Gold Cage

by Francesca Baez

  * * *

  Planning this year’s annual anti-violence fundraiser is a logistical nightmare. Vega drags his feet at me going to Mrs. Hunt’s estate, and I don’t exactly jump at the chance to bring the poor old woman into my new home of constant surveillance and thugs. Predictably, I’m the one who ends up having to compromise. Is it still called compromise when you never stood a chance?

  I set up shop in the lounge, placing Mrs. Hunt’s seat strategically so that the camera won’t be in her line of sight. The irony of planning an anti-violence fundraiser in what has become a den of thieves doesn’t escape me, not to mention the violence I’ve been forced to commit myself. But there’s no time for that. Miel makes us tea, and we settle down for business.

  We’ve thrown this event so often that there aren’t many decisions left to make. Besides, Mrs. Hunt has a team of professional planners that handle all the real work. My physical involvement at all is a formality. I could just as easily write Mrs. Hunt a big check and chuck it in the mail, never having to even speak to the woman. But this is polite, and expected, so here we are.

  “So, we’ll be at The High, of course, third Saturday of September,” I say, reading through the notes I scrawled between making beds and making lunch. “I was thinking maybe we could change up the music this year? I know we usually get that string quartet from Marietta, but I heard this incredible jazz band at a friend’s party last spring.”

  “Jazz,” Mrs. Hunt repeats, as if the word is unfamiliar. “Is that quite the right fit for us, my dear?”

  “Totally,” I say, perking up when she doesn’t immediately shut me down. “It’s a tad more upbeat, sure, but still very classy. And I think it’s time to change it up a little, lest we get accused of laziness.”

  Mrs. Hunt purses her lips. I do this because I care deeply about the cause, perhaps now more than ever. She does this because everyone in her social circle throws these annual events, and outshining friends is what aging southern belles like her live for.

  “I heard Mrs. Gunnar had Justin Bieber at the children’s cancer concert last week,” I mention slyly, pretending to be distracted by my notes.

  “Yes, I couldn’t make it, but I could hear the racket all the way from across town,” Mrs. Hunt grumbles, but I know I’ve won. Mrs. Gunnar raised a couple million for the Ronald McDonald House, all because she had the luck of her daughter having dated the superstar for a week or two back in the day. “Fine, we’ll go with the jazz. Have your assistant send Marjorie the information about that band. What’s next? The menu?”

  After a few more passive-aggressive arguments the menu is settled, and I’ve convinced Mrs. Hunt that the del Reys’ financial contribution will be well worth the scene Isla may or may not cause. She’s a firecracker, that so-called friend of mine, but her pockets run nearly as deep as her need to be praised for her philanthropy. Finally, we wrap up and I walk the older woman out to the waiting towncar, waving her off with a pasted-on smile that drops as soon as I turn back to the house.

  Vega is waiting for me inside. I try to push past him, heading to my room to change, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  “This event sounds extremely public,” he says, thick brows furrowed. “There were photos from the gala in the press last year.”

  “And all the years before that, too,” I add somewhat pridefully, pulling myself out of his grip and crossing both arms across my chest. “That’s exactly why I have to do it. The whole city expects me to.”

  “Didn’t you finish planning everything just now?” Vega asks. “Your contribution is done, aside from that absurdly large check, anyway. Call in sick the night of the gala.”

  I laugh at the thought. “Call in sick? I can’t do that. Two years ago, Hattie Neadle was shaking hands at her save-the-whales ball until her appendix literally burst. Even then her husband had to drag her to the ambulance. If you want me to ‘call in sick,’ you better kill me first, or Mrs. Hunt will.”

  Vega sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He seems stressed. More stressed than usual, anyway “Fine. Miel and I will accompany you, but we can’t be in any photos. Got it?”

  “I’m not asking for a fucking selfie,” I snap. “If you don’t want to be in photos, don’t be in them. And if what you’re doing really isn’t that bad, like you’re always telling me, why are you so afraid of getting caught?”

  Vega sets his jaw, giving me a warning look, but he has no response to that. I can’t fight a victorious smirk, and he rolls his shoulders, a low, threatening growl in the back of his throat.

  “Get back to work, Selina. And watch your damn mouth.”

  * * *

  “You should be thrilled about this thing,” Miel says when I update her about the gala the next day. “I know I am. Expensive food, expensive wine, and a chance to finally find some big names to get in our pockets? Vega, this is great.”

  “Did you miss the part about the press being there?” I ask, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Traffic is an unsolvable knot, as always. “Press means photographers, photographers mean trouble.”

  “I thought you weren’t scared of him,” Miel reminds me, popping a stick of bubblegum into her mouth and offering me one. I decline.

  “I said we would be fine as long as he doesn’t know we’re involved with Selina,” I say, easing my foot off the brake as we inch forward. “I don’t want proof that ties us to her in any way.”

  Miel blows a bubble and pops it. “Hey, you’re the guy in charge, remember? You figure this out, and then tell me what to do about it.”

  “Bitch,” I growl as she throws my own words back at me. She laughs and sits up straighter as we pass the accident causing the slowdown and pick up speed again. When we get back home, she’ll be just as worried as I am, probably try to give me shit for getting us into this mess to start with. For now she’s on an adrenaline high, all but bouncing in her seat as we take the exit and merge onto 78, nearing the promise of violence. Miel becomes a different person with a gun in her hand. I could psychoanalyze my friend, trace her comfort commanding violence back to the years she was on the other end of such interactions, but it doesn’t matter. It makes her an excellent asset, and the one person on my team I could never live without.

  “There,” Miel says, pointing at a small apartment building with a faded pink paint job rapidly peeling off. “2B. He’ll be home.”

  We pull into the parking lot, our shiny black Hummer obnoxiously out of place. There’s a little boy driving rusty Hot Wheels along the sidewalk, and his jaw drops at the sight of the big car. I smile at him, remembering a time when just the sight of such a vehicle would entice the same reaction from me. His mother sees us and quickly pulls the boy inside, giving us a big-eyed stare over her shoulder before slamming the door shut behind them. I smile at that, too.

  Miel is already running up the stairs, and I follow her at a more leisurely pace. At the balcony, I pause and look out over the neighborhood as my partner beats on the apartment door. Decatur Heights is far enough from our old running grounds that there’s no need to worry about seeing anyone we don’t want to, but still the kind of place where we won’t have to be on the lookout for cops or nosey neighbors. Unfortunately, that also means the clientele out here can’t sustain us for long. Maybe Miel is right. Maybe the gala will be the perfect opportunity to hook some bigger fish, if we play it right.

  The door opens and Kevin Hopkins peers out. His eyes squint in the bright daylight, but Miel is shouldering her way in before he has a chance to recognize us and try to shut the door. I follow, closing the door quietly behind us and planting myself in front of it. Kevin casts me a panicked look, but it’s Miel he should be afraid of. I’m just here to look threatening and watch the show.

  “Your payment was due last week, Kevin,” Miel says, popping that gum and crossing her arms. The motion pushes the hem of her jacket up, revealing the Glock tucked into her waistband. “What’s the hold up?”

  “I was sick last month, had
to drop a couple shifts,” Kevin stammers, wiping at his pink nose. With that greasy mop of hair and stained t-shirt, I’m not surprised this redneck lives alone. “I’ll work overtime this week and have it for you by Friday, I swear.”

  Miel smacks her gum again. A bit cliché, but she makes it look good. “That’s not going to work for us, Kevin.”

  “Please, Mr. Vega,” the man says, turning his pleading eyes to me. “I’m not a gambler, or in legal trouble, or anything like the people you probably are used to dealing with. It’s my daughter. She’s in nursing school and she just lost her scholarship. I can’t let her drop out, not when she’s about to graduate in a year. She’ll be the first in our family with a degree.”

  “Don’t care,” Miel snaps, pulling the gun out and pressing the barrel to Kevin’s chin, gently but forcefully redirecting his gaze back to her. The safety is still on, but judging from the quake in his knees, Mr. Hopkins doesn’t know that. “Pay us today, or you’ll owe us double tomorrow, and double every day after that. You can do that math without a college degree.”

  “I have the money, technically, but my rent is due, and I need to eat, and pay bills,” Kevin goes on, although I don’t know why he’d think this play for sympathy would work after the last one failed so spectacularly. “Please, just give me ‘til Friday—”

  “All I heard is you have the money,” Miel says, pulling the gun away and shoving it into her back pocket. “We’re not leaving without it.”

  Kevin glances between the two of us a few times but finds no give in our stone faces. After another moment of hesitation, his shoulders sag and he retreats to the other room with Miel close behind. When they return, Miel is waving a stack of dirty bills.

  “Thanks, Kevin,” she sing-songs, handing me the cash. “We’ll be back in a couple weeks. Give your little girl our best, ‘kay?”

  I shut the apartment door behind us and follow Miel as she practically skips back to the Hummer. This’ll keep her happy and off my case for at least the rest of the day. In the car, she flips through radio stations until she finds something she can sing along to, and I silently start the drive back to Johns Creek.

  Exploiting desperate people like Kevin doesn’t push the buttons in me it probably should. After all, in the world we grew up in, we’re all just as hungry, but only the strongest come out with a full stomach. Sure, Kevin is in a bad spot, but so are we. It’s not our fault that he made himself a stepping stone while we made ourselves the steppers. Despite my self-assurance, I think of Selina, and Miel’s conviction that the young heiress would understand our business, even be on board with it. She’s probably right, in a sense, though not in the ways she thinks. Miel doesn’t truly know Selina, after all. Hell, even Selina herself doesn’t know what she’s truly capable of. Not like I do. And although the darkest crevices of myself crave the sharp edges I see in her, that’s not what I need, not really. We need the soft and pliable side of her, the one that would disapprove of what we do and the people we use. That’s the way it has to be.

  Still, as I ease back into the traffic on 285, I decide that we’ll be attending Selina’s gala after all, and we’ll be using that opportunity to get ourselves some truly despicable, powerful clients.

  * * *

  I curve my spine into up-dog, releasing my breath in a loud exhale. Even with my eyes closed I can feel Miel raise her brow in my direction. I try to shake the feeling of her stare on me and push up into down-dog, moving with my breath. This time, Miel snorts out loud.

  “Okay, that’s not yoga, that’s just face down, booty up,” the girl says, mockery in her voice.

  “Do you mind,” I say, no question mark in my reproach. “I’m trying to focus here. Clear my mind.”

  “How’s that working out for you?” Miel asks, and I give up, falling to my knees and flipping into savasana. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Can’t you just leave me alone for ten minutes?” I ask her, keeping my eyes shut and doing my best to relax my muscles. “Watching me do this can’t possibly be that entertaining.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” my friend-slash-warden says, and I can hear her adjusting her position on the loveseat across the room. “Are you good at this? I really can’t tell.”

  “I’m great at this,” I snap, losing whatever semblance of peace I’d been clutching onto. Inhale, exhale. “I can show you, if you want. Do you own any pants that aren’t leather?”

  “Very funny,” she says, and I yelp as something soft hits my belly. I open my eyes and see a wadded candy wrapper beside me. “I mean, I can do face down, booty up already. And I can definitely just lie on the floor like that. Is this part of it or are you just chilling?”

  It’s supposed to be both, but right now it’s neither. I sit up and turn to face Miel, pulling my legs into a criss-cross sukhasana beneath me. “I’m serious. It’s super calming. Well, when someone isn’t providing a running commentary and throwing shit at you. I imagine there must be some amount of stress in your line of work, whatever that is. Yoga could totally help you relieve that stress and center yourself after a busy day of running around, holding girls hostage in their own homes.”

  Miel ignores the dig and twists her lips to one side, considering my proposal. Then she shakes her head. “Nah. I’ve got my own ways of relieving stress.”

  I quirk a suggestive eyebrow at her and she snorts again, throwing another candy wrapper my way. It’s truly baffling, her ability to sustain herself on a diet of 50% refined sugar and still keep up what I’m pretty sure is a six-pack under those threadbare tanks. Whatever she’s doing, maybe it is better than yoga, at least for aesthetics.

  “Why are you so into this, anyway?” Miel asks as I stand and return to my practice, shifting into Warrior I. “Like, the yoga, the meditation, all that anti-violence publicity shit?”

  “You know,” I say, struggling to focus on my breath as my heart begins to pick up speed at this line of questioning. My history in this area has been well-publicized, and I’m not used to having to revisit it.

  “I mean, I know your brother was killed in some gang-related shooting,” Miel confirms the knowledge, more casually than anyone has ever broached the topic with me before. “But I know a lot of people who lost people that way and none of them ended up like you.”

  “I guess I’m the only one on that list who could afford the therapy that got me here,” I half-joke, balance wobbling at the memory. I get so caught up in the day-to-day of my new life, sometimes I forget how it all began. I have to lower from Warrior III before my count is up, focus lost. I force myself to stay in Warrior I still, if only so I don’t have to face Miel.

  “So what really went down?” Miel asks, more soberly than she’s ever addressed me. “I mean, I guess you don’t really have to tell me.”

  Back to Warrior II. She’s right. She has no business asking me this, and I don’t owe her my story, but something inside me wants to tell her. Maybe it’s because I’ve been Stockholm Syndromed into thinking that Miel is actually my friend instead of just a friendly prison guard, or because it’s been so long since I’ve gotten to talk about this that the pressure of holding it in is just bursting to escape. It makes me feel a little stronger to pretend it’s the Stockholm Syndrome, though.

  “No, you should know,” I say, lifting my leg and bending slowly into Warrior III.

  I open my eyes, and the girl is crouched in front of me, dark eyes wide. I’ve never seen her look like this, not hard, not joking. This might actually be real for her. “I used to be a bit of a wild child,” I begin, feeling my back leg falter midair. Inhale, exhale. “Well, more than a bit. I’m sure you read about that, too. Drugs, booze, boys. Partying until dawn. Real rich-girl-with-daddy-issues shit.”

  “Your parents died when you were a kid,” Miel says, half a question. I nod.

  “Yeah, overpass collapse. An accident.”

  “So what happened with your brother?” Miel asks.

  Inhale, exhale. Eyes shut again. I
can do this. I can say this and not fall. Not fall apart.

  “Max was a few years older than me, so he took care of the business, the estate, all that. He tried to take care of me, and I hated it. I was twenty, a grown woman, I thought, and I wanted him to treat me as such. Even though I know now I was acting like a damn baby that whole time.”

  Inhale, exhale. I tighten my core, pulling all my limbs toward my center. My body is not my own. My body is a marionette, and I can keep the strings taut even as my heartbeat goes into double-time and my eyes begin to mist.

  Miel waits patiently for me to go on.

  “Anyway, so that night I was out at some club, high on who-knows-what with this guy way older than me. Max showed up, furious at me for being there, at the club for letting an underage girl in, at the guy for trying to take advantage of me. And I was furious at him for making a scene, embarrassing me, killing my buzz.”

  Inhale, exhale.

  “So Max drags me out of the club, out the back way just in case. There wasn’t much else going on that summer so the paparazzi were having a field day with me. We’re in the back alley, yelling at each other as Max tries to drag me to the car, when this big SUV with tinted windows pulls up.”

  Inhale, exhale. I don’t remember this part so well. I was off my ass, the world a blur, and the trauma of what happened next didn’t help much.

  “This guy gets out, with a mask over his face, like bad guys in movies. Max starts to freak out, telling me to run back inside, but the guy yells at us not to move. That’s when I see the gun in his hand, pointed right at us.”

  Inhale, exhale. I open my eyes. Miel is unblinking, mouth frozen open in a tiny o. My words are tumbling out now, an unstoppable downpour.