding begins.
I undress quickly and tug back the sheets. I pause with one knee on the bed to study Mercy. Her long hair is a mess across the pillows, white eyelashes fanning out against her pale cheeks, and those lips parted as she breathes easily.
Safe.
I tuck in next to her, and she mumbles something and scoots to the far end.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I whisper as I hook her around the waist and drag her into my arms.
She nuzzles my neck, and I tilt my head, allowing her to get close to the Blessed Virgin that’s inked there. Feeling her breathe against my skin, her warm lips pressed against throat, is a reminder to my soul that she’s alive and safe.
“Did you just get home?” Her voice is sleep-heavy.
“Sí. I didn’t mean to wake you, mi alma.” I run a hand through her long hair before firmly rubbing her scalp. “Shhh, go back to sleep.”
Her arm tightens around my middle and my lids slide closed. All my worries of the future dissolve when we’re like this. All my regrets and concern about my brothers, every bit of self-hatred for what I’ve been forced to become, all of it disappears when she’s in my arms.
Mercy may be convinced she’s no longer an angel.
I disagree.
No other woman could bring me this close to heaven.
Mercy
I’M SMILING BEFORE I even open my eyes.
Pressed against Milo’s chest, his hand tangled in my hair as he holds me close to his throat, I breathe in the fresh outdoorsy scent of his skin. Milo is warm and his pulse is slow and steady against my palm that’s splayed on his chest.
I could lie here all day like this, safe in his arms. Unfortunately, my bladder insists I get up, so I pull away, and he rolls to his side, mumbling something incoherent. He got in early this morning. I frown when I see his clothes in a pile at the side of the bed. He must’ve been too tired to put them in the hamper.
The Saltillo tile is cold under my feet despite the eighty-degree weather outside.
I tell myself not to inspect the bathroom countertop, not to search for Milo’s wet towel to see if it’s stained with blood, but I do it anyway and find a clean surface and a dry towel. I finish up, wash my hands, and move quietly toward the bed to pick up his clothes. I scoop them off the floor, and something heavy falls and cracks against the tile.
I gasp and clutch Milo’s clothes to my chest as I stare at the black gun. Then something else pulls at my attention. The scent coming off his shirt is distinctly feminine and stings my nose with a bitter punch of smoke and alcohol.
My stomach lurches when I consider what he was doing last night. I think back to Carrie, the beautiful blonde from school, who couldn’t seem to keep her hands off Milo. Not that I blame her—he’s very handsome with his dark hair and light brown eyes, his firm jawline, and full lips. Surely other women find him attractive. Other beautiful women.
I toss his clothes into the hamper and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look nothing like the women here in Mexico. I look almost boyish in comparison to the curvy, full-figured females I’ve seen here. Mexican women have skin the color of toasted caramel while mine looks sickly. And it’s not just my skin—my hair, lips, even my eyelashes are the color of milk. I used to think that my coloring confirmed I’m special, but staring at my reflection now, I’ve never felt more ordinary. Plain. Boring. Lacking in every way.
I pick up Milo’s gun and go to place it in his nightstand where I don’t have to look at it. Living here in the compound, I’ve become used to seeing firearms on the guards and the few people who’ve come for meetings with Milo’s dad, Esteban, but I’ve yet to see one this close to where I sleep. I slide the weapon into the bedside table—
“What are you doing?” Milo’s voice scares me, and I drop the gun into the drawer with a thunk. “Careful.”
“I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t snooping.”
His frown deepens. “It’s okay. I should’ve put that away before I came to bed.” He rubs his eyes. “I don’t like you touching that shit.”
I nod and worry my hands into the front of my T-shirt as he pushes up to sit. “Where were you last night?”
He stills for a few seconds before he sits back against the hand-carved wooden headboard and looks at me through puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. “Working.”
“Doing what?” I find it impossible to hide my nerves and I fidget.
“Work stuff.” He hooks the side of my shorts and pulls me to the bed, where I straddle his hips and brace my hands on his shoulders. With a long sigh, he brings me close to rest his forehead at my neck then kisses the sensitive skin around my collarbone.
I run my fingers through his thick hair and grip the messy strands, making him groan. “What kind of work stuff?”
He tilts his head back and stares at me for so long that it takes a lot of strength not to look away. “I don’t want you to worry about what I do—”
“I can’t help it.”
“Doesn’t concern you.”
I flinch at his dismissal. “Everything you do concerns me.”
“Well it shouldn’t—”
“You carry a gun.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t use it.”
“I can’t control my worrying about—”
“Mercy, I was out and now I’m back home safe and sound. That’s all you need to know.”
“Who’s the woman?”
His gaze is steady on mine, so I’m able to watch guilt darken his eyes. I shove back and scurry off the bed only to have him follow and wrap me up from behind.
“No,” he growls in my ear. “Stop it. Don’t let your mind go there. It’s not what you think.”
“You were with another woman.”
His grip tightens. “No, I was absolutely not with another woman.”
“Then why do your clothes smell like one?” My voice borders hysteria and my hands ball into fists. What is this that I’m feeling?
“You smelled my clothes?”
“No, I picked them up.” I pull out of his hold and he lets me go. “You come and go at all hours of the night. Your clothes smell like a woman or are splattered in blood—” He reaches for me, but I bat his arm away. “Tell me why you’re hiding this part of your life from me. I won’t continue to live like this.”
Now it’s his turn to step back. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m scared!”
“You’re safe here, you know that. Nothing can hurt you—”
“Except you.”
He flinches as if I’ve slapped him. “I would never hurt you.”
“Losing you would kill me.”
My words shove him forward, and he wraps me in his arms. “You’ll never lose me, Güera. That is one thing I can guarantee. Never, you hear me?”
“What about the blood I found on your clothes?”
The tension returns and he doesn’t answer.
“It wasn’t your blood.”
“That was weeks ago.” His chin rests on my head and he huffs out a breath. “I can’t tell you everything, you know that. But I can promise you I was not with a woman last night, not in the way you think. There was an American girl alone and she was drunk. She slipped and I kept her from face-planting, that’s all. I promise. The second she was standing upright, I put her in a car to the border.” His lips press against my head. “You have nothing to worry about when it comes to me and other women, Mercy. You’re the only woman for me.”
I want to ask again about the blood, but I know, like always, he won’t tell me. He says what he does for Esteban has nothing to do with us, but he’s all I have. I can’t lose him. I won’t.
“I worry that you’ll give another woman the same thing we share.”
His muscles stiffen.
I close my eyes and continue to confess my fears while I still have the courage. “I don’t like how it feels, not knowing where you are, strange smells on your clothes. I can’t explain the feeling I get in my stomach. I don’t understand it.”
He says my name on a soft exhale.
“Just tell me what I need to do.” The heat of tears burns my nose and the backs of my eyes. “I know I don’t look like other women. If you’d—”
“That’s enough.” He grips my shoulders and holds me back to catch my eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” His gaze moves over my face, and he frowns. “You’re perfect. So sweet, and beautiful, and . . . pure. What you’re feeling is normal. I feel the same way at the thought of another man touching you.” The end of his statement vibrates with a growl. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose before refocusing on me. “It’s called jealousy. It’s what happens when you fall in love with someone to the point that the thought of them being taken away from you makes you crazy. I worry about it too. Every fucking day I worry something . . . someone . . . will take you away again.” He cups my cheeks and stares into my eyes. “I love you, mi alma. Never question that.”
“I love you too, but—”
“No. No buts. You are the only woman I want. There will never be another for me.” He groans and drops his hands from my shoulders to slide down and grip my fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb over my ring. “Did you not understand what this ring meant when I gave it to you?”
I stare at our joined hands as regret slumps my shoulders. “I’m sorry.” I lean forward and press my forehead to his chest. “These feelings . . . everything is so new. I don’t . . .” I shake my head, unable to find the right words.
“I know. Things are intense right now, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“Show me.” I press a kiss to his bare chest, and he moans. “I need to feel it.”
He grips my hips and slides his hands up under my shirt, tracing his fingertips along my sides in a slow tease until they stop just beneath my breasts. I tilt my head up as he comes down to claim my mouth. His thumbs brush against my sensitive nipples. I wiggle against him, anxious for more of his touch, and he rips his mouth from mine.
He’s breathing hard, his eyelids heavy. “I need to take a shower.”
A slow smile curls my lips.
He grins, does a quick squat, and scoops me into his arms. “I think I might need some help.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and nuzzle his tattoo, bathing it in kisses and smiling.
I’m such a stupid girl, I think as I catch the light’s reflection off my ring. Milo loves me. Rather than worry about the time he can’t give me, I’ll enjoy every second of the time he can.